I lost my virginity to a guy whose name I don’t know and whose face I can’t remember.
I referred to him as “Ricky Bobby,” after Will Ferrell’s character in "Talladega Nights," and I still stand by that memory of him.
We're all aware college campuses are mainly used for drunken hookups now.
No one is finding love.
Women are warned about leaving their drinks unattended or walking home alone at night.
That was the kind of culture I was trying to navigate, and it wasn’t turning out very well.
I didn’t tell him it was my first time. I didn’t tell him I hadn’t really planned to say yes.
I tried to be more punk rock and less "after school special" about the whole affair.
Coming to college a virgin wasn't ever really the plan.
I was an honor roll student, and I constantly distracted myself with extracurricular activities.
I’m sure my parents gave me some pieces of sexual health wisdom, but I've blocked them out due to sheer embarrassment.
My mother never told me to carry condoms or offered to buy me any. When it came to sex or drinking in high school, the advice was pretty clean-cut: Just don’t.
So, about Ricky Bobby.
I met him at a party, and he was obviously not a student. A few shouts over ear-splitting music confirmed he was a “townie” and just there for the party.
I was over the party scene at this point.
I had spent my sophomore year working very hard to get invited to things, to get dressed up for parties and to walk in heels to get to them.
My roommate and I had been obsessed with the idea of finding boyfriends, double-dating and showing them off.
By the time I actually turned 21, the sticky floors and endless games of beer pong had become dull. I was tired of not being noticed, and the guys I was trying to get attention from were not worth it.
I was Gina Rodriguez from "Jane The Virgin," but I obviously didn’t look it. Names like “slut” and “whore” had been passed to me.
But, it’s not like my virginity was a badge.
It’s not like I was saving myself for someone. That meant I had the power to do whatever I wanted.
So, I said yes to Ricky Bobby.
He picked up a cheapo condom at the gas station while I waited in his truck and went through his glove compartment, just to be safe.
He kept things simple with missionary because he thought I was drunk.
I had nursed the same drink all night and abandoned it the first chance I got.
I don’t remember his face, but I do remember the sex wasn't good.
I remember wanting to tell him jackhammers were usually meant for cement.
I wanted to tell him his tattoo was going to look stupid when he was old, although now, I don’t remember what it was.
Mostly, I remember thinking, “Well, Jane. This is what you get for not making it a big deal.”
I hadn’t really said yes to him.
I was saying, "How dare you" to my father who had left to marry his third wife.
I was saying, "F*ck you!" to all the people who had talked behind my back.
I was saying, “Look at me” to the people I had been trying to impress for over a year.
I was saying everything to everyone else, but I hadn’t actually stopped to consider the damage I was doing to myself.
Since that night, I have made plenty of awful sexual decisions.
I have said yes plenty of times when I should have said no.
It takes a while for a lesson to sink in, but I think I have the gist of it now.
Don’t say yes to be cool, popular or punk rock.
Don’t say yes when you should be asking, “Why am I so angry, hurt, sad and scared?”
Whatever man or woman you’re impulsively saying yes to will not know what you need.
He or she won’t be there in the morning when you realize you were yelling at the people who wronged you and not actually "just having a good time."