I’d like to talk about this virginity and whore complex thing that’s been going on for at least a couple hundred years (cue sarcasm). As much as I’d like to rant on and on, I’m going to keep this short and sweet because the message that we should all be receiving is exactly that. There are no frills and no footnotes.
I am 22, soon to be 23. I love Pinterest and I believe in the power of social media to initiate positive social change. My friends are my family and my family is my life. Sometimes I spend too much money on food and books, which means I can’t buy all the yoga loungewear I want, but that’s cool because I get to eat the food while I read my books, so I can’t complain. I’m a feminist. I am fiercely protective of the people of love. There is very little grey area in my life; I am incredibly passionate about almost everything. I’m not ashamed to admit that wine is what helps me finish off my screenplays. And I’m not going to tell you what my sexual status is because it doesn’t matter.
It wouldn’t matter if I told you I’d slept with more than a handful of my friends, or had one too many one night stands, or really enjoyed late night booty calls, or was asexual, or just flat out didn’t like sex, or just hadn’t found the right person, or was even waiting for marriage. And I’ll tell you why.
It is, in essence, substance over style. We still ‘judge a book by its cover’, so I’ll just put it this way: it doesn’t matter how messy my notes are for class as long as I’m clear on the main points. It doesn’t matter how much I weigh as long as I’m healthy and happy. The world will tell you that what people see is way more important than what’s in your head or your heart, and that’s the problem.
What matters is that I still try to kiss my sisters on the top of the head even though they’re taller than me. What matters is that I’m always willing to hold my best friend if he cries. It matters how hard I try to be a good friend and what I think about before falling asleep at night. The breathless feeling I get from seeing people in who are in love matters a whole lot more than what I do with my body in my spare time. I love tattoos, people who aren’t afraid to put their heart on the line, good stories, traveling, movies, and going to the park on rainy days. If you saw me wearing my favorite blue dress and I told you how I’m into Guillermo del Toro, I’d hope that you’d strike up a conversation about Pan’s Labyrinth and not worry about who (if anyone) gets to watch me remove the blue dress.
What I do with my body doesn’t reflect on who I am. It’s been to Istanbul and down the street to the supermarket. My body has been to both my local hospitals, to the top of locked buildings, to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and into the inner circle of Stonehenge. Maybe I sleep with one person exclusively. Maybe I sleep with six. Maybe I have no sex drive. Maybe I’m a rabbit in heat with no one to hook up with. Maybe I’m patiently waiting for my turn. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll never know.
And that’s the whole point.