Recently, my teen daughter became involved with her first boyfriend. She enjoyed her first kiss and naturally, we revisited discussions we’d had when she was younger about consent, safe sex, what having sex for the first time might be like and the changes it could bring to her relationship. We’ve always had a very honest and open relationship, so I’m glad she was comfortable having these conversations with me.
Yet the topic of virginity brought back a flood of memories for me that, for the first time, didn’t feel quite right. I realized that despite considering myself a very liberal feminist, I had regrets about how my own virginity ceased to exist.
Folks who know me would never call me a prude, and I’ve always considered the concept of virginity and waiting until marriage for sex to be a somewhat sexist ideal at worst, and at best, an extremely personal decision that isn’t open to judgment or recommendation from others. When I turned 16, shedding myself of sexual innocence became high on my priority list. Virginity felt like a girlishly old-fashioned burden and I wanted to be a woman of the world. I longed to emulate the independent, strong women I saw in magazines and on TV and considered the crux of women’s lib to be sexual liberation.
Sadly, I also suffered deeply from very low self-esteem. I did not consider myself attractive or pretty, so I was fearful I might never find a male who was even interested in having sex with me. My critical mother had filled my head with numerous cruel descriptions of my buck teeth, my small breasts (that she mockingly compared to her very large ones) and my large rear end that she endlessly told me to hide with clothing that didn’t showcase my very small waist. I hated the mirror and disliked photos of myself even more, so I yearned for positive validation that I wasn’t ugly.
The summer I turned 17, I also discovered alcohol and began a years-long “party girl” phase. Drinking made me feel brave and confident. I flirted with boys, but even more satisfying was that they flirted back! I was too naive and inexperienced to understand that my drunkenness made me an easy target for guys hoping to engage in some sexual action.
So, one evening at a drunken house party, I ended up having sex for the first time with a guy I only knew as a former boyfriend of an old friend of mine. It was quick, slightly painful and extremely disappointing in the sexual satisfaction department. We did not use birth control or STD protection, yet I was smugly proud of myself for joining the ranks of “sexy women” who “enjoyed” sexual activity without the messy emotional strings of a relationship getting in the way.
I felt desired and appealing, but I was also lucky I didn’t get pregnant or an infection. I wish I could say that was a one-time occurrence, but my party days as a nightclub dancing queen led me down that path of intoxicated one-night stands more often than it should have.
Strangely, until I had the discussion with my daughter about her potentially having sex for the first time, I had never regretted my younger self’s sexual adventures. I was fortunate that the guys were always kind to me and the sexual pleasure part did happen with other partners. However, telling my daughter how losing her virginity with her first boyfriend early in their relationship might alter things between them made me think I might have missed out on something. Maybe it would have been nicer to feel some kind of fondness for the person I had sex with the first time. Perhaps it would have been nice to explore sex with the same person more than once and to enjoy connecting with that person through affection like snuggles, kissing and handholding first.
I’m older and wiser now and I’ve worked very hard in therapy to increase my sense of self-worth and validation outside of other people’s opinions of me, including my mother. I still applaud adult women who enjoy sex, whether for sexual pleasure itself or as intimacy within a caring relationship.
If my daughter chose to have her first sexual experience under similar circumstances to my own, I wouldn’t judge her or be upset; it’s her body and her choice. I am glad she prefers to have an emotional connection with the person and I’m proud she’s not in a rush like I was. But I still feel a little sad for the confused young girl I was who chose sex for reasons that weren’t healthy or feminist at all.
Do you have a daughter (or son) who is able to talk to you about anything? Let us know in the comments below.
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