Coitus Ergo Sum

I did not lose my virginity; I tortured it slowly and dispassionately until it broke.

From first kiss to final gasp, it took seven years to wear it down, but in the end, my fall-back boyfriend ground the last shred of mystery from my pussy in England as I lay underwhelmed and supine on my dorm room bunk bed, thinking about another boy.

At 21, I knew intuitively that I had waited a long time by earthly standards to smash the mythic champagne bottle against the hull, so, I’ll admit, I expected a memorable, if not unprecedented, initiation into no holds barred carnality.

I pushed my vagina face first into fornication, broke all the rules of engagement a Seventh-day Adventist girl is supposed to abide by until her wedding day, and wound up annoyed because I had to get myself off in a chair stolen from a dumpster in London.

There was no blood, no nervousness, not even the promised, “It’ll hurt real bad the first time.” To my deep disappointment, there was only a mild sense of accomplishment similar to having remembered to pack your toothbrush.

After that I abandoned the artistry of a long and painful interrogation. The payoff did not match the investment.