When I finally had sex it was like ripping off a band aid. My friends were fascinated by the fact that I had a list a mile long of boys I had shared intimate moments with, but I didn’t just go the extra mile of “getting it over with”.  When I had sex for the first time, it was to rid myself of the complex that I was somehow less of a woman for not finding myself a man I wanted to have sex with. I had never been an impulsive person, but losing my virginity to a man I had known for only a few months on a Monday afternoon was certainly the most impulsive decision I had ever made. I needed it done. I needed the stares of confused disappointment from my peers to cease.

Do I regret it? No. It was nonsense. It didn’t mean a thing to me. Did I feel badly afterwards? No. I felt a minor tinge of stupidity that I had succumbed to peer pressure in my mid-20s. My religious friends growing up would always say they were waiting for their husbands because sex with their husband was sex based in love. Despite my better judgement, I think they might be onto something. I don’t need a husband right now. That sounds awful. Mindless sex meant nothing to me, but when I found a man that I loved more than anything in the world, sex with him was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Euphoria, not because of the sexual nature of the act, but because I had finally found one who wasn’t a dud.