I have a solid group of friends, a supportive family and a clear awareness of who I am and who I want to be. Yet the moment I have to tell the guy I’m dating that sex is not an option, I become a squirmy, awkward, fidgety girl who can’t make eye contact or put together a complete sentence.
Think junior high dance, only without a bathroom to hide in.
One guy confessed to having a girlfriend back home just as I started to fall for him.
Another had such low self-esteem he wouldn’t make a move until just before he passed out.
In college there were a handful of guys who probably could have been my first, but things never quite worked out.
Then all hell broke loose — at least that’s how it seemed to my eighth-grade, never-been-kissed self.
She sat me down at the kitchen table, folded her hands, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Let’s talk about oral sex.” I’d thought the birds-and-bees talk was painful; this was torture.
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