I am now fifteen years old. Which is kind of an awesome age. It’s the first age that I truly feel secure with who I am and what my purpose in life is.
Thirteen and fourteen were generally sucky for me. That was partly my fault, no doubt, and there was constant angst and anxiety. And my circumstances supported instability. My parents literally went to court and divorced the day after my thirteenth birthday. Then I was in the path for an unending stream of events, including custody battles, a new school, mom struggling to find a good job, new friends, new crushes, new feelings, and in general, confusion.
Now, I hope you can see that this was an extremely volatile period in my life. I was learning more about the world and about myself, and please be patient with me, I will get to my point.
Sex. I suppose nearly every teenager of that age is fascinated by that once-forbidden subject, which is now so glorified in the media, and so hushed up at home. And now boys were so much more interesting; the knowledge that they are so fundamentally different from yourself was enough to have you pondering for days.
Of course I went a little boy-crazy in middle school. And since I go to a tiny school where all ages are kind of lumped in together, of course in the Spring of 2015 I fell in love with an attractive, older, insecure, manipulative guy, right? Ugh. Let’s not go into that.
Anyway, now that my life and priorities have somewhat leveled out, I can honestly say that the idea of sex isn’t really appealing to me. I am not asexual, and I do experience attraction, but I don’t particularly care if nothing happens beyond that. Sex is weird.
If I marry, than of course I’ll have sex. I’m sure it will be delightful, if other people’s descriptions carry truth. But I don’t look forward to it; I am not so perpetually fascinated by the secrets of the bedroom as I once was. And I think that’s okay.