“I was a late bloomer, and only had my first official boyfriend at the age of 20. He was 22. We met in university. We were both virgins, so neither of us wanted to rush sex. During one of those study sessions, we started making out very heatedly, and before we knew it, our clothes were off and caution was thrown out the window. It was lightning fast and over before we knew it, or knew how to stop it. It was a frazzled, harrowing experience as his parents were home. Also, he didn’t have an attached bathroom and I had bled onto his sheets.
Do I regret it? Only that we were not prepared, and so neither condoms nor birth control were used (it’s very important to have condoms because STIs are real and scary). It also put undue pressure on us to stay together because we both took each other’s virginity, and so there was this expectation that we would be each other’s “The One” and would live happily ever after, forever. The relationship ended much later than it should have, and it did not end well. Thinking back, he was sweet after the deed — as sweet and concerned as any decent boy should be after popping your cherry. But as with all jerks, the niceness ran out once they’ve gotten tired of you. Or start cheating behind your back.
Am I bitter? I can say with confidence: not anymore. I’ve realised I enjoy sex and am quite good at it (verbal confirmation has been obtained), and it wouldn’t have happened without him. Also, he’s taught me to look out for and recognise red flags and warning signs early in a relationship. But as for advice my naggy soon-to-be-30-yearold self would dish out, it’s to always, always, always use protection. And to be prepared.”