Virginity at Random

So, sometimes I feel like the internet has started a trend of people who over-share. Selfies, and posts and tweets that have prompted us to be a society of people who think other people care what we’re doing every moment, of every day. I used to snub those ideas. I used to hold my nose high in the air like: what in the world would make me think that anyone else would really be interested in every facet of my normal, ordinary life, and why would I put it out there for them? Like, how narcissistic could I get?

Then I realized that I am building my career and my life on that principle. I’m hoping that people will care enough about my life, about my stories, about both the fiction and the non-fiction that I share with them to go and invest themselves in my writing. To go and dive into my imagination with me and trust me to take them on a little fantasy ride, even if only for an hour or two out of their day. I am asking those on the other side to trust me. But I want to turn up my nose when it comes to creating any kind of intimacy between me and my audience.

So in the vein of over-sharing to create a new intimacy between me and my readers, my community, those beautiful people near and far who keep me sane when I feel like a mad writer, holed up in my brain for days at a time, here comes today’s post.

So I’m a thirty year old virgin. Okay, not exactly, because I have a four year old. But I’m a lady virgin. I’ve never made love to a woman. Why was that one of the first things that popped into my head this morning? I have no idea. One minute, I was cruising through a meditation, concentrating on my breathing, and the next thing I knew I was thinking about the state of my intimate love life. Or lack thereof. The first feeling that shot to the surface was sadness. I felt sad about all that I had missed out on. And then I pushed that feeling out of the way. It felt like an immediate and immature reaction to my whole situation. I’ve been trying to dig deeper than my first visceral reaction to things lately. I feel like it helps in both my life and my writing. If I think beyond the first metaphor, or the first way of saying something, usually a bit of awesomeness shows up after.

So I pushed past those first melancholy thoughts that tried to tell me that I was old and getting dried up and becoming a bisexual spinster right before my very own eyes (I know, I’m quite dramatic), and instead, I thought a little deeper. Held that space a little longer. And what came directly after that…was joy. I started to feel it in the pit of my stomach. At the base of my spine, rooted deep in where I sat, trying to connect to the deeper energy in the Earth. That feeling traveled up my spine and finally bloomed in the core of my heart. I was happy about this!

It felt a little like spring had come again. Apparently, nothing excites me quite like new possibilities and that’s exactly what this felt like. I thought about all of the things that I wanted when I was younger. I was a late bloomer even when it came to men and I didn’t have my first time until I was well into my twenties. But I spent a lot of time thinking about it. I think that’s how it goes for most of us. But my first time didn’t go as planned. I never got the roses and candle lights that I hoped for.

There were times when I would do that just for myself. Spread rose petals out, light a few candles, turn the lights low, put on a good playlist, crack open my latest book-date and cozy up. But that kind of connection never really came with another person. I didn’t get the fantasy that I’d hoped for. I told myself they were small compromises. Concessions that I would make in order to be “normal”. In order to be “easy going”. Even though I’ve spoken to different partners about my hopes for the ideal night of intimacy, it never seemed as though they thought of them as anything other than hopes.

All of a sudden, I had an opportunity for that to happen again. Magic was real, and very possible. And I was in charge of my own intimacy. There were no roles to fill. No one to say that I couldn’t be the one to bring the flowers, and the candles and the movie-romance. I had a whole new world of firsts to experience. I had never been so happy to be a late bloomer. I had never been so happy to be thirty and confused as I was this morning. In that confusion held promise. The promise of making the ethereal into reality. Making the impossible, possible. And this time…if I can get my mind and heart in check, I can hold out for what I deserve. I can hold out for what feels right. Everyday, I push through the desperate thoughts that tell me I’m missing out on everything. I push through those thoughts and I calm my mind and remind myself that the best is definitely yet to come. I felt like I rushed myself once. I felt like my entire twenties was rushed through. My thirties can be patient. They can be sweet. They can be kind. They can be whatever I want them to be. As long as I spend each day getting to know myself that much deeper and opening up to the possibility around me.

So this was just one of those moments where what could have been a depressing morning turned around and became a moment full of hidden empowerment and hope. Now, every time I think about my virginity, it brings a secret smile to my face. Because I’ve spent a lot of time doing the research. I’ve spent a lot of time learning about the human body. I’ve spent a lot of time learning about my own body. I’m a fast learner, and I’m great at anything I put my mind to (how’s that for narcissism). I’m a giver. A sensual person. A person who finds a high from touch that almost rivals a drug-induced euphoria. My writing and my passion for sensuality go hand in hand. So my secret smile is because there is a wealth of new possibility waiting for me. I’m a tenacious learner. I aim to please. And some woman is in for a wild ride…

The start to this Monday has definitely been… whimsical

Wishing you Romance for the rest of your day

Until Next Time…


About Avery Rose

I'm a 30-something year old living in my native New York...I adore the city, writing, books, tea, music, long walks and rainbows :) Aaaand What happens to a dream deferred? In my opinion it gets sucked up dry and spat out as a gnarled petrified mass of what the heart used to I'm also coming out as a writer who wrestles with questions of identity, reality, race and even sexuality. I'm having fun finally writing my own story. Feel free to help :)


  1. thefeatheredsleep


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