My associate, Daniel, is smirking at me. No, perhaps it’s more of a leer. I’m sure he takes my attitude as definitive proof that I have not “lost my virginity,” as it was so crudely put. He, of course, could probably quote you a date, time, name, and home phone number of the person to whom he lost his.
Lost. Ha. As if we had simply misplaced it and are making a valiant effort to retrieve our innocence. Well, Dan is guided by his hormones, turned easily by firm breasts, smooth skin, and soft hair; thus, he is not to be trusted.
If anything, my virginity was lost to me the first time I inserted the tip of a needle beneath malleable folds of excess skin, pushed to the stiffer muscle below, depressed the stopper, and watched my life’s purpose take its first painful breath beneath my hands. Birth is so much more memorable and stimulating than orgasm.