Anxiety? Awkwardness? Asexuality? Tales of a Twenty-Six-Year-Old Virgin

By Nadine Florence Mary Blades

I have a confession to make. Well, more of a truth to share. I am over the age of twenty-five and still a virgin. Comically, my middle name is Mary, like the Virgin. Why you may ask, does a relatively attractive woman have a problem getting someone in the bedroom?

Firstly, I always feel the need to tell potential partners on first dates that I am a virgin. Literally, I blurt out, ‘I am a virgin. Is that ok?’ Cue internal facepalm. This may seem like benign behaviour, but it is one that follows me through all potentially romantic interactions with the opposite sex. I say it to distance myself from them, even those who are turned on – especially those who are turned on – by my virgin status.

I have general anxiety and depression. Since age sixteen, it has affected many areas of my life, namely my social life and particularly my romantic life, which is non-existent. I have always observed that male virginity is seen as something to lose as young as legally possible. However, female sexuality is often condemned or ignored, potentially left to rot like an apple on a shelf like mine.

Consequently, my most impactful frame of reference about a woman’s worth and sexual life for years was fictional. In Jane Austen’s novels, women often felt obligated to marry as young as possible. In the twenty-first century, as a woman, I feel this anxiety in the form of embarrassment for being a virgin. In an increasingly sex and cohabitation-orientated world, I am essentially over the hill regarding what matters today; I have questioned how I can feel accepted when there are many jokes and comments about older virgins being a red flag.

Many times, I have felt the eyes of acquaintances wonder why I am still a virgin, and wonder what my sexual orientation is, which in turn has made me question my own sexuality. I would ask myself: how would you know whether you like women? I would juxtapose this with the fact that I have not kissed a man more than three times in my life. Virginity has been a confusing concept for me to navigate in its entirety, especially considering the patronising and contradictory views still echoing in society.

Another obstacle is that it is common for me to be mistaken for being four or more years younger than my real age. This makes approaching men my own age feel awkward and challenging. How I am perceived physically has made me feel like I have no sex appeal; when I dress in a way considered feminine, I cringe at myself because I feel like a friendly, child-like clown in a skirt.

On the other hand, I can feel my body maturing and slowly becoming old. I feel anxiety about this indecent fact: society still views a virgin to be a young person, namely a young girl, which I am not. I wrestle with impolite questions that I ask myself. Are my breasts still perky enough? Is my vulva, that no man has seen yet, ‘normal’ or not? It is questions like the latter that stop me in my self-destructive tracks. My self-image should not be defined by what men might hypothetically think or feel, but especially about something as personal as my body.

I own it, I know it intimately, and I decide its worth regardless of whether I am a virgin or not. Nevertheless, I remain apprehensive and honestly nihilistic about the potential outcomes of future sexual experiences. Perhaps a hangover from being a Pentecostal Christian by personal choice in my later teens, I believe sex should involve mutual respect and deep love. As an agnostic atheist now, I think this still applies. I am fearful of unfulfilling, confidence-destroying and soul-destroying experiences.

The first step to overcoming these fears is to admit, in some sense, that I believe my virginity is a selling point in romantic situations and that it protects me. It is relatively unique for an adult to be a virgin, which sometimes makes me feel special. Sad, right? I recognise that I do not belong in a binary of young virgins opposite experienced adults. However, there are sexually active adolescents and they are more normalised in television shows, so the whole adult virginity does make me feel like the ultimate other in this case.

For quite some time, I thought that I might be asexual. My reservations about the superficial process of dating, with its temporary thrills and cumbersome expectations of self-confidence and participation, read grotesque to me. For instance, on my first real date with a guy I met online in 2022, as I was mentally preoccupied with my meandering questions to myself, I was shocked when he suddenly tried to stick his tongue down my throat.

Experiences like this, dealing with issues of consent, forced me to reconsider how I speak to myself. I berate, violate, manipulate and underestimate myself more than others do to me. Essentially, what we all have in common is our need to love ourselves: a consensual and natural endeavour. I recently dyed my hair a bright red, displaying my fiery, powerful side.

I need to value my own gaze, not the male or female gaze. The diversity of virgins in age, race, gender, sexual orientation, religious identity, social-economic status and personality has made me feel more in control of my unique body, mind, and sexuality; I am my own virgin goddess, which ironically humanises me.