Female, 18, Wisconsin
I don't know why I wanted it to be gone — I just did. My virginity loomed over me, staring me down, stalking my every move. When my relationship of almost two years ended the summer before my senior year of high school, I felt like a failure. My ex-boyfriend seemed completely adverse to the concept of sticking it in me, something I couldn't begin to wrap my brain around. Weren't boys supposed to be the ones begging for sex? He would finger me on the regular, but avoided handjobs and opposed blowjobs, calling them "gross." In the span of our entire relationship, I never once made him finish. I was sure there was something terribly wrong with me.
He dumped me in early July, leaving me a frustrated and confused virgin. I spent the remainder of the summer with my best male friend, who I'll call B. B had been my best friend since freshman year, and while we'd had a serious falling-out when I started dating my ex, he'd always been there for me when I needed it. That summer was no exception. Our strictly platonic relationship quickly turned romantic and physical. One night when my parents were out of town, he came over and we made out until I got scared and hopped off of him. We spooned the night away and laughed about it later.
From there, B and I continued to hook up in secret. Our super-top-secret-best-friends-with-benefits situation, as I called it, continued steadily into our senior year of high school. But I was uncertain that I actually wanted to be with him. I flip-flopped on my feelings for him like a politician. I would say that I loved him and then call it off a day later. To be completely honest, I don't know why he put up with me. I was, as he put it, a fickle mistress. Nonetheless, with my continuing virginity aggravating me, we decided in January that we would have sex. In February, to his frustration, I called it off again, scared that I was making a mistake.
But then there he was in almost all of my classes, looking adorable, laughing at our inside jokes, giving me this look that I knew meant more than he was willing to say. I wasn't sure if I loved him but I knew he loved me, and that was something I wasn't willing to pass up. We got back together in March. This time we weren't just friends, and it wasn't a secret.
B's friends were generally stoned hipster assholes who were too smart for their own good. Most of our weekends were spent at B's best friend's house, where we smoked weed and hookah, drank, and listened to ultra-hip music. B spent the night there so often that he had his own room. On the night that we finally did it, we retreated to B's room around eleven and started fooling around. Around three in the morning, we had covered all the bases, so to speak, except for home plate. There we were, naked and alone together in the darkness before dawn, when I turned to him and said, "Why not?"
B pulled out one of the condoms given to him by his best friend for just this occasion and after figuring out the logistics of leg position and whatnot, B and I began to have sex in the missionary position. It didn't hurt me in the least. We were both incredibly tired and I don't believe either of us finished or even came close, but just like that, it was done. The black cloud hanging over me was gone. My belief all along had been confirmed: sex was nothing special. It didn't mean anything and it didn't magically alter our DNA or make our feelings stronger. B and I high-fived, got water, and went to sleep. Over the following months, B and I went through a thirty-six-pack of condoms. Eventually it became almost effortless, and at times, meaningless.
We broke up before we left for our respective colleges. The course of our friendship since has been anything but smooth. Our first time was anything but picturesque, but maybe it suited us and our relationship. Frankly, I hope every girl loses her virginity as I did; without unrealistic expectations, without candles or rose petals, without cheesy music, and with someone who they're comfortable enough with to high-five afterwards.