Chaste by Choice

I go out, have a good group of friends, and flirt with strangers — behavioural tendencies expected from any uni student. You would also probably assume that I’ve had sex, and loads of it, because most uni students go out, have good groups of friends, flirt with strangers, and also have loads of sex. But I’d be willing to bet that a lot of uni students (probably more than you think) actually aren’t having any sex at all. In fact, I know that some aren’t — because I’m not. 

A 2015 survey conducted by The Cut in partnership with SurveyMonkey revealed that of 784 polled students at different American universities, 40 per cent hadn’t had sex. Despite the solace that this statistic provides me, it doesn’t lessen the feeling that my name on this article’s byline is like my own bloodless version of a virginal sacrifice. Though why is it that I should be embarrassed at all?

To be fair, no one wants to be called a ‘virgin’ — even I flinch at the utterance of that Biblically-coded word. It’s understandable; it comes with the burden of accompanying assumptions. But spare me the unrealistic image in your mind’s eye — I do not wear a chastity belt, thank you very much. I’m just someone who’s chosen not to partake in an act that seems to be everywhere. And it is: it’s in the lyrics of your favourite songs; it’s in the first fifteen minutes of the latest blockbuster release; it’s even in the free condoms handed out to promote events in St Andrews. I’m not demeaning the benevolent intentions behind these gestures, but they do suggest that sex is as expected a ritual as taking supplemental vitamins. 

I’m also not ignorant of the obvious double standard of virginity. For girls, it’s a status symbol akin to being the angel atop the Christmas tree, but for guys, it’s a roadblock to overcome by deploying a ripping-off-the-plaster mentality. When I tell my female friends about my sex life (or the lack thereof) I’m met with immediate praise. But is it really a triumph of will that I can bid my 601 snog goodnight rather than accepting the invitation back to his place? And even if I did choose to do so, what about the subsequent triumph of will that it requires to cast aside the doe-eyed, chauvinist image of what a woman ought to be? As that old saying goes, you’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t — so why give a damn at all? 

Of course, it’s easier said than done, and by virtue of the fact that I’m still in possession of mine, I obviously do give a bit of a damn myself. As confident as I may seem in writing this, I often spiral: I worry that I’m running out of time, that I’ll disappoint whoever I choose to eventually have sex with, and that I’m anti-feminist. And usually, I know better than to give these anxiety-induced ideas much thought. I guess you could say that the white-knuckle grip that I have on my sexlessness is nothing compared to the one that these stereotypes have on me. And once I do have sex, I’m certain that I’ll be bombarded by an entirely new wave of unrealistic, societally-motivated thoughts — maybe I just can’t control them. What I can control, however, is my choice to have (or not to have) sex. My virginity is mine for the taking, social construct and all. 

Please do not mistake this reflection for self-righteousness. If anything, I wish I didn’t care so much. I wish I was ready to just get it over with — but I’m not. Who knows when I will be. I am sure of one thing, though — that whether it happens a month from now, or at some point in the future when I’m comfortably living in a nursing home, it’ll be my choice, on my terms, and more importantly, my business. In the meantime, I guess I should take a page out of my own book and (quite literally) not give a f***. 

Image from Wikimedia Commons