Precious Am I Not
Short chapters. I make no promises for a happy ending.
WARNING: this is gonna hurt.
Precious Am I Not
Something everyone will experience; if they haven't already.
It's treated as casual by some, and an eye-opener to others.
The older I get, the more I notice there are only really two kinds of people in the world. People who have sex, and the people who never have.
Obviously, in this day and age, there's more of the first kind than the second. So, basically there's only one type of person. Sex-Havers.
And there's the category that I personally place myself in, but I don't count it as a real "kind" of person. There are so few of my kind that I feel I am "The Last Unicorn", as the Sex-Havers like to joke.
Tonight, after nearly seven straight months of being hole-up in my house, and never veering from my routine of:
Med school classes in the morning.
Unpaid internship at the hospital after class.
To my real job as an office secretary; where I actually get money after my internship.
And straight home again; where I live as a recluse in pure, solitary, solitude.
A few of my Sex-Having med-school classmates somehow managed to lure me out of my home to have a few rounds of drinks with them.
I go, so they won't think I story bodies in my freezer, and because I know I need to be around people more often. Even though it causes great anxiety to stir in my system to be in overly crowded areas.
The problem is, the Sex-Havers like to joke about sex. A majority of sex jokes I get, because yes, I live under a rock, but I still have the internet at home. I know things.
The guys complain about times when they've had one-night stands or girlfriends that wanted them to wear condoms while they drink their beers, and the women describe in detail how much better it feels when a guy doesn't wear a rubber.
I laugh and bob my head while I sip my cocktail with them and pretend I know the real physical difference between "bare-back" verses wearing a condom with a guy. But in all honestly, I haven't the slightest damn clue.
The people I'm with tonight don't know how "The 40 Year Old Virgin" is possible.
What they don't realize is that they're sitting with a "Little Over Half Way There Virgin".
I'm 24, in Med-school with these Sex-Havers, and I'm a virgin.
Call me stupid, but I still believe that I'll be swept romantically off my feet one day.
All offers of sex have been made drunkenly in bars by blurry-eyed men.
As much as I'd like to have sex and finally know what it's like, I know I deserve better than a meaningless screw by a sweaty drunk.
Being a recluse wasn't a choice, but it just happened.
With that, comes great barriers, walls that were built over time, too much time spent alone for far too long.
An unfounded reason for distrust in people was formed.
And herein, my problems lie.