Confessions of a Born-Again Virgin
Hey, dad, you might want to skip this one.
Photo by Jamie Nelson, 2018/Hunger Magazine
I walk home with a bouquet of roses in hand. Pink and red, they look rough; the outer petals are wilting and frayed, an intentional choice on my part because I thought they looked beautiful and wouldn’t be bought otherwise. I wanted some flowers to celebrate the holiday. I have no one to buy them for me but myself, so why not? I hold my grip around the de-thorned stems, trying to enjoy the late sun, and I wonder. Is it actually kind of pathetic to buy myself flowers? I grew up listening to the dying breaths of purity culture, rom-coms mythologizing “The One,” and e-Harmony ads promising your soulmate also signed up. I came of age during the height of Tinder hookup culture, free porn access, and Snapchat nudes, all while gay marriage only just became legal in the U.S. “Situationship” replaced “fling”; third and second places dried up due to the pandemic; loneliness and love lives have been commodified by dating apps; and the “old-fashioned” types wanting to find love in person are labeled pretentious or delusional, or both. So much rides on doing the “right” thing that it makes dating feel daunting, especially when it comes to sex. Despite being in two steady relationships over the past two years, it’s been well over a year since I’ve had sex. Even before that, my sex life was limited. I have been crippled by fear and shame when it comes to physical intimacy, which is only aggravated by my dreadful inexperience as a late-bloomer in the queer community. That doesn’t mean I’m not sex-positive or even sexually active. I grew up in a sex-positive home, and I’m comfortable with my body on my own. However, the moment it moves from the individual to the couple, I freeze up. It is a line I cannot force myself across, even though it’s all that I want. I recognize that this is a me problem. But sometimes I can’t tell if it really is a me problem or if I’m the problem. Is it something I can work through, or is it something inherent to my being?
Knight of Cups, 2015. Terrence Malick
I feel unfit for how sex and romance have developed today. Talking to a stranger with the intention of dating them makes my veins knot up and my muscles tense. I don’t know how first dates should work while it feels like everyone else has figured it out. Sure, I have traumas, but those can be mitigated through therapy. I’m naturally reserved, which is at odds with how dating works today. The threat of loneliness makes me play a game that I can’t win. I would love to have casual sex. The idea appeals to me because the thought sounds relaxing. It sounds liberating. I would love to get out of my own way and have sex with a romantic partner without immediately clamming up. I wish I could go on dating apps without wanting to tear myself apart out of embarrassment. I admire those who, in my eyes, easily navigate, or are at least willing to navigate, this game I have so often failed. Upwards of 73% of Gen Z have reported feeling alone, so I can only hope that this misery finds company. It may be a self-indulgent, whining article about my own hand-made prison, but this is a call to other born-again virgins and lonely hearts. It’s okay to feel jilted by the media rather than a lover. Holidays have a tendency to hurt deep, and Valentine’s Day strikes at our hearts. Take this as a reminder that you are valid in how you approach romance and sex, no matter how that manifests.
