a virgin who can drive, or: hail mary, full of grace
if you want to get archaic
i lost it to freeze tag,
my broken hymen
a small pink stain in my underwear afterwards.
my siblings say
it’s cowardly for a man to ask to kiss me.
the only way a man is ever going to kiss me
is with my permission.
a man sits down next to me in the cafeteria,
where i’m eating my lunch before class.
we have bio together,
and he seems safe enough.
for some reason, he mentions weed.
i wouldn’t know.
“you’ve really never gotten high?
not even at a party?”
“what are you, a virgin?”
he thinks i’m older than i am.
it’s not meant to be inappropriate,
just a joke.
i am angry, but i also
tend to freeze, stammer,
act like i’m not the joke he just made.
i likely will always be,
the way he means it.
virgin is a dirty word.
virgin is for boring drinks without alcohol,
for women who don’t smoke weed,
who don’t want to indulge in the same things everyone else does.
the thing is:
i have never actually wanted to have sex
in the mechanical sense:
insert tab A into slot B.
the only way i have ever wanted to have sex
is in the technical sense,
as a dominant.
no black leather for me,
waiting for permission,
all for me.
there are many kinds of sex
that do not involve the
skin on skin
naked and exposed
that i recoil from.
i wouldn’t call myself a virgin
once i’ve made a man wait for my permission,
bound him with silk and hemp,
extracted tears and begging
from eyes and mouth.
isn’t trust more intimate than anything else we can give?