Virgin

You’re such a delicate little flower. So pretty. So vibrant. So perfect. But, in all honesty, how have you still never had sex? 

Do you know how many times I’ve had this said to me? With the same patronising tone of a Miranda Priestly quip in The Devil Wears Prada. I’ve been thrown into the deep end of a gay bar to talk to a boy who immediately slipped into judgment mode the minute I told him I was a virgin. A virgin who had still never been kissed. What a way to feel like Drew Barrymore. If there’s ever a moment you want to stand out for all the wrong reasons, reveal yourself as the only virgin in Poof Doof.

I’d always held on to my virginity with a tight grasp for many reasons, none of which are your immediate thoughts when hearing those words. My life isn’t Jane the Virgin. To me, my virginity was a security blanket: it was something that kept me safe, and at arm’s length, from truly experiencing the queer community. Yes, there’s more to being queer than sex—there’s a whole world of people, a world of style, a world of belonging out there. But in my warped brain, remaining a virgin was the only way I could protect myself from blending in to the crowd. It made me feel like I wasn’t completely letting go of myself. It made me feel like I was holding on completely, and letting it go was akin to breaking off a part of myself and crushing it. 

I never fully accepted that I was part of the crowd: that I was just another stitch in the fabric of the queer community of Melbourne. I always wanted to stand out. I always wanted to be the one that was special. My virginity made me feel special. But just like the real delicate little flowers you’ll find in this world, it started to wither. As I became immersed in the weird and wonderful lives of the LGBTQIA+ scene, I realised that I didn’t need to hold on to my virginity so tightly. The more comfortable I became the more I realised I was able to still be myself regardless of sexual experience. 

The night I lost my virginity wasn’t special. It wasn’t some kind of incredible rom-com moment. It wasn’t what I’d hoped it would be, but it also wasn’t what I was scared it could’ve been. I found a boy, we got drunk, we played Ariana Grande, then it was gone. The next day, I looked at myself in his bathroom mirror and all I saw was myself. I didn’t feel the same but I didn’t feel different. I was just me. And no matter what I’ve done, or what I’ve felt since, the queer community has always embraced me just the same. Because to the world I’m still that delicate little flower. And maybe one day, I’ll be seen as something more.