December 2006, New York, New York

By Erin Donnelly

It was our first date, and we’d been making out on my bed for a few minutes when I snapped my head back. Bits of information had been churning in my brain and suddenly, like Chazz Palminteri staring at his bulletin board at the end of The Usual Suspects, I started to piece it all together.

“You’re not a virgin, right?”

He leaned his head back on the pillow, swallowed hard, and said, as nonchalantly as possible, “Yeah, I am.”

I realize that asking a guy if he’s a virgin on your first date — or, say, ever — is a blow worse than a knee to the groin. And it wasn’t that Chris was a bad kisser, or clumsy, or poked at my chest and squealed “Boobies!” It wasn’t what he’d done that made me question his sexual experience, it was what he’d said over the course of our date.

He’d mentioned not having had a serious girlfriend before (rare for a 27-year-old, but not unheard of), and the year at college when his worried mother gave him a stack of lad mags with half-naked models on the covers (unusual, but maybe he was just discreet). And then there was his passive acceptance of my OK-you-can-come-over-but-I’m-not-sleeping-with-you rule. He seemed almost relieved.

I’m no supermodel, but this was strange. A guy not interested in sex only meant one of four things: Lying (no, too sweet), gay (too Texan), not at all attracted to me (tongue in throat seemed to indicate otherwise), or … surely not….

I instantly recoiled. How hard is it for a nice, good-looking guy to get laid? Heck, how hard is it for an ugly jerk to get laid? What sort of freak was I dealing with, and how was I going to get him out of my bed? I felt trapped in a bad Steve Carrell movie.

As I slightly raised my eyebrows and worked my best I’m-not-judging-you face, Chris explained that a combination of, frankly, obsolete factors — a youthful religious fervor he no longer felt, a desire to avoid the unwed pregnancies he witnessed in high school — had culminated in one very real goal, to save himself for marriage. Or, at the very least, true love.

He’d “hooked up” with women before — stopping just before intercourse — and assured me that I’d be more than satisfied, but as I drifted off to sleep that night, I couldn’t help but feel creeped out. He seemed like a child next to me. He seemed desperate.

The next day I went out of town and had nearly a week to think about everything. I was moving in a month, and the forced casualness of any relationship I entered put me in a why-the-hell-not mood. That, and the way he drawled, “Don’t feel guilty if you think about me” over the phone. Never mind that my friends did spit takes when I told them about my new, sans-sex relationship.

If slight disgust is the first reaction to dealing with a 27-year-old virgin boyfriend, then enthusiastic acceptance is the next rung. As an ambitious person, I had to admire a goal-oriented person, even if that goal prevented me from getting some action. And if he didn’t want to have sex, by golly, we were not going to have sex. Or anything remotely close to it.

I became the queen of swatting away frisky hands. “If we’re not going to have sex, we shouldn’t do anything at all,” I seductively whispered in his ear, tugging my top back down. “I don’t want to tempt you.” (Mean? Maybe. Passive-aggressive? Oh yes.)

This was not the sort of celibacy he had in mind. He wanted to take a shower together (my response: “What’s the point?”). He wanted to “warm me up” (“for what, exactly?”).

My virgin boyfriend was pressuring me for sex. Or, more accurately, almost sex.

I gave in. And thus came Step Three: The Challenge. I became a 16-year-old boy on prom night. I became my worst nightmare. If this were a John Hughes film, I’d have been played by James Spader.

I decided to use the same “seduction” tactics employed by my early sleazy boyfriends — the first one, of course, being intoxication. Unfortunately for me a 200-pound former football player can safely absorb a lot more alcohol than a 125-pound girl, and I left the bar tipsy, horny, and supremely pissed off that he was still sober.

Jealousy would get him, I was sure of it. The next trick up my sleeve was an obnoxious but highly potent bartender who’d been my go-to bedmate. With my impending transatlantic move looming over us, Chris and I had agreed that being exclusive was premature. I told him about the bartender. He said I should feel free to do what I want. I did. I reported back. The inappropriate use of a pool table might have been mentioned. I got a disinterested shrug. Thwarted again.

I argued that there was really no difference between intercourse and other, ahem, forms of entertainment that he didn’t seem to mind, so he was being a hypocrite and torturing me at the same time. He pointed out that if there was no difference, why bother having intercourse? I gritted my teeth.

I cried, I pouted, I bitched, I plotted. And then, one night, as we hailed a cab back to his place, it dawned on me that I hadn’t used my most tried-and-true form of manipulation: self-pity.

“Maybe we should have the driver take us another 20 blocks so we have more time back here,” he whispered to me as we necked in the backseat.

I stiffened, looked away. “Why? The only thing I want to do with you is the one thing I can’t. But I understand if you don’t think I’m” — insert lovelorn sigh — “worthy of sharing that with you.”

He was quiet for a moment. I was debating whether or not to heave another lovelorn sigh when he grabbed my leg. “Just because I’m not sleeping with you doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he beat me to it. “This is the one goal I have left. This is important to me.”

I shut up. Somewhere along the way I had turned into Pepe Le Pew, and it wasn’t fun. Then I thought about my last boyfriend, who had apparently slept with every woman in a five-mile radius during our relationship.

Hmmm. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Erin Donnelly is a freelance writer based in London. She has written for Bust, Upscale, Rave*SQ, Priceless.com, and GoGoGlamour.blogspot.com.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, January 31st, 2007 | Email This Post

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