Shocking the monkey.

(Warning: If you don't want to read about my sex life, stop here. This is very raw and a bit TMI, and there are, in fact, some people who should not be reading this. I'm putting this out publicly because I refuse to censor myself, but I'm asking that those of whom are aware they would be invading my privacy by continuing through this entry please stop out of respect. If you're wondering if you're one of those people, you're not. They know who they are. I know it's like asking someone to look away from a car wreck, and a little bit hypocritical, but the disclaimer is necessary and I would appreciate the use of discretion.)

I went to the gynecologist for the first time in years a couple weeks ago. I never figured it to be a big deal, being that I'm not, um...active in that sense, so I didn't make a point to go. Yeah, I'm a bad woman, whatever. I get tested every other year when I have a physical (yes, I ask for that, even though there's an incredibly slim chance of me getting anything), and I suffer through periods like every other woman who hasn't yet discovered birth control, pregnancy, or menopause. But then something was amiss in my southern hemisphere, and I had to give in. And subsequently face the pharmacist at Walgreens and ask for my...vag cream.

Yesterday I went back for an actual annual exam. Everything went fine (other than...hey, thanks a lot for effectively starting my period two weeks early by poking around down there). And at the end of the exam, the nurse midwife (who cracks my shit up, quite honestly) told me she was surprised I wasn't...freaking out. "I have patients who are in their 40s and have had children, and they can't handle it. I have to practically peel them off the ceiling." Basically she was impressed the virgin didn't scream and writhe in pain at the mere sight of a speculum. What can I say? I'm badass like that.

In a weird way, it was...welcome news. I mean, I always thought I'd be...mostly fine with any arrangement in that regard. A little weird at first, probably uncomfortable and alien, and I'm not even talking about the inevitably awkward events that would lead up the actual intercourse portion of the evening (because it only happens at night, right?). But...anatomically and such. I think I could take it. Heh..."it."

I've been giving serious thought lately to...taking care of the issue. Just to get the whole deal over with and move past the label. Psychologically speaking, it doesn't bother me. Because let's be real - I'm not pure and chaste, and I don't think things like, "ew, icky, I don't touch my hoohoo," so yeah, I do pretty much know what I'm missing. It's not exactly the same, but in rough terms... I've got the idea. I'm not shy about the fact that I'm a virgin; if you ask me, I'll tell you, and I'll tell you that it's not because I haven't had opportunity, or even desire (as infrequent as that may be). Sex just hasn't found its way into my life as an important or defining factor. I'm not sure I believe in casual sex for myself, and I haven't been in a serious relationship where I trusted and cared about the other person enough for it to be an option. It's never been off the table; it's just never been the right situation, and that's bred apathy and indifference. And really, I'm okay with that.

So if I'm okay with it, why am I considering Doing the Dirty anyway? Well, look... I might be sitting here saying things like, "I haven't been in a serious relationship where I trusted and cared about the other person enough for it to be an option." But don't get it twisted - I don't attach any particular meaning to it, either. The ideal situation is with someone I know well and trust, preferably who plans on sticking around for a little while in some capacity, and I'm confident has no ulterior motives or intent to hurt me in the process (emotionally or physically - I'm not down for the kinky shit). Those are pretty broad qualifiers that allow for the inclusion of a whole shitload of people who would absolutely never have sex with me no matter how much they care about me (read: the gays). There are some in there that I would never have sex with because it would be weird (for example, if we're more like brother and sister, then...ew). But I'm not waiting for something "perfect" or "special," and I don't need to be "in love." I'm more concerned with making sure it's as comfortable as possible, because I deserve that. Dammit.

I'm just ready to let that be part of my past. If that makes any sense. The older I get, the more people I tell (because I see no point in lying), the more it starts to define me in the eyes of others. Particularly the menfolk. I can know someone for months, even years, and even though they say it's not a big deal or they don't think about it... It crosses their mind when I participate in an overtly sexual conversation, or slip in an innuendo. "This comes from someone who probably doesn't even know what the missionary position is. This comes from someone who may have never seen a penis." (I do and I have, thank you. And yes, people have asked me that stuff.) I surprise people all the time with how freely I'll talk about sex despite never having experienced it, and I am rather knowledgeable. But then it becomes, "I wonder how she knows so much..." It's there. It's always there. It alters the perception people have of me. And I realize that sounds like I'd be doing it for everyone else, just to prove a point. And maybe that's a little part of it. But mostly it'd be for me. To let go of that little piece of me that might care too much about what other people think; that little piece of me that actually thinks that maybe - just maybe - I won't ever go through with it. Maybe I need to silence the judgers (even if they're already silent) and erase my self-doubt (even if that doubt is incredibly real and reasonable).

Could I be setting myself up for emotional pain after the fact? Certainly. All depends on the situation. But what's wrong with that, really? I'm learning (slowly) that I'm not really living if I'm not putting myself out there; I'm learning that I need to allow myself to be hurt because emotions are not evil. I'm learning that I need to prove something to myself every day, even if I'm just proving that I'm like everyone else. And sometimes it's okay to take a step back if it eventually pushes me forward; if there's a lesson. There are a lot of things I could take away from this, and in the end, they don't have to make sense to anyone but me. (Rationalization: I can do it.)

These are all just thoughts. But I do know that I'm, simultaneously, sufficiently secure with myself and just fragile enough for it to seem completely sensible, and to handle the consequences either way. It's a rare, and admittedly weird, place to be. And I think I like it.

But y'know... If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't... Life as The Virgin goes on.