Stamped: March 8th, 2007 | Toggle Similar
Tagged: sex talk.

Recently I got into a conversation with a friend about virginity. More specifically, about “taking” ones virginity. Personally I never liked that expression. To take something implies that it is tangible. You can’t really take virginity. You can nullify it or perhaps even rescind it, but you cannot take it. Unfortunately, I haven’t stumbled upon a suitable expression that can replace the usual descriptions, so I’m open to suggestions.

There is a depressing gender divide, of course, when comparing women to men sexually. A man’s ego-driven quest to collect notches on the bedpost is considered to be an honorary right of manhood—something to be envied by friends, co-workers and twelve year old boys. Ahh, but a woman who does the same? She’s promiscuous, or more ineptly put, a slut, a ho-bag or a hoochie-mama. It’s not fair, but it’s life. Fortunately, it would seem that this chauvinistic attitude towards women is improving slightly. I’m sure the producers of “Sex in the City” wouldn’t mind a little pat on the back for their contribution in reclassifying the so-called slut into the more acceptable “empowered woman”.

But what of the woman who happens upon the rare virgin male and graciously bestows her services in rendering him a virgin no more? Is there also a double standard where this is concerned? Conversations about women who dissolve male virginity don’t seem to come up all that often. Perhaps it’s still considered taboo because it bolsters the whole slut type cast. Taboo-schmaboo. I’ve shagged four virgins. There’s no shame in that. The difference, however, between myself and a man of equal sexual stature is that while I feel no shame, I also feel no sense of pride. I don’t feel as if I’ve achieved a monumental feat, nor have I ever been high-fived by any of my girlfriends for doing so. And I certainly don’t consider it bragging rights unlike my manly counterparts who often equate banging a virgin to walking on water.

When it comes to sex, you’ll always remember your first and your best. As cliché as it is your “first” holds a sacred place in your sexual history. Someone else can always come along and out fuck the last guy/girl. The one that truly rocks your orgasm world may not be that first notch (it rarely is). It may take half a dozen notches before you’re accused of waking the neighbors with squeals of orgasmic delight. But still, even if it’s shitty, that first time is never forgotten. For me, it’s no different on the reverse side. I still remember the location, month, even approximate time of each of the first timers I welcomed into my love canal.

Ah ha. And therein lies the gender divide. A man rarely has emotional attachment to his bedpost notches (duh, they’re notches -not names- for a reason). A woman, however, is more inclined to wrap warm fuzzies around her sexual memories, especially of those first dibs.

Perhaps I will start recounting my role in the first carnal throws of passion for those men with celebratory praises. Why not? I played a pivotal role in opening the doors to sexual liberation for four poor saps whose erotic experiences had been limited to rosy palm and scrambled porn or couch cushions. Okay sure, if not me, someone else would have come along and done the job, but they may not have added that special “something”. I was tender and passionate and considerate. I even brought candles and a tape deck (AGE ALERT) to the $15/hour dilapidated highway motel to help bring some semblance of romance to that first rendezvous with my then boyfriend. *For the record, not even Marvin Gaye himself could have sung romance into that room which was crawling with bugs and carpet stains. I have to admit, though, that the rattling window A/C unit did wonders in drowning out the sounds of our boisterous coitus enthusiasm. God forbid if the redneck rig driver in the next room had heard us and started pounding his meat stick in sync. ::shudders::

Then again, taking into account the mechanics of what it takes to pleasure a man, a woman really doesn’t need to bring much to the bedroom…or the table…or the sleazy motel. All she needs is a warm moist orifice and the job pretty much gets done. Toss in a little hip grinding action and it’s a slam dunk. Ha - the fact that I actually showed up to the motel room was enough to cause my boyfriend to squirt a little pre-jizz. Whether they like to admit it or not, most men are effortless.

Now that I've given it some more thought, maybe women opt out of the male dominated compulsion to brag not because we fear being labeled, but because deep down we know that self-aggrandizing over simply showing up doesn't really constitute as a triumphant conquest.
And the gender divide strikes again.

Last 5 posts by JB

• Happy Anniversary - June 21st, 2007
• decision 2007: dildo fantasies vs. honesty - June 14th, 2007
• Intermission - June 7th, 2007
• Yoni, up close and personal - May 31st, 2007
• My friend Karma - May 24th, 2007