A year ago today, I composed my inaugural blog post, clad only in my favorite lingerie, with a fuzzy blanket wrapped around me. As I write my sixtieth post, I’m completely naked in bed, the same set of French lingerie somewhere on the floor from when the boyfriend removed it last night. I’m back in the same city where my blog was born, but instead of being a few weeks away from the end of my internship, I’m starting the next chapter of my life. Moving here is my last big move, until either the boyfriend & I get married (fingers crossed!) or until I move back to France to recover from my heartbreak (not bad for a contingency plan, right?).
It’s been a good year for Confessions of a Virgin.
I wrote a guest post for Therese at How to Lose Your Virginity… and then the boyfriend & I ended up doing an interview for her documentary.
I wrote an article under my own name at Curvy Girl Guide after having connected with Meredith on twitter as @belle_vierge.
I’ve made some blogger friends, like Lauren at Our Crazy Ever After and Ashley at Chickadette. I’ve made some twitter friends, like my #bookends, @MrsJGatsby and @theycallmeivy. I’ve even made some twitter/blog crossover friends, like @Classy_in_KC
I joined Twithouse, a twitter organization of ambitious co-ed and post-grad women. Even after the recent scandal, I’m still proud to be a member, and I still love the other women in the group.
I’ve received comments, emails, and DMs from virgins who relate to my posts. I’ve received comments, emails, and DMs from non-virgins who have admitted my blog has changed their perspective on virgins and virginity.
My pseudo-anonymous identity has given me the freedom to be raw and honest. To admit I’m a sexual being, even if I’m not engaging in coitus. To share my thoughts on sex and virginity. To write without fear of judgment. To open up about my sexual assaults. To advocate for women’s rights.
Writing a (mostly) anonymous blog has resulted in some of the most personal writing I’ve ever done. It’s so much realer than any of my previous work.
And yet it has only been a half-truth, at best.
May 4, 2011, I sat in a train station in London with my best friend Mark,* as we waited for our train to take us back to Paris. At this point, he and I had already had many heart-to-hearts, not just in our few days together in Europe, but over the course of three years of best-friendship.
In that moment, for whatever reason, my last deep, dark secret spilled out.
Something I had kept buried since I was 17.
A secret I just pretended didn’t exist.
I guess after two years in France, during which I changed more than I did in eight years of high school and university, I couldn’t lie anymore. At least, not to Mark.
Over the past year, I’ve told my cousin/best friend Nick, my best friends Rose, Lauren, Hardy, James, Ali, Jane, Christa, Brittany, and Sarah. Annnnnnd I think that’s it. Oh, and Ron, the guy I sorta dated in France.*
That’s it.
Until now.
Because I’m tired of hiding. Telling half-truths. Worrying. Denying who I am.
I’m bisexual.
And my family will probably never know.
“I’m also a unicorn. Or maybe a bicorn … Anyway, I’m starting to believe in my own magic.” —Brittany, Glee
I end up in tears at least once every time I go home. Somehow homosexuality or bisexuality or gay marriage or whatever comes up when I’m home. I’m from a highly-educated, very passionate, sorta southern family, and we enjoy discussing politics, literature, current events, religion, films, everything.
Too bad both my mother and kid brother have explicitly said they don’t believe bisexuality is real.
Too bad my father and kid brother have only recently come to terms with same-sex marriages being okay.
Too bad my home church denomination has recently reaffirmed its stance that marriage is between one man and one woman.
Too bad I can’t trust my twin brother with a secret to save my life. At least he’s totally accepting of all sexualities, to the best of my knowledge.
A few weeks ago, we were discussing my church’s recent statements, not just on marriage, but also on the Bible. My parents both kept interrupting me, and I raised my voice to be heard, and my mother told me not to yell. I stormed off to my room and promptly burst into tears.
I know they all think I overreacted.
I don’t give a fuck.
I have the good fortune of being in love with a man who is everything I ever wanted and more.
It doesn’t erase the doubt deep down that if I had brought home a woman, my family wouldn’t accept me anymore.
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| A well-timed confession via postsecret.com |
So I’m anonymous. Mostly. I think about twenty of my friends IRL now know about my blog. Friends I trust knowing the most intimate details of my life. I’m sure these friends also know that if they ever out me to anyone from high school, or university, or basically anyone in the South, we will never speak again. But if I thought there was a chance of them doing that, I never would have sent them the link to my blog. I know all my secrets are safe with them.
It’s been a good year for Confessions of a Virgin. I’m looking forward to an even better second year, a more honest year.
Bisous.