During a drunken conversation with a friend recently, she asked how many people I had slept with. I opened my mouth, about to divulge, when she chimed in again: "I mean full sex only. Other stuff doesn't count."
"Wait a second," I said. "What about same-sex couples? Does that not count?"
![All of these experiences have been a part of my sexual journey, and none of them matter more or less than any other.](/web/20161129040535im_/http://www.theage.com.au/content/dam/images/g/s/y/d/k/h/image.related.articleLeadwide.620x349.gsydlo.png/1480285589992.jpg)
"Well, of course THAT counts," she scoffed. "But for heterosexuals, it's just P in V. Everything else is sexual activity, not sex."
I thought back to the five years I'd spent with my ex-boyfriend, and the handful of times in that period that we'd been able to have penetrative sex due to my vaginismus. By my friend's definition, this meant we weren't having sex at all, but I thought about the tenderness with which we held each other – the quiet times, the louder times – and the frenzied moments of passion we shared, regardless of whether or not there was any penetration.
I thought about the strangers who came after, the ones I felt nothing for, the messes of sweat, the unsatisfying endings, the text messages that went unanswered. All of those "counted", but as what?
At my religious high school, we often gossiped behind locker doors about who was and wasn't a virgin in our grade. Some girls said they were "saving themselves", but still engaged in oral sex. We counted them as virgins. They weren't sluts who went the whole way. That was what bad girls did, the ones who got pregnant and dropped out of school. Sure, our friends liked having fun, but they knew where the line was.
In her book The Purity Myth, feminist writer Jessica Valenti argues that the concept of virginity revolves around society acting as the arbitrary gatekeeper to women's bodies and moral goodness. She writes, "Packed-away virginities aside, the interesting — and dangerous — idea at play here is that of 'morality'. When young women are taught about morality, there's not often talk of compassion, kindness, courage, or integrity. There is, however, a lot of talk about hymens (though the preferred words are undoubtedly more refined — think 'virginity' and 'chastity'): if we have them, when we'll lose them, and under what circumstances we'll be rid of them."
My adolescent understanding of virginity and, indeed, sex was based around one thing and one thing only: penetration. If sex is short for sexual intercourse, then everything else was just a side dish to the main, right? Never mind that I don't even particularly enjoy penetrative sex and have never gotten off from it. It always seemed like the end goal, reinforced by the popular and arbitrary attribution of 'bases'. Who wouldn't want to hit that home run?
When I started having sex and realised that penetration was painful for me, I felt broken due to what I'd been socialised to believe was the ultimate goal for anyone who wanted to be sexual. With penetrative sex off the table, was I a desirable partner? Were my boyfriends being robbed of something they deserved? Was what we were doing child's play – was I an inexperienced loser who couldn't do what we were all designed to?
As my understanding of gender and sexual diversity deepened, I realised the narrowness of the "technical" definition of virginity, of "full sex" – and the way in which it upholds rigid expectations of heteronormative practices. Recent studies have suggested that not all gay male couples have penetrative anal intercourse as a regular part of their sex lives. We have been so conditioned to believe that sex is defined by a penis entering something else that it almost seems unfathomable to some that it is, in fact, a whole spectrum. We are doing ourselves a disservice when we shoehorn something so broad into a confined space. We are silencing those who fit outside of a socially constructed idea of the norm – telling them that they are anomalies, that their experiences are only a fraction of an imagined whole, that "real sex" is not for them.
I have had unsatisfying penetrative sex and wonderful penetrative sex. I have had unsatisfying oral sex and wonderful oral sex. I have pulsed against hands and felt like I could fly. All of these experiences have been a part of my sexual journey, and none of them matter more or less than any other.
Sex is whatever you want it to be. It is in the moments after intimacy when the world stands still and your breathing, shallow and fast, is mirrored by another. It is the touches and sighs, careful bucking and collapsing. It is raw and it is rough and it is primal. It is soft and it is slow and it is magical.
But most of all, it is yours. Don't let anyone else define it for you.
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