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I wouldn't be the first person who gained a complex view of female sexuality from attending a Catholic elementary school. There was a day, a first-Friday-of-the-month obligatory mass, in which a reading discussed the significance of Mary's virginity and my year-old self distinctly thought, Nah. I wasn't even sure I'd really enjoyed a sexual thought yetβ Cruel Intentions was months away from being releasedβbut even then, sex seemed interesting.
It sounded fun and exciting. I decided then that I wasn't going to wait until marriage. In the interim years, I've developed a sturdy appreciation for sex. I've been extremely lucky that no one has ever violated this precious room, never assaulted or intruded or burglarized my sexuality. So I've managed to create a life that, at 29, is really full of what I consider the good stuff: fulfilling work and supportive friends and enough money, food, and shelter for myself in New York City!
But for the last few years, that life hasn't included regular sex. Several semi-promising relationships lost their promise, leaving me with that other option, casual sex.
And it seems I'm bad at casual sex. I see these modern, happy, independent womenβin pop culture, yeah, but also in my circle of friends and colleaguesβwho can lock in a person to end the night with, whether at a bar or a wedding or scheduled with impressive precision after an evening of work events. And every week brings some analysis of how college girls are loving hookup culture on campuses or how Tinder has transformed our access to sex or how millennials as a group want to forgo relationships entirely.
Yet it's not cultural peer pressure driving this demand. I actually do want casual sex. I want to be able to do that. Why can't I do that? I've tried. I've pursued the guy at 1 A. In those instances, I got what I wanted, or rather, I got the minimum of what I wanted, which was penetrative heterosexual intercourse.