When I lost my actual virginity at age 20, there was, of course, no Internet, no cell phones, no texting. I slunk away from the apartment of the man I'd chosen to relieve me of this burden, feeling nervous, elated, and a little slutty. I didn't celebrate, or call any friends. I had enough shame over the sex-before-marriage thing (even though this was the 80s) that I kept it on the down low. But because I wanted a keepsake of the momentous event, for years I held onto the white Izod shirt I took from the guy--until it turned yellow and dingy, not unlike my once-pristine virtue.
The next morning, I called friends, opening up the conversation by singing, "I'm back in the saddle again!"
Contrast this with how I lost my second virginity—the virginity following my divorce after 21 years of marriage. Within seconds of returning to my hotel room after a late-night tryst, I texted this message to three of my best friends: "My post-divorce virginity is over. Call me if you're still up." My phone rang almost immediately. It was my night owl friend. I was barely able to talk I was so giggly and dopey in my lust fog. With the sheets over my head and talking in a whisper (my new guy was just on the other side of the wall), I recounted the whole story—I'd say I gave her the blow-by-blow but that sounds gratuitous in this context. I'm surprised the guy didn't hear her screeching over the phone.
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