Virginity isn't real

Virginity is not a thing. Not really. It is a social construct meant to make people, especially women, feel badly about their sexuality and sexual experience. It is a way of policing other people’s bodies and passing judgment on how they use them. It is, at its very core, a way of controlling and subjugating women.

One problem with the idea of virginity is that there’s no hard and fast way of deciding who’s a virgin and who isn’t. Many people would define loss of virginity in a very heteronormative sense – a sexual act where the penis penetrates the vagina. But does that mean, then, that a queer woman who has only ever been with other women is a virgin? Is a gay man, who has only ever had anal sex, a virgin? Most people, when pressed, would agree that no, those folks aren’t really virgins, even if they’ve never had penis-in-vagina-style intercourse. The flip side of this is that many rape victims don’t feel as if they have lost their virginity even if they’ve had penetrative intercourse forced on them. They consider themselves to be virgins because they don’t consider what happened to them to be sex. So taking all of that into consideration, how do we then define virginity?

Some people have said that performing any sexual act constitutes losing one’s virginity, but that seems like much too broad of a definition. Kids start experimenting with sexual play and experimentation at a fairly young age, so does it then follow that anyone who’s kissed someone of the opposite sex or shown them their genitals has de facto lost their virginity? I’m not sure that this idea makes any more sense than saying that virginity can only be lost through one very specific sexual act.

Another problem is that there is literally no way of knowing if someone is a virgin or not. Oh, people will tell you that you can check if a woman’s hymen is broken, but that’s not a reliable indicator at all. A hymen can be broken without any kind of sexual intercourse, through sports or through some kind of injury. Not all women are born with hymens. Not all hymens tear during penetrative sex. And yet we’ve all been sold this idea of torn flesh and blood on sheets as some kind of definite rite of passage for women. This idea – that you can somehow tell if a woman has been sexually active – has contributed to the oppression and subjugation of women for pretty much all of recorded history. It’s given men a way to control women, to make them ashamed of their bodies their sexuality. It’s led to a double standard where it’s fine – even encouraged – for boys to gain sexual experience, but women who are sexually active before marriage or have sex with too many people are considered to be slutty or damaged goods.

Finally, why is virginity so damn important to us? We don’t have nouns for who or what we were before we hit any other life milestones – there’s no term to refer to a person before they can walk or talk or read and write – all of which I would argue are more important achievements than getting laid – and yet it’s the sex that we focus on. Why do we put so much more weight on this one small facet of human life than we do on any of the others? Why are we still making a big deal out of who is a virgin and who isn’t?

This is the discussion that we should be having – not about whether women are lying or delusional about their virginity, but about why we still use this damaging term. We need to talk about why the idea of virginity continues to hold such sway over our cultural consciousness, and why so-called feminist websites a perpetuating the thought that virginity is a tangible, definable thing. Most of all, we need to figure out a better way to talk to kids about their bodies and their sexuality, because the way that we’re doing it now clearly isn’t working

Date a girl who dances

Date a girl who dances. Date a girl devoted to doing the unnatural every day, who stands on her toes and speaks without words. Date a girl whose eyes get glassy when assaulted by new music because she can’t help choreographing, casting, living and dying in her mind.

Find a girl who dances. You’ll know that she does because she will seem to move endlessly. She will sway to the sounds of the city, fidget every few minutes, crack her knuckles and her neck, roll each wrist and cross the other leg just so she feels even. She will forget herself and where she is, the length of her skirt and the strangeness of what she’s about to do when something falls from her lovely, articulate hands to the floor. She will not bend at the knees because she does not have to, folding instead at the waist to execute the kill. That’s the dancer. When she straightens, she will laugh at herself, and her collarbone will beg you waltz with her.

She’s the girl with vast and unvocalized dreams strewn across the heavens and a bloodline dating back to French royalty, but whose natural inclination is to collapse to the earth, flop to the floor. There’s more room to stretch there, you see. Sit with her. She might giggle, ramble on a bit about nervous energy. Such proximity to a pedestrian has reawakened an awareness of her abnormality; she had nearly forgotten, again, that not everyone needs a tutu to feel alive. She will try very hard to stay very still so as not to give herself away. Don’t mention it. Ask her what she thinks about when she dances.

Let her move.

Tell her what you really think of the Nutcracker. See if she cries when she doesn’t make the cut, and learn to anticipate what she needs before and after that audition. Remember what needs massaging, and when. Understand that it is a rare treat indeed for her to really be at rest, to have a day off from running to and from rehearsals, and to take a break from being beautiful. Relish in whatever she decides to do that day, whether it be sleeping in or saving the world, marathoning a show she always misses or mulling over the feasibility of moving to Mars. Wonder aloud which she was truly born to perform: The white swan, or the black swan. Listen to her reasons why. Indulge her identity, which dances, too. She creates and discovers herself, decides and destroys herself, rehearsing both what she is and what she wants to be. She will perform herself passionately and full-out, shifting entirely with the slightest costume change. Try to keep up. She may speak oddly, percussively, orchestrally, a tango of tangled words. Assume she means to. Her intensity stems from a trained commitment. Technically, she was never trained to talk. She was trained to listen. Let her speak when she finds her voice. Do not ask her to make sense.

It’s easy to date a girl who dances. Give her ibuprofen in bulk for her birthday, sweatshirts and leg warmers for Christmas, cut-off tees and new soft shoes for anniversaries. Give her the gift of touch, the closeness in your eyelashes on her face and the silent applause in an embrace. Give her Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky, Yann Tiersen, original scores to your kisses. Make her feel the way she feels backstage, in the wings. Let her know that you, too, have noticed all the different configurations your bodies make to lock into one another. Understand that she’s not asking you to be a dancer when she asks you to dance.

Look at her. Stare.

Because she’s unreal. The human equivalent of a black cat, with that same mesmerizing and vaguely alarming quality in the way she slinks toward you. You’re crossing paths with the supernatural, love. You’ve every right to be suspicious. She is at once a string of omens, not just misfortune to many but good luck to plenty. She is bizarre, comfortable, and just maybe the next step in evolution. You may not know what to do with her, even years after the fact. All you know for certain is that her purring is the midsummer night, her happiness, hypnotic. Sharing her company suggests that you are either mental, or extraordinarily lucky.

Because when a dancer falls in love with you, she falls in love with the music you make. She will fall into step with you when you walk together because she knows what corps means, what a greater and grander cause costs. She will assume your motions and mannerisms are as deliberate and meaningful as her own. She will soundlessly observe and absorb you, assigning sensational motivation to your every stir. Your imperfections are artistic, and rewarded. She will recognize you by your cantor, your carriage, and most of all your asymmetry. She fancies the idea of completing each other because your smile pulls to the right, and her smile pulls to the left. It’s all in her head, of course, but what does it matter. She always did like dramatic lighting. She values your very presence in a way you’ve never known. Your cadence compels her. Your pas de deux delights her because it cannot be replicated. She will respect your insanity. It moves her.

Date a girl who dances because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who adores everything you do, every little thing about you. It won’t just be your face or your words or what you two have in common, and it certainly won’t be because you’re convenient. This is a woman who rehearses for weeks on end for maybe one minute onstage — do you think she does anything because it is easy? You want a girl who bites off more than she can chew because she is the most flexible, most sensitive, most ambitious, most big-hearted of the bunch. She will hold ridiculous ideals and outrageous expectations, and she is hardest on herself. She finds solace in rehearsal, because scratching the sublime is only a matter of time. You deserve a girl who knows that a good show requires thick skin and endless practice, a girl who isn’t daunted by any of it. You want a girl who stretches. That is the girl who is unafraid of instability, who understands it and commands it everyday. She’s the one who drills straight through valleys and mountains, persevering through highs and lows because she knows the deeper the plié, the higher the leap. You deserve a girl who doesn’t break easy, a girl who’s prepared for a bit of pain for the sake of of beauty.

She’ll be abysmal with budgeting, you ought to know, but she’ll be pretty resourceful when it comes to diplomacy and improvisation. And she’ll be terrible at scheduling and double-booking because the stage skews her sense of time. She’ll embody the ebb and flow of that tide between well-established vanity and soul-crushing insecurity, of course, but she’ll look glamorous and shy and tough and femme between layered sweats and stage make-up. And yes, darling, she’ll want everything — but she wants you.

You deserve a girl who gives you goosebumps when she says goodnight, who finds the minute and mundane phenomenal, who reveres balance as the desirable eye of a storm. If you can only give her half of your heart, you’re better off alone. If you want to race through a world more stunning than you’ve ever dared to see it, date a girl who dances.

The myth of self love

I’ve been trying to figure out how to write about self-love and somehow I keep getting drawn back to the girl at the mall rolling her eyes and saying, “Ugh, she’s so fake” behind my 16 year old self after I smiled and complimented her outfit, or the group of teenagers sitting outside the hall after class during my senior year telling me my clothes didn’t match. I keep going back to the comments that have been said about my pale skin, disastrous hair, and annoying personality. I’ve heard some of the putdowns with my own ears, and I’ve heard about the rest from others. It’s kind of funny how eight years later, I can still recall the exact store- outfit – person that hurt my feelings. The person that first made me feel insecure about who I was. And not only can I remember the first person, I can also remember all of the others.

For me, the moments are isolated. And to be clear, I can’t pretend to know what it feels like to be bullied while growing up; I got along with everyone fairly well, was in a lot of activities and feel like I had a lot of friends. And from what I know, I was generally liked by my peers. But I do know what it feels like to have someone challenge your self-worth — to make you feel insecure. Then and now, I’ve kind of fought this internal struggle with being the kind of person that everybody likes while not compromising who I am in an effort to seek approval from someone else.

The truth is, I think self-love is a journey.

Maybe for you it comes easy, or maybe you are still on the road trying to figure out what that means.

Wherever you are at, I think it is important that you get there.

Because when I think about self-love, I think it is colored by other people’s opinions of ourselves. And I especially think that too often, our self-worth is influenced by those who think the least of us. By the girls who talk behind your back or make fun of the way you look. By the people who judge you based on your personal beliefs or sexual orientation. By the guys who make you feel insecure about the way you look or what you stand for. By the person that won’t return your phone calls or text you back.

Maybe you care about what other people think about you, and maybe you don’t. Either way, I hope you care about the way you perceive yourself.

I’d like to believe that along the way I’ve grown a thick coat or tough skin. But the reality is that I’ve developed an internal mirror. I’ve been able to develop this sense of security about who I am as a being, an ability to look at myself on the inside. And so I’ve learned that the more sure I became about myself, the less I had to be defined by what other people had to say about who I am.

I’m lucky to have a strong sense of self — who I hope to be, and what I stand for. But it’s come through lessons and challenging myself to care more about what I think of myself than what someone else does. And on some days, it’s harder than others.

Along the way, I’ve learned that just because someone sees a part of myself as a flaw, doesn’t mean I have to. That the better I am able to accept my weaknesses, the less someone is able to use them against me. I’ve learned to care for people, regardless of their opinion of me. And I’ve learned to accept people how they are. I’ve learned to differentiate when someone’s actions and words are more of a reflection of them than they are of me. I think some of self-love is about confidence, and some of it is about self-esteem. And then some of it is about knowing who you are and what you are not. And I think it’s about being okay with other people’s perception of you.

And at the end of the day, I think most of us want to be liked. We want to be accepted. And we want to be loved. I hope it starts with yourself. But the reality is that sometimes — even when you are sure of who you are — words still hurt and they still burn. I hope you remember that what you say matters. That you have the power to challenge someone’s security. That the things you do can hurt someone else’s heart. That it doesn’t feel nice to be mean. And I hope you remember that your actions and words are always a reflection of yourself. And I hope you hold yourself to a high standard.

And then it all goes back to self-love. I think if you can develop an appreciation for who you are as a person, you can start to respect who others are as people, too

This is not my fault

As you forced your way inside my home, you said that when I'm dressed the way I was, I'm asking for it. Who are you to judge me for what I wear? How dare you blame me for your disgusting ways? I could have been walking around in a bikini and I wouldn't have been asking for it. You might think that because I was drinking I was an easy target. But who are you to prey upon anyone no matter what they had been doing?

This is not my fault.

I didn't know you. You decided a gas station would be the perfect place to find your next victim. I didn't ask for your conversation. You assumed I wanted to be graced with your not so witty mindless chatter. I didn't ask for you to follow me home. You took it upon yourself to stalk me to the place I felt safe from a gas station. I didn't ask for you to come over. You decided that it would be my honor to have you in my home. I certainly didn't ask for you to force your way inside. You decided to terrorize me instead of just let me sleep. And I most definitely did not ask for you to rape me.

This is not my fault.

Why should I be worried about looking over my shoulder? Why aren't you taught not to follow women home? Why should I be the one responsible for how you act? Why aren't you the one taught not to rape? Why should I be the one worried about what YOU would do to me if I drink? Why aren't you taught to keep the women in your life safe from creeps like you? Why should I be the one at fault?

This is not my fault.

You may have victimized me, but I am not your victim. I will not let you ruin my life. Yes, I am scared. Yes, I am forever changed. But I am not your victim and I will not let fear of you and your kind destroy my life. I will come out stranger for this. I will be better than what you did to me. I will not let the fact that you raped me change my life for anything than for the better.

Rape is not my fault. 

This is us

You. You are morning. You are sleepy eyes and quiet smiles. The snooze button, seven more minutes to lie staring out the window. You are the coffee pot hissing, warm currents wafting through the air. You are slow legs trudging to the train, the gentle breeze touching skin. You cause the goosebumps, the rise, the sun peering out behind each building. The creaking and shaking of the trains, the dull car horns, the how many days until Friday. You are rest. You are I can’t find my sweater so lay back down. You are the world can wait. You are life with intertwined hands.

I. I am the afternoon. The lazy naps in the sun. The bustingling coffee shop, caffeine fix. The busy, busy, one more and then I am finished. The highest sun in the sky. I am Demanding outstretched hands. Loud laughs and clacking key boards. Gazing eyes back to the window, clouds floating by. No cares at all but what is in front of me. I am the do it quickly, enjoy our hands soon. I am electrified, buzzing. One thousand miles in fifteen minutes. I am go. I am now. I am quickly, the picked flower only dies.

But we. We are night time. We are alive. We are stars bursting, blazing creating or destroying. We are it depends on what you’re looking at. We are inhales of excitement, exhales of safety. We are brand new, we are characters. We are trying, we are hoping. We are dark is just as comforting as light. We are god, we are creators. We are only us, the  ones, occupying the space as we can. When we can. We are everything exists within us. We are not afraid. We are storm, me lightning illuminating and quick, you thunder, commanding and present. We are hand in hand. We are together. We are outside of time.