If I could cast the perfect spell, I would be a virgin again … not born again, but a virgin as if I was just released from the jaws of my mother’s womb. Right now, at this moment in time, I want to close my eyes (envisioning life in its purest form) , tap my red sequined kitty kat heels (like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz), clap my hands (giving myself a round of applause), and spin around (like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music). The perfect spell would cause a vaginal resurrection and would restore my virginity. My “purse of valued jewels” is worth more than any Louis Vuitton, Hermes, Lana Marks, or Chanel handbag. I want to be a virtuous virgin. I want to be made whole again.
Losing your virginity to a person who doesn’t respect you or robs you of your “purse” is like decreasing your value as a woman … each time you play around with boys with no penis control your vagina deprecates. Men stimulate you mentally … penetrating your mind (often causing an inner orgasmic rush) without touching you physically. They feed your spiritual self with talks of nature and the universe (causing quite a connection). They adorn your psyche with acts of love, kindness, and acceptance (his/your/their actions will speak louder than any word ever spoken or unspoken). He complements your life … adding a tad bit more flair or flavor to your “recipe for living.”
I wish I could travel back to the past … back to my very first time. I would have celebrated the “break of my hymen” or the “pop of my sweet, juicy cherry” a little differently. I would’ve been a little older, a lot more experienced with masturbation (knowing what I wanted or what I needed to feel fulfilled), a little less skeptical, a lot more trusting, a lot less envious, a little more resilient, a lot less aggravated, a lot less emotional, a little more patient, and a lot less sheltered.
As I reminisce on what was, I’m envisioning my eight year old self standing in front of my family’s large tube television (that stood like a soldier in the middle of our den-so erect and at attention) with a warm straightening comb (don’t ask any questions). I recall flipping through the channels and discovering Madonna’s Like a Virgin on MTV. I remember clearing my throat, holding the straightening comb up toward my mouth (trying not to burn the shit out of my bottom lip), and singing my little heart out … “Like a Virgin, Touched for the very first time … Like Vir … ir …ir… ir …gen … With your heartbeat next to mine.”
If I only had to chant “I want to be like a virgin,” “I want to be like a virgin,” “I want to be like a virgin” … I would take my place on the bed sitting indian style with my eyes closed, my forearm extended, and my palms facing up (displaying a right side up “ok” hand gesture). I would allow the universe to restore my virginity.
It’s no lie, I want to be like a virgin again.