In case you hadn’t noticed, this is going to be an intensely personal blog post.
I’ll just kick it off with the juicy stuff so you don’t have to wait around: I haven’t had sexual intercourse in almost four years. Now, this is not to say I haven’t done anything I wouldn’t do if Jesus were in the room. I am not perfect. But for the past three and a half years, in the ball park of my love life, there have been no home runs.
I admit I am not a virgin. I am also not sexually repressed. I am not, like the virgin adult character on “Glee,” a frigid obsessive-compulsive with serious psychological problems. I am also not, as far as I know, completely repulsive, although if there’s one thing I’ve learned from observing the world around me, it’s that if you are female, it doesn’t matter what you look like; somebody thinks you are juuuust fine, and that somebody probably has an ad on Craigslist right now.
I simply made a choice, for ethical, moral, and religious reasons, not to engage in baby-making activities, and I have stuck to that decision for well over three years.
You are probably asking yourself, “Self, why on earth is she telling me this?”