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And given the choice between having just one boy with whom to spend all my time or a group of boys, friends trumped boyfriend.
In college there were a handful of guys who probably could have been my first, but things never quite worked out.
The most serious contender waited until I was so smitten with him that I would break plans, skip class, call in sick — whatever — to drive hours to visit him, and then dumped me, saying it “just wasn’t a good time for him.” Another reason sex didn’t factor into my coming-of-age years is that I’m a Christian.
Not a Bible-thumping, the-world-is-going-to-hell-in-a-handbasket Christian, but a (sexually) conservative, Bible-believing, traditionally raised Minnesota Lutheran girl who was taught that sex is for marriage and that’s that.
Instead of just sucking it up and telling Boy One why I was being so weird, I decided to be extremely mature and wait until he had left to text him asking if we could talk.
He called me and I spent the next half-hour mumbling and stuttering out the truth.
The longer I go without sex, the more build-up there is: the more anxiety and curiosity, fear and desire, anticipation and uncertainty.
Heck, the first time I even heard of a blow job was when I threw a party in eighth grade and my mom caught a girl going down on a guy in our basement.
She was shockingly cool about it (which is saying something: my mom was the Mom of all Moms; the woman all my friends feared, revered and secretly worshiped) and let the party play out until everyone had gone home.
I don’t know whether it was hearing my mom explain the basics of oral sex, the embarrassment of having not previously known about this particular genre or the fact that she caught two of my friends actually engaging in this in my basement, but let’s just say I never fully recovered from that centuries-long five-minute conversation.
Something else that has kept my pants on all these years: Despite my Miss Independent, one-of-the-guys, often cynical/always logical demeanor, I am a hopeless romantic.