What’s the big deal about virginity anyway? I mean, I can see how in a pre-DNA-testing, patriarchial society it could be the only way (well, the overall least worst way) to make sure a man’s children were " his own." But adulteration of the germ line aside what possible, possible point could there be to prefering sex with virgins?

I mean, you can only do it once and then what? Meanwhile entire industries of purdah, sequestration, cloistration, infibulation, lapidation, kidnapping, side-saddle construction, and Victorian-era pornographizing have grown up around a single sexual event in a woman’s life.

I’ve had sex with a couple of women who were virgins. I lost my own virginity with a virgin. All in all it really wasn’t that different from first-time sex with anyone else, except it was sometimes over quicker because it often hurts.

Even with experienced partners I usually enjoy the 20th or 100th time far more than the 1st. I mean imagine only wanting to dance with somebody once, or fantasizing about being someone’s first tennis partner. Think you’d want to write about that in your little black book?

So what’s the big deal? I think Wegg’s got the right idea:

guys have this trophy thing about taking virginity. don’t aksk me why.

i have my suspicions that he himself was a virgin, although he never confessed as much. maybe that’s it; maybe if they fuck a virgin, the virgin can’t tell how bad he is. cos, like, virgins have no idea of what feels good, huh.

Link: pillowbook

That’s probably about right. Otherwise it seems like a pretty bizarre fetish.

But wait! Wegg (truely the female antipodean Thoreau of sex) doesn’t stop there (although I did, at first, to compose this post.) The rest of her story is a brilliant ironic tale about foreskins, hymens, virginity and bleeding:

[Note for Wegg: In the unlikely event you find this post, and if upon finding it you object to such an extensive excerpt send me flame mail and I’ll snip it.]

There was this one guy i was with at high school who had this tight-foreskin problem, and who didn’t know it.

we hooked up and had been seeing each other around school. it didn’t progress to a full-on relationship with dating and sex straight away; i think we were in the middle of exams or something. but there was plenty of sex talk, and expecially from him. in fact, exclusively from him.

he had a virginity fetish. he kept talking about the rupturing of the hymen, and how the first time a girl fucks, she bleeds from her cunt. this fascinated him, and he kept talking about it. which is not, btw, particularly romantic, in case you’re taking notes.

i think he thought i was a virgin (although how he could have concocted that idea is beyond me; i was sixteen when i knew him and my illustrated exploits were already all over the walls in the boys toilets; i saw them one day when a guy was fucking me in there), and i’m certain that he was looking forward to piercing my hymen and seeing me bleed.

guys have this trophy thing about taking virginity. don’t aksk me why.

i have my suspicions that he himself was a virgin, although he never confessed as much. maybe that’s it; maybe if they fuck a virgin, the virgin can’t tell how bad he is. cos, like, virgins have no idea of what feels good, huh.

well, the exams finished and we dated. on the second date, he fucked me. he was real gentle with me, like the magazines say to be with a virgin. i didn’t want to spoil his enjoyment by telling him there’d been at least half a dozen guys before him. it was one of the most awkward first-fucks i’ve had with a guy, since he kept squirming about to see if i had blood pissing down my legs or not.

it was a way-below-average fuck (adding to my suspicions that he was a totally inexperienced virgin) and once he’d come inside me, he pulled out and looked for my hymen blood with the excited air of a child looking through the garden for easter eggs.

he went all quiet and was clearly confused.

i tried to distract him by turning on the instrument lights on the dashboard and jiggling my tits, but he was fixated.

in the end, after a good five minutes (he was waiting, lest the blood was supposed to trickle out after the sex was over), he aksked me bluntly why i hadn’t bled.

i shrugged and said it was probly because i’d ridden horses a lot when i was younger. i pretended to think about it, and then pretended to remember there being blood in my jodhpurs one day.

he sulked, and i tried to cheer him up with the offer of some fellatio, but he wasn’t interested. by that time i couldn’t tell him that i wasn’t a virgin, even though i’d never claimed to be, not straight out. he was such an artless fucker that if he found out i’d been done before, not only would he be outraged at what he would consider to be my duplicitously pretending to be a virgin, but he’d also be certain to want to know how good he was.

artless fuckers always do.

he was disappointed enough already, without having to find out that i’d been more gratified by dogs humping my leg than i had been under his inept thrustings.

hoping that things would improve, we kept the relationship going. this was curious, since he had clearly lost interest in me, since i hadn’t had a hymen for him to rupture and wasn’t likely to grow one, and i’d lost interest in him, since he had the fuck-technique of someone who’d only ever read about it, perhaps in a foreign language.

by the third or fourth fuck, he was getting frustrated that i wasn’t orgasming from his attentions. i guess that every account of fucking he’d ever read went along the lines of foreplay (optional), intercourse, mutual orgasm.

the cruel realities of sex can be soul-destroying sometimes.

but i wasn’t prepared to fake orgasm for him.

so, on this glorious third or fourth fuck, he decided to implement a policy of harder equals better. he got inside of me and straight away he was pumping me like he was trying to push me out of the car, through the closed door.

then, all of a sudden, everything stopped.

and he screamed.

he pulled himself out of me and looked with horror at his cock. it was slick with my cunt juice, and his foreskin had flicked all the way back behind his cockhead.

since he was an in-fuck-out-wipe-away kind of guy, i’d never really gotten a good look at his cock before, and now that i did, i noticed that it was covered in blood.

well, that was a little over-exaggeration; it wasn’t covered in blood. the glans was covered in blood; dripping, in fact.

i was pretty sure that it wasn’t my blood, so i wondered where the fuck it had come from.

he was kneeling between my legs, still regarding his cock with wordless horror, too afraid to touch it. he babbled at me that it hurt, and i realised that the blood was his.

sometimes gaia’s irony is palpable.

his foreskin, as he was born with, was too tight, and in all his life he’d never had it fully retracted. in masturbation, he must never have had the abandon that had gripped him as he tried to thrust me to orgasm. despite my trade-mark internal slipperiness, his efforts had been enough to force back his foreskin, and in the process he had torn the tiny piece of skin that attaches the bottom of the foreskin to the near-tip of the glans.

ouch.

I love ice cream. I like Wegg more than ice cream.