The Unbearable Heaviness of Being a Virgin
The further you get into your twenties, the harder it becomes to ignore that gigantic elephant standing, untouched, in the middle of the room.
It’s 12:25 AM on January 1st, 2011, and I’m busy in the bathroom while my family celebrates the start of the new year on the other side of the wall.
Glasses are half-full of champagne, the tray of sweets on the table is mostly untouched, and the cringy pre-recorded concerts playing on TV seem to be now in full swing, but after kissing everybody a happy new year I got out of there as soon as I could. Their party will shortly begin to languish, but mine is about to start, and I need to get ready.
When you are eighteen, the first party of the year is also and by far the biggest. Drinking is legal here at that age, but many of the coolest bars won’t let you in until you are older, and the opportunities to attend macro-events with hundreds of people are overall pretty scarce. That’s why, when New Year’s Eve comes, fun hits the fan. Everybody my age purchases a very expensive ticket to attend one single, humongous, all-you-can-drink party. The cheeriness of the occasion, the fact that everyone you know is there, and yes, of course, the abundance of alcohol, make it all an incomparable event full of potential and extremely high expectations.
New Year’s Eve is also the only time of the year where I get to wear a suit. They say that men always look better in one, and that might very well be true for men, but definitely not for kids that are barely out of their adolescence. As I try my best to tie my tie following the instructions I found on a wikiHow article, the image I see in the mirror is everything but flattering. The suit suits me fine, but somehow it still looks like I borrowed it from my dad. There’s something about its elegance that doesn’t mix well with my beardless face filled with acne. Still, I can only hope that wearing a suit will cast some sort of becoming halo around me.
If I need to look my best tonight so badly is because the stakes for this party are incredibly high. Every girl that I know from high school will be there, along with a myriad of others coming from all over the city. All of us drunk and eager to get our money’s worth out of the experience. For a pickup artist, a true paradise; for me, a glimmer of hope. After all, under such conditions, how hard can it be? In a sea of disinhibition, even the sloppiest fisherman should be able to catch something — if not thanks to a good bait, at least out of sheer luck.
I spray myself with some cologne that my mom bought for me, take a last look in the mirror, and leave the bathroom. As I walk towards the entrance, the sound of my shoes stepping on the wooden floor echoes with a confidence that I don’t have.
What I do have is a condom carefully safeguarded in a small pocket inside my wallet.
If I’m ever going to get a chance, this is it.
I’m ready for the night.
It’s a hot day in the summer of 2012, and the sun beats down so strongly on the tents around here that you could cook a pizza on them.
Camping is always my favorite part of attending a music festival (well, I guess my favorite should be the music, but camping would be a close second). There’s something about living like savages that seems to unite people in a festive atmosphere of camaraderie. There’s also the massive amount of alcohol and other recreational substances that swarm this place.
My friends and I are drinking with our tent neighbors — a group of four girls our age — to get ready for the Kaiser Chiefs concert later that evening. The conversation soon starts to turn sexual, not sure if on purpose or by a force of nature, and before you know it one of my friends is sharing the story of how he lost his virginity.
“I got it all ready, you know. My parents were gone for the weekend so we had all the time in the world. I set up candles and everything… yeah, yeah, a little bit over the top, but it was beautiful.”
While everybody is enjoying the story, I begin to grow uneasy. It’s too soon to tell, I know, but I have a hunch where this might be headed. I nervously wait for my friend to finish, and my fears are swiftly confirmed when one of the girls takes the baton from him and proceeds to share the story of her disappointing first time with an asshole she knew from high school.
At this point I’m barely listening to that girl’s story. There’s a trend being started here and I don’t like it one bit. A part of me is anxiously hoping other people will chime in and the topic will die after one or two more stories, but deep down I feel impending doom. When the girl finishes her story, a silence — extremely tense to my ears — falls over the group.
Then I see my friend turn to me, and a simple question is asked:
“And you, James, how did you lose your virginity?”
My heart sinks.
Now, this guy and I have been friends since we were kids, so he knows pretty damn well the situation he is putting me in.
A bit resentful and with very few ways out, I decide to make a desperate attempt to escape the question.
“Well, it was great. I was very nervous in the beginning, but your mom was super comforting, and we both ended up having a wonderful time.”
An alright joke, but a pretty dumb move.
For all the might we humans like to pride ourselves on, they say that under the attack of a dog one should curl up into a ball, protect the vital areas of your body, and wait for the dog to get bored and leave — any attempt to defend yourself will only make it double down on its assault. My joke had been a kick straight on the dog’s face, and now it wasn’t going to let me go unhurt.
As soon as everybody’s laughs die off, my friend presses on.
“No, but really, tell us your story.”
Now everybody is looking at me, and I feel like a kid that’s been asked a lesson he forgot to study. The embarrassment leaves me dumbstruck for more than a few seconds. I need words to get out of this situation, but my body is in fight-or-flight mode, and neither of those options seems appropriate in this context.
By the time I manage to regain a bit my composure, I’m sure everybody has figured out what’s going on, yet I still do my best to retain some dignity and, trying to sound unworried and — why not — a bit mysterious, I end up spewing a succinct…
“I’d rather not share that story now.”
The sun comes up over a clear blue sky, marking the beginning of a beautiful day of spring. Six hours later, I wake up with a mild headache and terrible breath, the memories from last night still fresh.
That girl in the second bar we went to, why the hell didn’t I do something about it? It was obvious that she was waiting for me to approach her, yet all I could do was return her flirty glances with my own insecure ones. Before I could summon up some courage — as if that was possible, ha! — she left the bar with her friends, throwing one last look at me that carried a hint of disappointment in it.
I get up from bed and go straight to the bathroom. Washing my face helps me come back to reality a bit. After quickly eating a late reheated lunch alone in the kitchen, I head back to my room and close the door behind me. I turn my computer on, open the browser, and type the names of ten different adult websites, firing the starting pistol for a new porn marathon.
A few hundred videos, some thousands of clicks, and twelve hours later, I find myself in the bathroom removing pieces of tissue stuck to my dick.
Ready to go to sleep, I head back to my room and lay on my bed, physically and mentally exhausted, the memories from last night now faded away.
Two cavemen are sitting on a public bench in a park, each choking down a rum and coke.
I come back from pissing on a bush to join them. It’s a long weekend of carnivals and my friends and I have been rocking some sexy outfits: loincloths, handmade clubs, and abs painted on our skin with a sharpie — the cheapest costume we could come up with.
A random girl approaches us and asks for a cigarette. One of my friends pulls out his pack, tells her he’ll trade her one of the cigarettes for a kiss. To my surprise, the girl accepts on a whim and they both start to wildly make out. After a few seconds of intense PDA, their mouths detach, she picks up a cigarette, asks for a fire, lights it up, and just walks away, no more words spoken.
Right before my eyes and with insulting ease, my friend has just done what I haven’t managed to do in twenty-three years.
After taking one last hit, I hand the joint back to my roommate, and we both stare out of the balcony in silence.
Before I get a chance to start a conversation, he calls it a night and takes off. Left to my own devices and with a growing high, I decide to head back into my room to handle it the best I can.
As I lay down on my bed, the speed of my spiraling thoughts contrasts with the stillness of the flat ceiling I’m staring at. That joint seems to have awakened a dormant beast inside of me. Anxiety overwhelms my drugged mind, pointing fingers at me and calling me names. Inadequate. Inferior. Pathetic. Hopeless.
In the center of it all, the same old angst that torments me every time it gets an opportunity to escape repression.
Am I going to die a virgin?
Unable to sleep, I give in to the voices in my head and burst into tears.
The ocean is barely visible from the restaurant, yet it permeates the salon nonetheless. A nice summer breeze makes its way here through the humid air. The faint scent of algae that it carries mixes well with the appetizing smell of the dishes, served left and right in an endless dance throughout the room.
I call the attention of the waiter to order one more beer, raising my voice over a white noise of laughter, loud conversations, and tinkling glasses. On our table, all the colors of the spectrum seem to be represented by a wide variety of tapas, and the conversation flows with ease, as it usually does in a group of lifelong friends.
Mark is updating us on his peculiar fling with a coworker he’s been seeing on and off for a while now. I’m listening, amused and relaxed, full beer on hand. So is everybody else, tranced by Mark’s natural ability to stretch a five-minute anecdote into a riveting half an hour. His story is interrupted when the waiter brings a huge paella to the center of the table, an interruption greeted by all with cheers.
Once we’ve all claimed our share of rice, my friends come back to the subject of relationships, sharing their most recent experiences and struggles. I’m included in the conversation, but they don’t expect me to chime in. They know me and my situation and they’d rather not pressure me, something I’m grateful for.
I squeeze the last drops of a lemon onto my plate. The paella is delicious: not too soggy, with the perfect chicken/beans ratio, and the right touch of salt. By the time David is over ranting about his girlfriend, I’m on my second portion already, pondering how long I’ll have to wait by the beach before I can fully digest this much food and go for a swim.
When my friends move on to a different topic, I find myself stuck behind, ruminating. Listening to them, I can’t help but wonder what it must feel like to be in their shoes. To be part of the conversation. To stop wondering.
The check comes to bring me back from my thoughts. As we head to the beach again, Mark insists I give him a chance for revenge at footvolley. I go get the ball from under the umbrella, where the rest of the group is hanging out, napping or chatting. Walking towards the volleyball net, I begin to feel in a better mood. A bit more optimistic. More hopeful. Eager for a better future, yet at peace with my present.
My time will come.
One day, I’ll have my own story to share.
What’s in your math folder?
What is your biggest insecurity?
What makes you feel inadequate or inferior to others? Do you use porn to cope with these feelings?
Virginity is many young men’s heaviest burden, and it often continues to weigh on you even years after losing it. Yet a sexually active person is not ridden of insecurities either — whether of a sexual nature (e.g. a complex around your physical appearance, performance anxiety induced by years of watching porn) or otherwise.
Reflecting on your vulnerabilities helps you identify the negative feelings that keep bringing you to porn, and sheds light on those aspects of yourself that need to be worked on to become a healthier person.
Share your insights in the comments below, on social media, or in your favorite porn addiction community, and if you know others that are struggling with porn, help them by sharing a link to this story.
Let’s start a conversation!
Hi, this is James! Thank you for reading!
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