There is some confusion about my virginity, and specifically, how I “lost” it. Perhaps right now you think you know where this story is going; it’s one of those “I was so drunk I don’t remember” type recollections, right? Or perhaps you are thinking there was more than one fumbling young adolescent boy involved, which might lead to the very brief, but whispered word “slut” passing through your mind. But really, I am talking here about definitions.
How do you define virginity, and what qualifies as the loss of it?
When I was an adolescent, girls around me were sucking a lot of cock, giving a lot of hand jobs, and dry humping—anything but losing their virginity because you know; there was a certain currency in being a virgin. Most girls around me dreamt of meeting The One and getting married, and in those days, it was a given that men only married the virgin, not the whore. It seemed to be generally agreed that “virginity” was directly linked to penetration of the vagina.
But I was coming of age at a time where the concept of penetration of the vagina was complicated by the miracle of modern science, in the invention of the tampon.
Like all Modern Girls I invested in my first box of tampons, assured of the promise of a better lifestyle courtesy of soaking up all that blood, and keeping the process of menstruation hidden from view.
Which brings me to the hymen.
So, once upon a time, the hymen broke upon the initial penetration of the vagina by the hard cock. Ideally, for the purposes of authenticity, there would be blood on the sheets to prove a woman really was, “innocent” and/or “pure”. As a Modern Girl, I didn’t really give much thought to the hymen, because by that time, there was always the chance a hymen could be broken by such activities as horse riding or bike riding, or by the modern miracle of inserting the tampon. The hymen had no currency anymore, as proof of virginity.
Which brings me to the emergency room.
Something went terribly wrong with my first attempt at using a tampon. You know, I followed the diagram, I had the mirror aimed at my crotch, I even had a torch on hand—I mean, it’s a navigation exercise right? And I was so proud, I tell you, for the first three hours of that tampon being inserted.
So in the emergency room, there are a handful of us gathered. One of the few is a Young Man, with his Little Sister. Being a Young Woman I am hyper-aware of young men in general, but certainly of this young man in the waiting room. I focus on being invisible, assuming that my “problem” will remain hidden from view.
Which brings me to my Mother.
She drove me there. And being the mild hypochondriac I am, and she having grown up in the Dark Ages of menstruation both of us felt it best to bring my problem to an emergency room. They interview you, at the front desk, to establish the magnitude of your “emergency”. Bless her; my Mother had been attempting to be discreet on my behalf but-
“I’m sorry, could you speak up please, what is the problem with your daughter?”
“Oh she has a tampon stuck in her vagina.”
No longer invisible. It begins with the Little Sister of the Young Man:
“That lady has something in her gina!” (Giggles)
“Shut up, it might happen to you one day.”
Yes, well, now it’s awkward, what with my Mother and I sitting in the waiting room, my vagina suddenly front and centre in the collective imagination of the handful of people waiting to see a doctor.
Which brings us to Catholicism.
In the examination cubicle the Lady Doctor asks me a few perfunctory questions. Name, age, and ailment—all seem quite ordinary. Then I am laying spreadeagled on the examination table, with Lady Doctor shining her own torch into my crotch.
“Oh, it’s your hymen. The tampon is caught on your hymen.”
The hymen, my hymen is sort-of-broken. As though the last vestiges of my virginity are hanging on despite the disruption of the tampon. She removes the offending modern miracle from my vaginal vault, and then asks:
“Are you a virgin?”
Yes, I tell her, figuring that the lines of definition are still pretty clear.
“Oh.”
Oh? I’m not sure why she seems disappointed.
“Are you Catholic?”
No, I tell her, wondering when I can put my underpants back on.
“Oh, well I think it’s important that I perform an internal examination.”
At the age of seventeen, I had not been one of those Modern Girls sucking cock and giving hand jobs, in fact I had not even kissed a boy.
Which brings us to vaginal penetration by a medical professional of a minor, using a set of forceps, in the guise of performing a “necessary” pap smear.
Illegal, I am told later, what she is doing. At the time it’s just all one big blur of pain and confusion. However amidst this, I found myself thinking that at least I now knew what to expect “when I lose my virginity”. I lay on the examination table, my feet in those stirrups, and documented the pain; the feel of having my vagina expanded by the forceps, and thought “losing my virginity will be less painful because a penis isn’t this large.”
Which brings us back to my problem with definitions.
Looking back, I wonder if my fascination with Catholicism began in that examination room.
FIONA
No comments:
Post a Comment