First Person: Dana"I knew what to expect–that I would get on that plane at the end of the weekend and go."

This week's First Person interview comes from 26-year-old Dana, who wrote us a while back about being a virgin – and recently let us know that she was one no more. So, we invited her to do a First Person for us about it. Please send us an email if you'd like to tell your story.

Tell us about yourself:
I'm a 26-year-old straight female. I grew up in a liberal household, with an ex-hippie, onetime sex educator, feminist mom. No religious or social taboos about sex to be found. The general attitude about sex was just: be safe and do it with someone you care about.

What is your definition of virginity?
This is a complicated question, because for people of different orientations, with different options for sex, it means different things. For me, as a heterosexual female, it's penetration. I think that oral sex is still "sex," but especially as a woman with the potential first-time pain that comes along with vaginal intercourse, the sort of trust that requires, virginity is for me about intercourse.

Why did you decide to stay a virgin?
It's funny - my first response is "Oh, no, it was not my choice!" I never wanted to be a virgin through my mid-twenties. I did have chances to have sex in college and after that I didn't go for because I wasn't ready, either for sex in general or sex with that person. For a long while I wanted to lose my virginity in the context of a serious, committed relationship and I have dated people, but nothing serious or long-term. At some point I decided I didn't need a boyfriend to lose my virginity, but it still took a while to find the right person and situation. (I think actually finding the right person outside of that framework - as in, not my boyfriend - may have been what changed my mind about that.)

When did you lose your virginity?
A few months ago, at the ripe old age of 26 I spent a night with a guy I'd briefly dated a couple of years ago. Just after we'd gone out on a couple of dates, he'd moved to another town, but now almost two years later, he was here for a weekend for work. I still felt very comfortable with him, loved spending time with him, and trusted him. We didn't have intercourse, but we went farther than I'd gone sexually before. He said something about "You should come visit me in my town," and sure enough, my job took me there for a weekend a few months later. We agreed I'd stay at his place. I was nervous and also somewhat on a mission.

I got a lot of good, thoughtful advice from Scarleteen. Although I'm about ten years out of their target demographic, it was really helpful to read other people's experiences of losing their virginity. I don't talk about sex much with my friends, and definitely not about my insecurities about being a virgin in my mid-twenties. Hearing from women who ended up waiting and were totally fine–socially-adjusted, sexy, smart–was great. One thing I read was that you should tell your partner that you're a virgin in the interest of openness. If it's your first time, you want the guy to be a little more... gentle than he might otherwise be. So I decided he needed to know.

On my second night with this guy, in the middle of fooling around, I told him. Or rather, I stopped what we were doing, and sat there for about five minutes trying to get the words out of my mouth. I really hate the the phrase "I'm a virgin"–it makes it seem like virginity is your defining characteristic. I'm a person who happens to not have had sex. I finally got the words out (I think it was "I haven't had sex before") and we talked a lot about it. He was a remarkably sweet, open, communicative person–my instinct that I could trust him was right. And then, well, you get the idea.

He was concerned that it wouldn't be good for me to lose my virginity to someone I wouldn't get to see or date, that it would set me up to be hurt. But the fact is, and I told him this, a boyfriend who lives in your town can hurt you, too, and this way I knew what to expect - that I would get on that plane at the end of the weekend and go. It didn't have to be a bigger deal than that. Do I sometimes now feel really, really sad that we don't live in the same town? Yes. Would I miss him less if we hadn't had intercourse? No. The intimacy was already there. This was just another aspect of it.

I wondered if I'd feel different afterwards, like something major about me had changed, and for the most part I don't. Having sex was just another step along the gradual slope of sexual experience. This was just the one where you really ought to tell someone that what you're doing is new. I do feel freer now to pursue sex–now that there's no big-deal disclosure necessary beforehand–so I want to go out there, find people I like, and have sex with them and enjoy myself. That's my mission now.