What's In a Number

For a very long time, I was proud of the fact that I'd only slept with one person. Or to put that in a Christian way, that I'd forsaken the ten commandments and probably wasn't suitable for leadership any more. Maybe proud is not the right word, but it was a comfortable position to be in. By normal standards I was a good/self respecting/non slutty girl, you know the type who has her shit together, who you could take home to meet your family. And on the other side, people could no longer put me in the prude judgemental Christian girl category – its a pretty exclusive club. It's not that having sex made me wiser or less judgemental about the world but the second you tell someone that you're a virgin, they start to apologise for swearing around you and refuse to hit on you no matter how much cleavage you have showing. I'd basically have to slip a nip before people would get that mine and the church's stance on the issue didn't exactly align.

But when it came to raising my number to two, I started to have doubts. See, I'd already proven that I was a citizen of the world, equal and not morally above anyone. Once I raised my number I would no longer be able to wear the 'only been with one guy' badge that I showed off so proudly.

If what other people think of my sexual purity is so important to me, then why don't I just not sleep with anyone else? This is what I asked myself at the beginning of this year, when I seemed to be attracting interest from more than just that 60 year old Lebanese man at the truck stop. It wasn't a problem when I didn't have the option (aka bible school in France), but why should I start just because its available?

Oh I know why. Because I really like sex, and I am ready to start dating again and looking for 'the one' or 'the several' is something my 23 year old self wants to start thinking about and having the possibility of premarital sex on the table widens my options by a great deal. Sorry guys, but its true.

The desire to keep my number at one and the desire to have some sort of connection with someone tore at each other within me for a long time. But I figured out a way to win both sides of this war and all I lost was my dignity. Yep, you guessed it, my brilliant solution was the 'one' person with whom I had already shared a bed. Not the nicest guy in the world, but he has the type of selfish sexual craving that I could count on. He wasn't going to flake out on me, wasn't going to fall in love with me, or want to hang out any other time. That's what he was going for the first time we got together all those years ago. The difference this time around was that we were on the same page, almost.

We hung out, and made out and things of a sexual nature took place over the course of several months, but no actual sex. I was scared to commit to that after so many years and, although not thrilled, he was ok with it. Eventually I wanted to get over the anxiety, you know conquer all my fears and so agreed to try it. It hurt, I cried. But the first time was supposed to hurt, wasn't it?

We tried it once again, it was better but I was starting to have doubts. There was way too much history for us to be casually screwing with zero consequences. It wasn't working, I was going to have to find someone else and get over this stupid obsession with keeping my fake purity intact. And find someone I did.

He was French. He hugged me in a park, kissed me in a tree and well you get the idea. I burned with desire after he sang Disney songs in French to me at the camp fire (apparently a weakness of mine, guys, take note) and it was good.

I'm not sure what I was expecting for my first, non-toxic-ex-boyfriend, accepting-that-I'm-not-as-pure-as-I've-been-advertising, no-longer-at-number-one – sexual experience, but there were no fireworks to speak of, and there was certainly no overwhelming wave of shame or guilt that I was expecting. There was actually a moment where I reflected on the absurdity of all the stigma surrounding that whole area of your body. It was the second just after he slipped in. I was surprised how easily and how quickly it happened. Just like that, with one quick thrust all of my purity, and notions of saving the rest of myself til marriage crashed down around me, and the pedestal on which premarital sex normally sat, was pulled from underneath it. I could see it for what it really is. A carnal, messy, chaotic experience, in which two people share an intimate connection. I can actually see why you'd only want it with one person because of how close it makes you, and I'm sure that connection must mean less and less the more partners you have.

But for me, I'm glad I had another partner, and I'm glad that I could make the decision completely for myself without the judgement of well meaning friends, or the anxiety of how I appear to others, or the laws of a religion that I love the God of, but not all the practices.

Because if you don't want to have sex until you are married, then no one should make you feel bad about that decision, and on the other hand, if you want to have as many sexual experiences as you can whilst your skin is still taught around your arms and thighs (and hey who am I to judge, even well beyond all that sagging) then that is completely up to you.

For me it pulled me out of a really toxic spiral into which my ex had been continually dragging me. It launched me into a world of dating that I was previously way too anxious to enter. And it forced me to accept who I am as a person rather than the facade I was trying to portray.

And all thanks to this awkward, sweaty, grunting activity that leaves you panting and smiling stupidly at the end. As for the guy? He went back to France and we won't see each other for a long time, but I'm at peace with it. Our adventure together was wonderful, he liked me for more than just sex and that made it so much better. I'm glad I waited for him.