ali al asghar - Steven Thomas Bock

virgins. I mean, really? If a hymen holds that much power it has to be magical. Not just a piece of anatomy, but a sign that everyone can see that says, “I’m a whore,” no matter how you lost your virginity. I thought you lost your virginity when a penis entered your vagina but apparently, I was wrong. That magical moment when a tampon pushes a little too deep or a little too hard, that’s the moment all girls should be writing about in their journal labeled “TOP SECRET” with hearts on the cover.

Then there are the descriptions of how it actually feels when you part with your hymen. Considering the amount of mystery wrapped around it, I’m fairly sure it’s the number one most-googled question before each girl loses her virginity. Some say they don’t even feel it. Others say it’s a “sharp pinch” followed by relief and pleasure. Even more say it takes a couple times for it to stop hurting.

So, when our clothes were off and the door was locked, I attempted to – in technical terms – part with my hymen (with help from my boyfriend). There was the assumed fumbling and awkwardness, laughed off as we attempted to roll on a condom and situate ourselves comfortably. Then there was the final moment, preceded with a tensing of every muscle in my body, which I began to lose my virginity.

Trying

There was pain as my boyfriend pushed into me, and before I could ask myself when the “sharp pinch” would end there was a wall. I gasped loudly and tears pricked my eyes as my boyfriend attempted to go more than an inch deep inside of me. He failed and the pain was too much for me to bear. Both of us being virgins, we had no idea what was supposed to happen and attempted to fix the solution, fairly sure that his penis was supposed to go more than a third of the way inside of my vagina. However every time we tried, there was that wall again, ever-present, and what I assumed was my mythical, fantastical, horrible hymen.

“Maybe it will loosen up if you push harder?” I asked my boyfriend.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I’m not going to push harder if it hurts you.” He refused to budge on the subject and as a result I collapsed into a puddle of tears, naked, while a condom was still rolled onto my boyfriend. He awkwardly held me and asked what was wrong but what could I say?

I don’t think there’s a way to explain how much of a failure you feel like when you’re unable to perform a basic biological function. I mean, there are 12-year-olds having sex and getting pregnant with strangers yet I’m unable to have safe sex with a man that I love? Also, given the stigma of sex in our society, it wasn’t like I could have gone to the nearest adult and ask how sex was supposed to feel.

For the week that my boyfriend visited – he went to college in New York, I here in Virginia – we attempted and failed at having sex. My boyfriend left with a kiss on my forehead and the positive words “we can try again in a few months.”

Trying Again

We tried again a few months later, I think it was during Thanksgiving break, and failed. That’s when I completely lost it: I called my mother. My mother has always been an open, loving person and felt no need for tsk-ing at my personal decisions. But calling her about my sex life? A more embarrassing phone call has never happened in my life. It went something along the lines of:

“Hey, mom.”

“Hey! How are you?”

“Well…I’m good. But there’s this thing?”

“Yes?” I’m fairly sure at this point her heart has stopped and was waiting for the declaration of my teenage pregnancy.

“Well, Eric and I had sex,” insert a larger intake of breath from my mother, “and I don’t think it went how it was supposed to… there was a lot of pain. More than I think there was supposed to be.”

Twenty minutes and an ob/gyn appointment later, my mother officially knew I wasn’t a virgin. Though the newest low in this wonderful journey was yet to come.