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In a society which somehow both “glorifies and vilifies sexual activity”, we’re told sexual liberation has to mean escapades, freedom, and promiscuity. But while many do find those three things liberating, I question whether they really should be seen as the be-all and end-all.
That’s because, while the progress we’ve made in women’s sexual liberation is important, our current definition of the word marginalises a group of individuals who deserve the same empowerment and respect and freedom of choice: virgins.
The untold truth is that virginity can be empowering – we just have to adjust what we’ve learned about prudity, purity, and embarrassment, and learn to value the choice not only to have as much as sex as you want, but the choice to have none at all too.
I’m 25 now, and happily a virgin. My journey to this point has been hard to navigate – from wondering what I was missing out on, to realising I find some physical interactions uncomfortable, through to where I am right now: making the active choice not to have sex.
I was born in Hong Kong, and spent most of my teenage years in Macau, where the city’s staggering smallness meant you really had to make your own fun. Most of us grew up really fast – there wasn’t a lot for teenagers to do besides hang out at each other’s houses, or drink and go clubbing from a very early age. But despite these tempting arenas, I wasn’t easily persuaded by peer pressure. I didn’t shave my legs like the other girls did, I didn’t drink until I was much older, and I didn’t engage in sexual activities. Ever.
“I can’t pretend it isn’t hard to engage with people about my virginity.”
It’s important to say my upbringing and education around sex was very healthy, and my parents always encouraged open communication around sexual health. My journey around virginity has truly developed on my own terms, which is a privilege in itself. What began as me not swaying with the crowds slowly became an unwavering identity.
Through my adult life, I have sometimes found I’ve been physically uncomfortable with things such as foreplay, which left me feeling too sensitive, or in pain. I became horrified by the idea of any sexual encounter, which halted me from progressing no matter how close I felt to my partner – something I’m still exploring and trying to understand to this day.
But while I neither feel I am missing out or in any rush to push myself into a situation I’m not keen on, I can’t pretend it isn’t hard to engage with people about my virginity. As an adult, if I start seeing someone who turns out is only interested in hooking up, I explain my perspective but, usually, end up leaving swiftly. I have started announcing on dating apps that I’m “not here for anything physical”, which – while filtering any men explicitly looking for one-night stands – still almost always ends up in a discussion eventually about when ‘it’ would happen.
I’ve had to come to terms with the fact not everyone will be understanding of my decision. I have tried to prove to men I was somehow ‘worth waiting for’, that we could create a relationship that was meaningful, but have been most often met only by their constant disappointment. I have been guilty of doubting my character, doubting whether what I had to offer in a relationship was enough.
“I’m not pushing sex off the table entirely – instead, I’m pushing for us to reconsider our outdated views of virginity and abstinence.”
However, all these experiences have built in me an almost concrete belief that sex isn’t necessary for me to be happy. While sex has been explained to me as this physical – and, apparently, soulful – interaction that bonds people together, I’ve found so many deep connections that don’t revolve around that. Being people’s confidants around their trauma, hearing about their life backgrounds, their passions, hobbies, and beliefs has brought me immensely closer to them and created these long-lasting connections. I may well have sex in the future with someone I truly trust but, as writer Jodi Tandet put it: “while I remain open to the possibility that I’d enjoy sexual contact with a person whom I can deeply trust, it doesn’t change how I feel in the present. As of now, I’d be perfectly fine dying a virgin.”
In our society, virginity is synonymous with purity, and promiscuity with sluttiness. But we must realise that the amount of sex we have should not define our worth as humans. Whether we have trauma around sexual intercourse, are asexual, or simply just haven’t had sex, our worth as human beings, surely, has to go beyond our sexual history.
Whether you prefer to find your worth beyond your virginity, or choose to proudly embrace it, both avenues should be respected. I am incredibly proud of my virginity and what it stands for but, just as how becoming obsessed with sex can be detrimental to one’s mental health, focusing too much on our virginity or lack of sexual experience, and what it says about who we are, can harm our mental health too. Above all, I’ve learned there is no reason to change yourself to appease others. When we make decisions about how we define ourselves, it’s vital we are both happy with those choices and willing to live them out.
I’m not pushing sex off the table entirely – instead, I’m pushing for us to reconsider our outdated views of virginity and abstinence. And I’m pushing you all to find strength and peace of mind in doing it all, or none at all.
MC Barnes is a writer, creative and mother agent
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