I was twenty-nine, single again after a five-year marriage, and a virgin. When I met my now ex-husband Mike, I had just turned 21. We met at small Catholic liberal arts college, and even though I no longer believed in Jesus, the Saints, the Bible, God, really any of that. I was a virgin then, and I was a virgin when we divorced.
When I was younger, I'd wanted to stay pure, and had managed to protect my virginity despite all the high school guys I'd went out with, and the ten or so guys I'd dated in college before going out with Mike. My policy was to wear a Virgin Mary pendant on dates, just to be sure that the guy knew I was waiting. Granted, I still almost lost it in the front seat of David Horowitz's car the summer before junior year of high school. I almost gave it up for him, and I let him put his hand down my pants, but I had to draw the line. I certainly wasn't going to do it with some guy who was going away to college in a few weeks, and I wasn't going to lose it in his dad's beat up Ford Escort. That wasn't how I imagined it at all.
Every guy I went out with wanted to sleep with me by the third date, and every one of them lost interest when I wanted to wait. I just hoped to be in love first, but clearly that wasn't fast enough. Love and sex, I thought. Is that so much to ask for?
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