HOW I STOPPED FEELING INSECURE ABOUT BEING A VIRGIN AT 24

When I was in high school, my mother had a habit of turning my casual friend hangouts into after-school specials. "Don't sleep around," she'd tell me and whatever poor, poor soul I'd brought over. (Other talks on heavy rotation included the typical "Don't do drugs" and "Don't leave your drink unattended" spiels). "Wait until you're in a serious relationship," she'd say breezily, "and then make sure the guy you're with gets tested." Sound advice, sure, but

"serious" to my mom meant year-plus-long relationship and the kind of guy you'd most certainly get engaged to. Occasionally, sarcastically, I'd say, "But what if I just lost it before?" (You know, like, poof!) To her, this was not a funny joke. To her, one-night stands and sleeping around would make me loose. "You can do whatever you want, Alyssa," she'd say coldly. "I'm just glad sex means something to your sister, and she's waiting."

"AT 24, I STILL HAVEN'T DONE IT FOR A REASON."

My mom was wrong when she implied sex means nothing to me. I have a lot of feelings about it, and, at 24, I still haven't done it for a reason. But it isn't because of her slut shaming. I find that logic to be utter B.S.

For the most part, I consider virginity to be a neutral thing—even though other people don't seem to. After all, I have been virgin shamed, instructed by others that I should just "get it over with" and that there was "something wrong" with not doing it. That's B.S. to me, too. Both really need to stop societally.

There were moments, over the years, when I would feel insecure: Would I lose out on my dream guy because I wasn't as sexually experienced? Could virginity be a dealbreaker?

But today, I feel more confident about my virgin status than ever before. For the first time in a while, I can explain to myself, in very certain terms, why I haven't done it and why I don't want to do it right now.

But because everyone seems to have their own theory, allow me to debunk some myths: I am not a virgin for religious reasons or for lack of interest in sex; I'm not waiting for marriage or "the one;" I'm not completely naïve or untouched as much as I teasingly claim (sorry not sorry, Mom).

After all, I did work at Cosmopolitan—once as an intern and later as an editorial assistant—where I found writing, reading, and learning about the topic so, so fascinating. I do like sex. And, from the sounds of it, it'll be great someday.

"I DO LIKE SEX. AND, FROM THE SOUNDS OF IT, IT'LL BE GREAT SOMEDAY."

I'm not much different than other twentysomething virgins I've met. We're smart, good-looking people—yes, I'll be egotistical—who just lacked the right opportunity. My one high school boyfriend, a five-month stint freshman year, gave me tight-mouthed kisses before we split for class. It was pre-first base as far as I'm concerned. After we parted ways, I focused on classes and getting into a great college. And then, college was a drought too. I ended up at a school where the guy-girl ratio was 40-60 (the New York Times even wrote about how bad it was. Go, UNC!) In the journalism school, the ratio was basically 10-90. (I also majored in French, and—quelle surprise—it wasn't crawling with boys either.)

I also didn't stick around long enough to make any ties with the small-but-eligible straight male population at my school. I jumped around a lot; I studied abroad in Paris; I spent summers interning at magazines in New York City. The people around me kept changing, and I didn't want to get too attached to anyone I was going to lose two months later. Not a bit of me regrets it.

I graduated college early in December 2012 and moved to New York. At that point, I hadn't kissed a guy in six-plus years. Then, boom, the day after I moved to the city, I kissed two guys in one day: a high school on-off flirtation and his unaware roommate. (That's right.) It launched a rather messy love triangle my first year in the city. Though that ended, the tone it set for my love life didn't: dating in New York has been turbulent, emotion-filled, and very amusing.

I get the full gamut of reactions when I tell people I'm a virgin. Many people say the same-old "just do its" and "get it over withs," but others compliment me: "That's awesome! Good for you! I miss those days." And guys I've gone out with are usually pretty accepting of it. (And, if they aren't, they don't stick around anyway).

I've also talked and thought a lot about it. Working at Cosmo, dating sporadically, and hashing it out with friends who are like me—people who get more emotionally attached and care very deeply about others—has made me realize that I'm not interested in meaningless sex, and I'm not ready for sex's emotional intensity. I won't lose it for the sake of losing it.

Let it be known, though, that I do not have high expectations for my first time. From what I've heard, it'll likely be a little painful, perhaps awkward or underwhelming. I hope I can laugh about it in the moment and share it with someone who isn't an asshole. I hope it's a meaningful experience with someone who means something to me. And that's about it.

On the whole, I don't feel like my life is missing any pieces without sex. I have great friends, good health, a wonderful job, and an amazing city to grow in. I'm also having way too much fun with the making out and foreplay I never experienced in high school and college.

Enjoying hooking up—which I consider just being physically intimate with someone, clothes on or (mostly) off—and discovering that, yes, I am a sexual person, has been very strange but also fun. Still, I felt a bit of guilt, initially, because of my mother. I hated the idea of disappointing my parents or being anything but a model daughter. But thanks to my friends and working at a magazine where sex was celebrated, not antagonized, my own shame toward physicality diminished. There isn't anything wrong with it: Fooling around with a guy does not make me a whore or morally unclean. Losing my virginity won't do that either. 

But for now, virginity is part of my identity. And in the words of Eleanor Roosevelt (and Joe to Mia in Princess Diaries, which I recently re-watched): "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent"—and that's true whether you're a virgin or a slut.