Free The V-Word by Amber J. Keyser Page B

physical reaction that surprises us with its ferocity.
    Just as we go through phases where we feel more or less sexual, we can also experience fluid patterns of attraction that change throughout our lives. In the next story, Sara shares how a growing understanding of her sexual identity influences how she views the world and her place in it.

Over and over in these essays we see women striving to understand themselves, to explore their sexual selves, and to find their own truth. Up until now, we’ve heard from women who do not question their womanness.
    But just as sexual orientation can be fluid, so can gender.
    Gender identity goes beyond the physical. It’s the way we perceive ourselves on a spectrum from maleness to femaleness.
    When gender—the truth of how we view ourselves—does not map to physical traits, the task of coming into our own as sexual beings can be much more challenging, as you’ll see in Alex’s story.

11
Iterum Vivere , to Live Anew
Alex Meeks
    I lost my virginity eight years after the first time I had consensual intercourse.
    I know this flies in the face of everything we learn about the meaning of virginity. It’s not supposed to be a lizard’s tail, regenerating once it’s gone. But the real world doesn’t always fit into neatly defined boxes. Our lives and experiences don’t always follow the rules.
    I grew up in Appalachia in a double-wide trailer in the woods surrounded by farmland. My childhood was, for the most part, unremarkable. My father worked long hours doing hard physical labor. My mother was a part-time beautician and full-time mother of three. My brothers and I spent the days exploring our vast deciduous playground. I would come inside after a long day of hard play, bruised and scraped and dirty. Looking back, I suppose I could call myself a tomboy. But in those days I was just a little boy, no “tom” needed.
    I knew from an early age that I was somehow different from all the other little boys. I liked my hair long. I colored my fingernails with markers, which the teacher always made me wash off. I played the flute, loved to bake and sew, and preferred cats over dogs—things that shouldn’t be gendered but are in small towns across America. My nightly prayers always included a plea to God that I would wake up a girl.
    I rarely had any interest in school yard romance. When I did it was because I thought I was supposed to, not because I really wanted to. As my classmates and I grew older, shows of romantic longing seemed to become compulsory. And as high school approached it became very clear that if I didn’t show interest in finding a girlfriend, something was wrong with me. I knew I wasn’t like my peers but I tried my best to keep them from seeing that. I found a date to my eighth grade promotion dance, held in our school cafeteria. I played the part. I gave my date a wrist corsage, walked into the dance with linked arms, slow-danced to the best country music of the late 1990s. I kept my hands well above my date’s hips and danced just close enough to her not to arouse any suspicion that I didn’t really want to be there. But it felt all wrong.
    Then came high school. Suddenly most of the other boys were participating in a race to have sex. I found a girlfriend and convinced myself that I loved her. We spent long hours on the marching band bus holding hands, cuddling close. Eventually that led to making out on the dark trips home, hiding our heads from the chaperones as best we could. We progressed to awkward groping, exploring each other’s bodies under the cover of a Marching Warriors blanket. Our relationship lasted the length of my sophomore marching band season before we broke up. She claimed that she wasn’t ready to have a boyfriend and that we were moving too fast. I pretended to be heartbroken but in reality felt relief.
    Our breakup lasted until the next fall. After a long trip home from a