Emulating the Virgin Mary

I’ve always loved Advent. Church at Christmastime has always been my favorite. I love the Bible passages predicting the Messiah. I love the Advent wreath. I love singing Christmas Carols, especially “Silent Night.” Most of all, I love the Christmas story.

“[Joseph] went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. ⁶ While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. ⁷ And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.” Luke 2: 5-7, NSRV

As many pastors have pointed out over the years, Jesus was born in a barn. Surrounded by animals. To an unwed teenage girl. With only dirty shepherds to celebrate his birth.

Mary didn’t have her mother to hold her hand, or an epidural, or sanitary conditions, or even a midwife. Mary had nothing but her fiancé Joseph and her faith in God.

God chose the insignificant Virgin Mary to give birth to the Son of God, under the humblest of conditions. To this day, the Church recognizes humility as an admirable trait to embody.

Dying a Virgin

According to the Mayan calendar, the Apocalypse is coming. Or something. It’s the end of the world as we know it, right?

If this were a movie, and if my boyfriend were a jerk, he would have already tried this timeless trope on me:

Do you want to die a virgin?

I understand why this works in movies. Sex is almost always the eventual goal of romantic entanglements; maintaining abstinence is rarely lauded as an accomplishment. Add in the extra drama of a life or death situation, and suddenly even the reluctant romantic lead feels enticed to do the deed.

But this isn’t a movie, and my boyfriend is not only totally awesome, but also a virgin like I am. 

Some critics might think we haven’t really “lived” because we’ve never had coitus, but I beg to differ. Call me crazy, but I think there is more to living life to the fullest than engaging in intercourse.

Vacationing in Nice on a regular basis (four times over two years) is WAY better than sex.

If the world really does end soon (it won’t), then what will I regret?

• Not having traveled more (even though I’ve traveled a lot for my age)
• Not having published a book (even though I’ve shared my writing with friends, family, and the Internet)
• Not having done more on my list of 101 Things in 1001 Days (but I’ve done quite a few!)
• Not having read more books (despite the vast number I have read)

The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m already living my life to the fullest. If the Apocalypse happens, will I regret dying a virgin?

Yes and no.

I will regret never having had the privilege of being a mother, which, you know, often comes about from having sex, but I could never regret staying true to myself and my beliefs.

Besides.

My life has been so awesome and so full of MOI that it’s impossible for me to live—or die—with any true regrets.

I might die a virgin, but most people will die having never lived near Paris. Bam!

Even More Virgin Search Keywords

I just...

I have no words.

Um. I'm sorry I don't write porn?

Although according to my bestie and to my roommate, my writing is sometimes a little on the hot side.

But it's still far from erotica.

Sorry?

P.S. I think you meant "sexiEst virgins of 2012" and "belle vIErge." Am I the only person left on the Interwebz who can spell?

Previous keyword searches found Here, There, and also Here.

Thankful for Love and Orgasms

Well, it took about an hour of checking facebook, twitter, my email, and my bank accounts, but my heart rate has slowed back down to normal, and I no longer have waves of pleasure moving through my body.

(If you hadn’t already guessed, this blog post will be a little more… explicit, than usual).

Thanksgiving has always been a special holiday. A time for family, for food, for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade (in which I danced my senior year of high school, thankyouverymuch), and for reflecting on what really matters.

After last year, however, Thanksgiving is no longer just one of many holidays during which I eat yummy food with loved ones, but it has elevated to a sort of anniversary for the boyfriend and me.

I spent both this and last Thanksgiving with the boyfriend and his family. Last year, in bed, after only the second of many sexi times to cum,* the boyfriend told me he loved me for the very first time.

I can’t believe it’s been a whole year since then. We’ve gone from seeing each other every three weeks if we were lucky, and every three months if we were not, to spending every weekend (and occasional weekdays) together. I’ve gone from googling “how to give a blow job” to making the boyfriend moan within seconds. My once-quiet, rather pleasant orgasms are now accompanied by gasps and moans as my entire body spasms in pleasure. I’ve stopped secretly daydreaming about our wedding—we now openly discuss the details.

So much has changed, yet the most important aspect of our relationship remains the same.

We are still completely, head over heels, in love with each other.

This week has been a difficult one for me. My car broke down on the way to work Monday. On Tuesday, I found out the repair would cost approximately $4,430, aka well more than my car is worth. I spent most of Wednesday sobbing uncontrollably.

But I’ve learned a few things this week.

• I don’t have to do everything on my own.
• I can depend on others and still be independent.
• Accepting help is not a sign of weakness.
• Neither is crying.
• My boyfriend still loves me even after ignoring his calls, being passive-aggressive, and looking like a hot-teary-mess.

I also had to remind myself that, in the grand scheme of things, not having my own car is a minor problem. This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the major things.

• My twin brother no longer has a brain tumor.
• My Crohn’s is still in remission, and I’m only taking pentasa.
• My little brother is having an amazing experience in Australia, where he’s started dating his first real girlfriend—from Mexico.
• I have a job. That I can mostly do from home.
• I have a good boss and good co-workers.
• I am surrounded by friends and family who love me, including my amazing twitter/blog friends.
• And did I mention that I have a boyfriend who loves me, who respects me, who understands me, who spoils me, who finds me sexy, who turns me on, who makes me laugh, who wants to marry me?

Not having a car is just a minor roadblock along an otherwise pretty amazing journey. This Thanksgiving, more than anything, I’m just thankful to have the boyfriend by my side.

*I can't resist a good pun.

Boyfriend or Puppy?

Sometimes I'm unsure if I spend most of my free time with my boyfriend... or a puppy.

What do you think?

• Nuzzles me awake with his cold nose early in the morning, eager to play.
• Flops on my bed, right in the middle, leaving no space for me.
• Farts and looks at me innocently to see if I noticed.
• Gets really excited about going for a ride in the car.
• Keeps me warm at night.
• Communicates with growls and whimpers.
• Licks my face unexpectedly. Doesn't stop, even when I smack him on the nose.
• Wiggles constantly. Incapable of staying still except when asleep.
• Loves a good back scratch.

So.

Boyfriend or puppy?

Five Myths About Women Who Love Sex: A Guest Post

Y'all, I become so excited whenever someone offers to write a guest post for me! Melissa Messer contacted me ages ago, but preoccupied me didn't get around to accepting her offer until just last week.

Melissa is a freelance contributor to The Dating Website who is dangerously close to being a college graduate. Her native habitat includes an ample coffee supply, a collection of scarves, and headphones pumping an endless supply of music into her ears.
 

Melissa is writing from the nonvirgin perspective on life, and I'm thrilled she chose to share her viewpoint!

Now, I can’t for a second say that this was an easy post to write. Ladies who openly love sex are still somewhat of an anomaly in today’s world, and God forbid you live in a country where simply having sex outside of marriage is grounds for murder. In more progressive places, life is easier for women, but female promiscuity still tends to bring out nasty streaks in people's personalities. Even while writing this, I am somewhat fearful of the comments I may receive. I’ll admit though, that I’m no longer ashamed of the truth: there are women in this world who love sex. Not because of anything associated with it, not the power or the attention, but just because of the fact that sex can be one of the most amazing things you’ll ever experience. How you choose to go about it should be entirely up to each woman in the world (and man, for that matter!). I’m sick to death of the stigma and hushed tones that our mothers and grandmothers were forced to associate with sex. My own mother, bless her heart, still regards the whole topic as one she “doesn’t want to talk about.”

So, as Belle has been kind enough to allow me to share my opinion on women who love sex with you lovely readers of Confessions of a Virgin, I declare that I’ve had enough. Let’s talk about this out in the open like adults. Let’s dispel some of the myths associated with women who unabashedly love sex.

Slutwalks UK

1. A woman who loves sex is a slut.

Society has trouble exactly defining what a “slut” is, but what I seem to be able to gather from the babble are several definitions. One is that a slut is someone who equates sex with power. Sluts, then, don’t seem to be actually interested in sex. They just want the power that they gain from it. Slut also seems to be a girl who has sex to make up for her insecurities by using sex to either gain or keep the interest of men. Again, these women don’t necessarily love sex—they just want the attention and power that it brings them.

However, I’d go so far as to say that since the world can’t seem to tell me what a “slut” actually is, sluts don’t actually exist except as a term to attempt to demean women. It’s the equivalent of calling someone a “cotton-headed ninnymuggins.” It’s nonsense. Calling someone a slut says way more about the one doing the calling than it does the perceived slut, and I vote we get rid of this silliness once and for all.

Wasting Your Vote is BULLSHIT: How Voting Is Like Sex

Have you seen the controversial ad comparing voting for the first time to having sex for the first time?

It's received a lot of attention, and rightly so. From Republican outrage* "Oh, look, the Democratic Party reduces women to their sexual status too!" to this well-written article on hipster sexism.

I don't condemn the ad as objectification of women. Lena Dunham is an extremely self-aware woman who knows what she's doing.

But I don't think the ad goes far enough in comparing voting to sex. I think I can do better.

Virgin Search Keywords Encore

I've learned a few things from the keywords that people google to find my blog.

1) I'm very very slowly growing my loyal blog readership. Every single week, the number one keyword search is "Confessions of a Virgin." I'm assuming these come from people who are familiar enough with my blog to remember its title (even if y'all have yet to subscribe to my RSS feed... psst, it's in the top right corner).

2) Y'all love my posts on boobs.

3) A very small number of readers are looking for porn.

Book Club Friday: Feminist Fantasy Fiction

Today's blog post comes from the hot, sunny city of Houston, Texas. The boyfriend volunteered to represent his company at some sort of safety seminar today, and being the loving, thoughtful man that he is, he brought me with him.

Today is Friday, which means I'm linking up with Heather and Katie for Book Club Friday!

Normally I write about the new books I've been reading, but the last two books I read were both rereads of favorites. I've actually already reviewed them both in My Library, but Kristin Cashore's Graceling and Fire are just too damn good not to discuss again.

It's hard for me to describe how amazing Graceling is without giving away any of the major plot points. The protagonist, Katsa, is basically the fantasy fiction pre-cursor to Katniss of The Hunger Games. Except Katsa is more badass. And never wants to get married.

Cashore has created an incredible world without magic and without religion. Instead, the world of Katsa includes some humans Graced with certain talents, and scientific discoveries include herbs to prevent pregnancy.

Katsa is a complicated protagonist, as are her friends and enemies. Even minor characters are fleshed out and given nuanced personalities.

Cashore's second novel, Fire, is a prequel or companion novel to Graceling, taking place in land distant of Katsa's home. A single Graced character is present in both novels. Once again, Cashore has written a strong female protagonist. In a world of monsters, beautiful creatures who manipulate the minds of others, Fire is the last human monster.

As a feminist, I particularly admire Cashore's ability to write strong female characters who are so vastly different. Whereas Katsa mostly exhibits traditionally "masculine" characteristics, Fire is, in many ways, the ideal "feminine" character. She is an accomplished musician, she longs to have children, and she loves animals. But both women make personal sacrifices for the good of their kingdoms, both believe strongly in doing the right thing, and both are fiercely devoted to their friends.

There is so much more I want to say about Fire, but with a plot as intricate as this one, I don't want to give anything away. Just trust me when I suggest you read these two novels.

Cashore's third novel debuted this summer, but I have yet to read it. Clearly I need to visit my local library!

Book Club Friday: Defiant Women

Even though today's political climate is pretty depressing for feminists, I try to remind myself of how far we've come with gender equality. Life could be a lot worse for a strong independent woman like myself. At least I have rights to my own property, rather than being controlled by my father, or brother, or husband, or son-in-law. At least I never made multiple scientific discoveries, only for men to steal the credit.

Tonight I'm linking up with Heather and Katie for Book Club Friday! If my opening paragraph didn't give it away, I'm reviewing two books of historical fiction featuring strong, female protagonists.

This book has been sitting unread on my bookcase for years. I know. I hang my head in shame. Written by Sally Gunning, The Widow's War reminds me of how bleak life used to be for unmarried women. 

When Lyddie Berry's husband is lost at sea, she simultaneously loses her husband and all rights to her property. Those rights are transferred to her son-in-law, who stubbornly refuses to compromise with her. Lyddie fights to maintain her home and her independence.

Y'all.

This book was so intriguing. I could not put it down. So many scandals, so many historic references, so much frustration at her spineless daughter, her jerk son-in-law, and the uptight townsfolk.

I love Tracy Chevalier, and her novel Remarkable Creatures does not disappoint. Chevalier tells the story of an unlikely friendship, set against the background of early paleontology and the scientific field's exclusion of women.

Despite her working-class social status, Mary Anning has a knack for finding fossils, including never-before-seen dinosaur fossils. The spinster Elizabeth Philpot prefers the company of her fossils to people. Despite their age difference and the wide schism of their social classes, Mary and Elizabeth become friends.

Basically, I wanted to punch every single man in this novel. But alas, such was 19th-century England. Men didn't believe women were capable of scientific achievement. And everyone was slightly wary of spinsters. But once I accepted the historic norms, I loved this book.

What's your favorite work of historical fiction?

The Sexiest Virgins Alive

Twitterverse is obsessed with Mean Girls. The world stops whenever it's on television, and I'm pretty sure all women aged 18 to 25 spontaneously orgasmed when Mean Girls finally became available on Netflix.

Sorry, that was a gender generalization, which I normally try really hard not to make.

Via nicomillionaire.tumblr.com

But as much as I see anons tweeting quotations from Mean Girls, I rarely see much discussion about what we can learn from the movie.

The definition of sex has become rather broad and often confusing in today's American culture. Even this asshole our former president doesn't seem to get it.

So what is sex? What is virginity? Does a definition even matter?

Well, no.

But our society is obsessed with it, and as a self-proclaimed virgin who blogs about sex, virginity, and everything in-between, I'm not exactly helping de-emphasize the "importance" of the distinction.

But I AM provoking discussion and sparking debate and challenging preconceived notions of virgins.

Losing My (Sex Shop) Virginity

I look hot tonight.

I’m wearing my new Rock Revival jeans, a nice little bonus I received from my boss this week. Topped with a simple black button-down (with gathered elastic over the bust!) and accessorized with red wedges & a red necklace. Plus I’m actually wearing a touch of make-up: my roommate and our friend Sue* worked magic on my eyes, which I complimented with a hint of lip gloss.

The purpose of looking hot?

Feeling old enough to go to a sex shop.

Legally, I’ve been old enough for… awhile, to say the least. But I didn’t fully embrace myself as a sexual being until I finished undergrad (and moved to France), and I didn’t embrace my attraction to women until about a year ago (after two years of kissing women in France). So the idea of going to a sex shop has honestly only crossed my mind once or twice before tonight.

Seriously, the thought of it used to make me blush and stammer and try to joke like I wasn’t shocked, but my friends always saw through me.

Tonight, though, tonight, I became a woman.

Tonight, I lost my (sex shop) virginity.

*happy dance*

SteampunkTink and Sue had plans to go after work today. I had nothing going on, so my roommate invited me to join them. They were almost as excited for my first time as I was!

Confession: My sex shop virginity mirrored my real life virginity. As in, I had technically never been in a sex shop before tonight, but I had browsed a Good Vibrations catalog, researched different options at amazon, and, uh, enjoyed a toy or two or three.

Book Club Friday: Chick Lit

While my parents, twin brother,* and his girlfriend are at the beach in the warm, sunny South, I'm in the Midwest, experiencing my first midwestern September. The calendar says it's still summer, but the air feels like autumn. For my reading life, that means I'm in the mood to transition from chick lit to more complex historical or fantasy fiction.

But before I do that, I'm linking up with Heather & Katie for my favorite blog link-up, Book Club Friday! Tonight I plan on reviewing some of the chick lit I devoured during the dog days of summer.

Any woman who has ever lusted over Mr. Darcy will squee with pure delight and swoon from excitement when she gets her hands on Austenland. I don't even care for Jane Austen's writings (don't kill me), and I got totally caught up in this novel. The protagonist is so loveable, while flawed, and I love her character arc. 

I'm in my 20s, as are many of my readers. In other words, everyone is getting married. Everyone. Now, I certainly plan on eventually marrying the boyfriend, but we've been official for less than a year. Whether you love all the weddings or dread them, you'll enjoy the first 95% of Wedding Season by Darcy Cosper. The ending sucks. Rewrite it.

I read all the time. I always have. I'm a fast reader, so I rarely spend more than two or three days on a work of fiction. In fact, it's more likely that I devour the entire novel within a few hours. But during undergrad, I simply didn't have three hours a day to devote to leisure reading. Once I get engrossed in a story, though, it's hard for me to put down. My solution? Short stories! I can read just one in 20 minutes and feel satisfied. This summer I read a fun collection of short stories called Deadly Housewives. Who knew suburbia contained so much mystery and murder?

My apologies on the brevity of this post and the lack of photos. But I currently can't justify spending 1-2 hours writing only book reviews. If you follow the links, though, you can also read plot summaries.

*I can't be too jealous of H. He has his first post-surgery follow-up appointment on September 19. Most likely, he'll then have to start daily radiation treatment. Please continue to pray for him!

Why I'm a Feminist (Part Three): Gender Inequality Makes Me Angry

Assholes like to belittle women’s rights activists, dismissing us as “angry feminists.” Normally I bristle against stereotypes of any kind, but especially ones that try to limit who I am as a person. Just like being a virgin doesn't make me frigid or judgmental, being a feminist doesn't make me a bitch or a man-hater.

But the assholes have one thing right. 

I am angry.

I’m angry that the War on Women isn't just a political catchphrase. Republican legislators across the country, at the federal and state level, have introduced, and often passed, legislation 

• to force women seeking an abortion to undergo unnecessary procedures, or 
• to force women to carry even stillborn children to term after 20 weeks, or 
• to legalize the murder of abortion providers, or 
• to redefine rape, or 
• to force doctors to lie to patients, or 
• to restrict access to birth control while criminalizing all abortion.

I’m angry that Bill Clinton is still the Democrat’s Golden Boy. I don’t care that he cheated on his wife—that is his personal business. But how many women have accused him of sexual harassment, like Paula Jones? Of sexual assault, like Kathleen Willey? Of rape, like Juanita Broaddrick? Accusations date back to BEFORE he was even governor. So all you rape apologists who want to doubt his victims’ credibility can just stop. I thought the Democratic Party supported women’s rights…

I'm angry that my twin brother called me a slut and a whore for years, in front of all our mutual friends, and not a single one of  them stood up for me. I had committed the unforgivable crime of developing breasts, and I had to be shamed for it.

I’m angry at the number of times I had to ask to choose a famous person not on the proposed list for essays, papers, and projects. Why? I wanted to write about famous women.

I’m angry that I earned a reputation in my non-WGS history classes as the feminist. Why? I was the only one who consistently questioned gender bias, who asked about the women. In today’s day and age, what kind of history students ignore the history of half the world’s population?

I’m angry that my home church won’t allow women to serve in ordained positions. Women are allowed to be deacons, but not elders or ministers. My father is an elder, and I know he does his best to represent my mother and me, along with my brothers. I remember how proud I was when I found out he had been nominated. I cried when he told me he almost didn't accept it. He had to pray about it and talk to my mother because he wondered if it was wrong to accept a leadership role denied to my mother.

I’m angry that women are held up to an impossible standard of beauty. Be skinny, but not too skinny. Be curvy, but not too curvy. Be really pale or really tan, but not in-between. Always wear make-up in public, but never look like you’re wearing make-up. Wear the latest styles, but only wear styles that flatter your figure. Wear the latest colors, but only wear colors that flatter your skin tone. 

I'm angry that a sexual double standard still exists. My blood boiled when I first heard the comparison of men and women to keys and locks. 

I'm angry that most movies and TV shows fail the Bechdel Test.

I'm angry that so many of the twitter accounts I follow do stupid trending topics like #MyPerfectHusbandIs and #HowToMakeAWomanHappy, both of which just reek with outdated gender stereotypes.

I'm angry that I can't tell anyone from home that I'm bisexual. I'm angry that my sexuality is dismissed as greedy, or experimental, or denial. I'm angry that I have to lie to my family, to all my friends from high school, to most of my friends from college, to everyone at church. I'm angry that I can't marry a woman in my home state.

So go ahead.

Call me an angry feminist.

You are 100 fucking percent correct.