I don’t know why, but before I had sex for the first time, I..

I don’t know why, but before I had sex for the first time, I was so hyperaware of my virginity, like it was this invisible badge I carried around. For context, I grew up in Asia, back there and back then, virginity wasn't just a fact—it’s practically a commodity. I still don’t fully understand why, even now. It was like being a virgin made you pure, something to be proud of, while losing it somehow diminished your worth as a woman. Imagine your value as a stock—one tiny “poke” and your price plummets. That’s the mentality we were fed.

But despite all that, I wanted it so badly. I craved it. Before I actually had sex, I explored every boundary I could. I still remember the tingling excitement I felt when my body was close to a boy’s on the subway. It wasn’t even a boy I particularly liked, but being near him made my breath quicken, my skin sweat, and this strange, aching tension build in my lower body.

We never had sex, though. He fingered me; I went down on him. But that invisible line—penetration—remained uncrossed. Looking back, we were like characters in some overdramatic kid romance, sneaking off to libraries to make out in the corners. God, if I hadn’t been so insanely horny in HS, I might’ve gotten better grades and gotten into a better college. But hormones don’t care about your future.

I didn’t actually have sex until college. And when I did, I remember waking up the next morning and walking differently—well, not physically, but in my head. I kept thinking, Oh my God, I have a hole down there now. For years, I’d bought into this ridiculous cultural myth that losing your virginity “changes” you. I’d grown up terrified of the concept of 处女膜—the hymen. It was even mistranslated as “virgin skin,” which made it sound like some fragile, magical barrier. They’d tell us, “If you have sex, it’ll break, and you’ll never be the same again.”

But later, I learned the truth: the hymen is just a piece of tissue at the vaginal opening. It’s not a magical seal; it’s not even guaranteed to break during sex. Anything—sports, tampons, or even nothing at all—can “tear” it. But I didn’t know that then. I was too busy convincing myself that sex had given me this existential hole.

I walked around that day in a daze, feeling both shame and excitement. There was this strange, bittersweet thrill of knowing I’d crossed a line I could never uncross. Part of me was still the good girl who’d grown up terrified of what sex meant, and part of me was exhilarated, as if I’d discovered a secret the world had tried to keep from me.

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