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The 7 Reasons Why I Broke My Virginity

The 7 Reasons Why I Broke My Virginity

I was caught in one of those rare moments when one has too little to do and much too much time on one’s hands, and it caught my fancy to write a list of every man I’ve ever had sex with.

So many people get all bent out of shape about the number of people we have s*x with, but does anyone care about the why?

As the list emerged, I began to think about each name on the list, and the specifics surrounding our sexual encounter(s). Most of this involved examining my relationship with each man, what had led me to have sex with him, and whether I had felt anything for him at the time.

On a whim, I decided to write down the most dominant reasons why I had had s*x in each situation, and working my way down the list, some things about the pattern that emerged took me a little by surprise.

It turns out, that I have only ever had sex for seven reasons in my life.

In no particular order, they are…

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The first time I ever had sex, I was severely depressed. I was incredibly unhappy, and I just wanted to forget everything, and make all my troubles go away.

It didn’t work, and it was incredibly disappointing.


I didn’t like him or love him, and my attraction to him was at best tepid to lukewarm, but everyone seemed to think he was the perfect guy for me, and that we made such a cute couple.

He thought so too, and eventually I caved to pressure and dated him for a few months.


It just sort of happened all at once. Once the stone got rolling, it was all downhill from there. An accidental picture on Facebook, then a quick detour to get shawarma turned into an afternoon spent splayed out naked on the fully reclined passenger seat of a red Mercedes, breathlessly steaming up the windows as my toes struggled not to accidentally turn off the AC or change the radio station.

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Threats, bites, huge hands wrapped around my throat and squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. High fives, hotels, terror, and military sex games. It took me six months and three thousand miles to get away from him, and I’m still not okay.


My first (and his) interracial experience. It ended in a disastrous tsunami of self consciousness and embarrassment.


He was just there, and he had a thick dick. I was just counting down the weeks until I could leave that hellhole of a place, where I had nothing and no one to care about, and expectations fallen so low I could squash them beneath my feet.

He was pretty, he had always been pretty, and the thought had occasionally crossed my mind. So on a first orientation night in an international house where I had come to make friends but knew no one, the opportunity presented itself.


Shy, nervous, but very very happy.


It was a summer of quiet nights spent in, playing video games on PS3, howling in frustration at getting taken out during a 7 point kill streak by camping assholes in Call of Duty. Then soft kisses in the darkness, polite requests to touch, and wrapping our arms and legs around each other to lie in the afterglow, his face buried in my breasts, me kissing his hair and watching him sleep.

“Your heart is beating so fast…. is it… because of me?”

This is what he asked me.

What’s on your list?

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