“So, when was the last time you had sex? With a man?” asked John. 

We were nearing the end of our first date. My legs kept moving forward like a windup toy as we strolled, hand-in-hand, past the closed shop signs and illuminated wet patches of sidewalk. All other pedestrians were either occupying bar stools or had gone home. I breathed in the damp, still night and plastered my face with indifference, but my mind kept screaming.

First, why on earth did he add “with a man”? Did he want me to clarify my identity? Did he need to know that I would be able to take care of his specific needs?

Second, why was I still walking with him and holding his hand as if all first dates naturally led to this one question? Why couldn’t my body move any other way, like kicking his shin or scoffing or even laughing? 

Third, how would he react if I told him the truth—that at 29 years old, I was still a virgin. Granted, not as pure as the new fallen snow. But still, technically, a virgin. As the moments ticked by, my vagina’s echos grew louder. Surely he could hear that, right? My vagina was trying to sell me out, frustrated about its neglect. 

Certainly if I told this man the truth—with his seductive European accent, thick chain necklace, slicked back hair, and sexual hip swagger—he would call me a child or think I’m defective. I sure felt that way. 

Guess how many U.S. women are still virgins at 29 years old? Less than 5 percent, according to CDC data. That’s right, folks. I was an anomaly, and not a world-saving Matrix-like “the one” type of anomaly. 

Some people may have labeled me as picky, high maintenance, or as having unrealistic expectations. My mom certainly liked to remind me that I wasn’t aging backwards: “God, I hope the right person for you has been born already.” But I didn’t enter my 20s with the goal of remaining a virgin; I just hadn’t fallen in love yet. 

As I progressed further into my 20s, I quickly gave up the rosy, romantic fantasies of my childhood, when I used to place my hand on the empty pillow beside mine and imagine my soulmate doing the same, longing for me the way I longed for him. When feeling lonely, I imagined him holding me close and telling me everything would be okay, that he’d find me soon, that we’d face life together. 

I used to remind myself that every step I took brought me closer to him. Even though I didn’t know the date on which the countdown would end, we were still moving toward each other, weaving our way through college and job applications and across states until one day our eyes would meet and our life's journey would merge. I never dared to imagine his face, but I did name him David. 

So Disney of me. So Anne with an “E.” 

I quickly gave up the rosy, romantic fantasies of my childhood, when I used to place my hand on the empty pillow beside mine and imagine my soulmate doing the same, longing for me the way I longed for him.

For almost a decade, I had tried Match and eHarmony and some other service with a fish theme—more than once. And as 30 approached, I’d had so many first and even second dates that I knew precisely what I didn’t want in a partner. For example: 

• The guy who complained about his dad yelling at him to get a job and stop playing video games all day in the basement taught me that I didn’t want someone who lacked ambition and didn’t know how to take care of himself. 

• The several guys who admired my travels abroad and stated their wish to do the same only to laugh at my suggestion that they just order a passport and book a flight taught me that I didn’t want a dreamer who never took action. 

• The guy who bragged about buying a house the month before our first date taught me that I didn’t want someone who removed the possibilities we could discover together. 

• The guy whose face turned holly berry red as he about-faced and scurried away when I pretended to climb into a Power Wheels car at Toys R Us to heal an unfulfilled childhood dream taught me that I didn’t want someone who couldn’t relax and embrace the silly side of life. (As if I could really drive that car around the store and get away with it….)

• And John, oh, John taught me that I didn’t want someone who ordered my food, who disregarded my movie suggestions, who disappeared before our turn to purchase tickets so that I was forced to pay—before I could even offer, who sneered at the Irish pub and live music I relished, and who stared doe-eyed at me all night long while I asked various get-to-know-you questions that yielded nothing more than single-sentence answers. 

Was I really too picky? Were my expectations too high? I wasn’t looking for Mr. Dacry or a Sindar Elf, nor did I want a six-pack or a millionaire or any other definition of perfection.

I just wanted someone who could equally enjoy Shakespearean plays and MCU blockbusters; deep philosophical conversations and LEGO Harry Potter video games; and ridiculously expensive sushi at a high-end restaurant as well as several pints of Guinness at ShamrockFest while scream-singing with Gaelic Storm. More than anything, I wanted someone who could see my potential and support my goals and who had goals of his own that he actually worked toward. That’s not asking for too much, right? 

Did he think he’d fix my “problem,” that I was desperate to jump in the back of Greece Lighting and scream with relief that I was no longer an anomaly? 

Yet there I was, again, walking next to someone who couldn’t see me. Ready to end this night, I decided to respond to his question with equal boldness. “I haven’t. Not yet.”

I waited for him to release my hand and say goodnight. Instead, he asked why. Had we reached a turning point? Had I judged him too soon? 

“I haven’t found the right person yet.” 

He nodded. 

I exhaled. 

Then he said, “Too bad my apartment is 40 minutes away. I’d love to take you there. You know, my car is just around the corner.” 

I shouldn’t have doubted myself. 

Did he think he’d fix my “problem,” that I was desperate to jump in the back of Greece Lighting and scream with relief that I was no longer an anomaly? 

I stayed quiet as we walked toward my car. I didn’t fault him for wanting sex on a first date. Two compatible people who mutually delight in that level of physical intimacy on a first date can certainly build a lasting relationship together. I, however, have never been that type of person.

Therefore, as much as John wasn’t right for me, I wasn’t right for him. Rather than dubbing myself picky, I chose to view my self-realization as a kindness. I spared us both from trying to remodel ourselves into the person we thought the other would want. And I refused to force something to work because I feared becoming a 30-year-old virgin. 

I spared us both from trying to remodel ourselves into the person we thought the other would want. And I refused to force something to work because I feared becoming a 30-year-old virgin.

Thus, I tugged my hand free and turned to say goodbye. As John leaned forward and tilted his head, I placed my hand firmly on his chest, stopping him just short of my lips. 

“Goodnight, John,” I said firmly, then turned around and never looked back. My vagina and I wanted more. And we were willing to wait, even though I loathed feeling invisible and sometimes even unlovable. 

Call me picky. Call me high maintenance. Call me a prude. It’s okay. At 29 years old, I’d just had the worst date of my life. 

The next day, I begrudgingly signed back into eHarmony and messaged someone new. I had no idea I had just taken the final step that led me to my husband, whose name just happens to be David. 

Oh, in case you’re wondering… No, we did not wait until our wedding night.

Featured photo by Deon Black on Unsplash.

Note: I changed John's name to protect his identity.

About writing this article:

Hey, friends! For those of you who don't know, Thursday evenings at 8 p.m. EST I read some of my work via Facebook Lives, where I also chat a bit about my writing process. And during this reading's Facebook live video, I shared a writing tip that I often tell my students during my Let's Get Started Writing Workshop: Write your first drafts like you're talking to your best friend, and that's exactly how I wrote this article. I've shared this story with my best friends several times, and I now I'm sharing it with the world. I hope you found it entertaining and encouraging.