Sex and the city of Geneseo

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Sex and the City (1998-2004) but make it Geneseo edition. The conversation around sex should not be stigmatized. It should be met with educational words instead.

Dear Geneseo, 

I lost my virginity to a Geneseo man. Am I cooked?

I know what you’re thinking, “was he in a frat?” Yes, he rushed local. I don’t know what led me to this decision. It could be the day we went to Pizza Paul’s and shared a ten-piece buffalo wing combo. His green eyes darkened his thick brown eyelashes. God, I was so jealous of his eyelashes. Mine are so short and thin. We dated for six months in freshman year and broke up right before finals week. Then, he dropped out a semester later. 

Oh my god, I’ve lost my virginity to a college dropout. Chat, am I cooked? Would you even get that reference, Carrie Bradshaw?

Anyway, despite losing my virginity three years ago, I have had a lot of sex. I’ve done things that women would get castrated for in the 1800s, which led me to wonder…is virginity truly a construct? One could argue yes because it supports the idea of innocence, but innocence is often misunderstood. If one loses innocence, are they seen as the other? A simple question could ruin one’s personal image. “What’s your body count?” Why do you need to know? A question like that is unnecessary to me because the answer to that question will lead to judgment. 

I understand the importance of judging; I judge Geneseo all the time. Judgment can be viewed as a weapon that allows someone to grow and embrace reality. That’s why I lost track of my body count after five—four men and one woman—I wanted to push myself. Once I hit five, it became difficult for me to talk about my body count honestly. I started to get into the habit of telling people I’d prefer to keep that information to myself. One time, a man on Tinder guessed the answer to his own question, and he convinced himself that I was a virgin. 

I was 19. He was 38.

I would never tell you my body count. It’s not like I care if you judge me or not; I’ve got worse information about me. Yet I’m scared that if I tell you, you’ll slut shame me, tell your friends I’m ‘loose’— worse, you wouldn’t see me as anything but a number. The truth is I’m not loose. I put my safety first when hooking up…and they always come back wanting more.

The point is, I like having sex, and I’m okay with the decisions I’ve made.

I still think about him. Mr. Left (guess why I chose that instead of Mr. Big— Carrie, you dirty dog—he was left-handed *wink*). I can still feel his skin and how bumps of his flesh appear when he sweats. His freakishly long fingers remind me of antennas. I wish I lost my virginity to him instead. I think we’d actually last.

In the past, I’d sleep with other people for no reason. Never used to say no. I always said yes. I didn’t practice saying no until last year and ended up in the hospital because of it. 

Note to self: some people are good at hiding malicious intent. Mr. Left is the guy I think about before bed; he’s my knight in shining armor and my hope for marriage. My construct of him is your construct of virginity. And if you’re gonna lose it, let it be iconic. Of course, I don’t think about Mr. Left too much. It’s not healthy. When my thoughts run past five minutes, I’ll pray to God to continue to protect him, even if I think he still hates me. I know forgiveness will come soon.