Careful When Playing With Virgins

“You have a weird relationship with guys.  You’re like…their warm body.”

It was an unexpected, though dishearteningly true, observation from a friend.  I don’t remember the specific anecdote that elicited this comment and it probably doesn’t matter; it’s one in a million. 

I recently spent a slightly-too-drunk-to-drive evening in a friend’s bed after a concert.  I had his clothes on, he offered to let me use his toothbrush (which I politely refused), and we spooned.  There was touching and hand holding and tickling and we weren’t good enough friends that it was mutually and understandably platonic.  In fact, it was kind of sexy.  The whole time, all I could think was, “Why aren’t we making out right now?” 

Is it possible this is just another boy I will add to my long list of unrequited loves?  Yes.  Is it possible I scared him off when I went on a rant in bed about how I hated bad breath, which is why I didn’t order onions with our late night burritos, knowing full well he saw me making disgusted faces as he dominated large onion slices with his?  Most likely.  But the point is this: I have become a real-life security blanket, a placeholder until the real thing comes along.  (That’s not to say I’ve never used a friend for some human contact, but that’s different.)  I like cuddling and pillow-talk, so it makes sense that I’d be the perfect candidate when in need of some affectionate, yet harmless, company.  But perhaps that’s just the issue.  I’m harmless.  Comfortable.  It’s why guys in relationships always seem to flirt with me.  Or is that why I always flirt with them?

It seems I’ve reached the point in my virginity where I’m no longer a sexual threat to anyone or anything around me.  And this mindset is not specific to guys.  I have had many an issue with female friends who consider my feelings a non-issue when it comes to boys I’ve expressed interest in.  It’s as though because I don’t have sex, my “dibs” aren’t legitimate, because really, what would I do with them anyway?  Just as sex is the line between close friends and boyfriends, so does sex seem to be what divides being considered real competition from being seen as the cute kid who has a crush on her older sister’s boyfriend.

It has been suggested to me that men are intimidated by my “innocence;” that my virginity is a factor even when it’s not.  It is not uncommon for guys to be so afraid of being “that guy” that they preemptively, and may I add, presumptuously, announce their unwillingness to take my virginity despite that option never being on the table in the first place.  Some guys are visibly unsure about making a move or showing a little aggression as though my virginity became their conscience, sitting on their shoulder telling them to be careful.  I haven’t quite figured out, however, if the concern is that they will corrupt me or that I will brutally reject them, protecting the sanctity of my virginity like a mama bear its cub.

People’s candid opinions about my virginity are perhaps a direct result of my seemingly nonchalant, self-deprecating attitude toward it, though that makes them no less unwelcome or erroneous.  It has been blatantly misconstrued that because I’m not having sex, I’m not a sexual person.  Let’s clear this up: I watch porn, I have sex dreams, I hammertime.  The result of this lifestyle is, of course, that my sex dreams are based less on reality than they are on porn, but I’m okay with that.  Don’t let my unfortunate lack of self-esteem or overabundance of self-control fool you.  I think about sex as much as a puberty-ridden teenaged boy, probably more.  My “fear” at this point is that once I get over that initial hump (pun intended), I am going to run sexually rampant.

Boys, don’t write me off and don’t be afraid.  I won’t reject your advances because I’m a virgin, I’ll reject them because I don’t like you.  If you feel like you want to make out, kiss me.  Just know that you might have to finish up on your own…at least for now.

Introduction to Online Dating

            Out of curiosity, low self esteem, and a glimmer of hope, I signed up for JDate.   Refusing to pay to meet people (I was in a sorority and play in intramural leagues) I started by keeping my membership at arm’s length.  Eighteen unreadable J-Mails later, my insatiable curiosity triumphed and I submitted my credit card information for the opportunity to see what eligible young Jews were vying for my attention.  What a disappointment. 

As I have since discovered, girls join JDate by choice, as an extra social outlet; they question the sanctity of meeting men at the bar, want to find guys openly ready for a relationship, or are simply coming to terms with the fact that it is increasingly difficult to meet guys organically.  The men on JDate, however, seem to end up there for less flattering reasons.  They tend to be socially awkward, heading toward desperate, and there comes that moment during each first date when the women discover just why each guy was forced into online dating.

            Though not an athlete myself, I have always been aware of the discrepancies that occur between real height and roster height within the sports world.  What I did not realize was that dating qualified as a sport.  A few JDates and many conversations with friends later, I reached the steadfast conclusion that the average JDate guy lies about his height by three inches.  Now, of course, I take that into account when I check the only four things I care to read on a person’s profile: age, hometown, occupation, and “height.”  Mostly, I am baffled by men’s delusion that we, as women and humans with eyes, will not only discover that they live with Snow White, but then also, of course, that they are liars.  If I can see the top of your head, you’re not 5’8.  It’s pretty simple.

The second JDater I agreed to meet was one of these guys.  It was harder to tell at first, as he was already seated at the table when I arrived late, or promptly on Jew-time, but as soon as he stood up to go find the bathroom, it was clear.  We had drinks and appetizers and a fun but what I’m guessing to be inappropriate conversation as I’m pretty sure the word “jizz” was used more than a few times.

He offered to drive me home and I considered the fact that, if necessary, my body weight would be enough to detain him, so I accepted.  Walking out of the bar, he informed me he was a little too drunk to drive and asked if we could wait a bit.  I said I would just take a cab, but he insisted and I didn’t want to insult him.

We got to his car in a desolate garage, he turned on the radio, and we sat there.  I fidgeted, changing the stations and twirling my rings.

“Why are you being so awkward?”  

“Because I’m sitting in an abandoned garage with a stranger I met online.  This is not me being awkward; this is universally sketchy.”

“Fine.  Do you want to go walk around, then?”

I didn’t. 

We headed toward the elevator.  I walked briskly in front of him, but as I stepped up onto the curb, I heard a crunch and felt his hands grab my hips as he fell forward.  Catching my balance (and his) I turned around only to discover he had stubbed his toe, sliced it open, and was profusely bleeding.  I laughed – my natural reaction when anybody gets hurt.  Then reality hit.  I don’t do blood.  I don’t like my own blood, I dislike it from people I know, and I certainly cannot stand the idea of a stranger’s blood near my skin.  Goodbye dreams of medical school.

Walking to a drug store so he could clean up, I found myself having to continually sidle away from him and his bloody toe.  Once at the drug store, he was aggressively trying to stop the bleeding when his fraternity brother walked in to find me standing in the corner cringing and giggling as I watched my date’s blood refuse to clot.  It was a pleasure, and not at all uncomfortable, to meet him. 

My date rinsed his hands in the sink and reached for my lower back in an attempt to chivalrously lead me back outside.  I contorted my body to avoid the touch and put some extra inches between us.  He tried again.             

“I’m sorry…I really don’t like blood.”

“I washed my hands.”

“No you didn’t.  I watched you.  There was no soap.”

Frustrated, he tried to take a step closer and I took one away.  We Two Stepped all the way back to his car and he finally dropped me off at my apartment.  As he pulled over to let me out, I thanked him for the drinks.

“Would it be okay if I kissed you right now?”

“I’m sorry, but I’m really creeped out by blood.”

“I won’t touch you with my hands.”

“I can’t.”

I got out of the car before he had a chance to say or do anything else. 

Winning?

Everyone around me scurried about, squealing and chattering in my ear.  Seven months since rejecting my virginity, with no communication but a Facebook comment from him, the boy whose actions (or lack thereof) confused us to our very core was supposed to arrive at the bar any minute.  It amazed me that with all of my naturally awkward instincts, I was far more composed than my friends in a situation that, apparently, is cause for panic. 

If I thought people were worked up before he got there, it was nothing compared to the shrieks and excitement when he actually stepped foot into the bar.  With friends nervously whirling around us, we stood in the eye of the hurricane, catching up.

            “You’re so secretive about your trips home,” he said with a smile that was almost too cute.

            “I’m not.  I just don’t tell you.”

            I decided early on I no longer needed to censor myself around him: A fair trade, I think, for getting me completely naked and rejecting me.  We ended the evening back at a friend’s house and I found myself in bed with him.  Funny how things just happen. 

 “The girl you’re hooking up with is ugly; you can do better.  I refer to you only as ‘the boy who rejected my virginity.’  Remember the time I slept over and you didn’t even kiss me?  I wrote about you in my blog and made fun of you…just a warning.  I make fun of you a lot, actually.” 

            “Would you be mad if I made a move right now?”  His unwavering interest despite my verbal attack still shocks me.  I think I judge him a little.

            “Not mad.  But don’t.  Also, don’t you have a girlfriend?”

            He seemed offended by the idea…until I got specific. 

            “Ooooh, her.  We’re not dating.”  He laughed.

            I told him his behavior during our last interaction puzzled everyone I knew (people still question his sexuality) and I mentioned that even my mother has started pressuring me to get my virginity “taken care of.”  Without even taking a new breath, he offered to help.  Under other circumstances, this would have been a generous and irresistible offer, considering he had already stripped down to his underwear and was trying to convince me to do the same.  However, given his history of trying to help, I declined.

Upon questioning the next day, I reported that while I really wanted to hook up, by rejecting him, I win.

“Because that’s what it’s about,” retorted a mutual friend with a look of disgust.

But on some level, it is.  If I never at least acknowledge that he’s calling all the shots, doesn’t he “win?”  Doesn’t he maintain total control?  I’m really not upset with him about our little incident last year.  In fact, I would have thoroughly enjoyed hooking up with him, but in my over-analytical mind, I worried how my actions would translate to him.  I very rarely think these sexual situations are a big deal, but I do worry that the guys will think I do.  Where is the line between girls who go back to the same disinterested guys and the girls who use guys as easily and indifferently as they use us?  The resulting behaviors are the same so how can one differentiate? 

I am often so concerned with relinquishing that sense of or at least the appearance of control that I miss out on otherwise harmless, exciting, or fun opportunities.  My control issues are to blame for my fear of flying, for the fact that my level of anxiety and awareness at blackout drunk is still more than a normal person on their worst of days, and it definitely plays a role in my apprehension to take my clothes off.

How do I become one of those girls who does what she wants because she wants to and people know it?