Opinionator | Private Lives: Does My Virginity Have a Shelf Life?

Private Lives: Personal essays on the news of the world and the news of our lives.

BOULDER, Colo. — When I was 20, one of my close friends was killed in a car crash. At the funeral, as I watched her coffin carried down the aisle, another friend leaned over to whisper: "At least she wasn't a virgin."

I had to think about it. How disappointed would I be to die without ever having had sex? I figured it would be a unique experience lost, but there are lots of experiences people miss out on. And I, for one, wasn't going to let the fear of death scare me into having sex. I knew I would much rather endure the pain of missing out than suffer the deeper loneliness of having given myself out of love only to realize that the feeling wasn't reciprocated.

That was 15 years ago.

Today I'm the token virgin in my group. Friends who happily have sex with men they don't love are adamant that I hold out for "the one." Being a virgin has become such a part of my identity, that I find myself living up to friends' expectations on top of my own.

I'm not a prude. In fact, I might be a candidate for a Guinness World Record: virgin who has come close to having sex the most times.

I like being naked with boyfriends. I've happily taken on a dominatrix role and men have enjoyed it. I once answered a booty call from an Ironman world champion at his hotel room (purposefully leaving the door cracked in case I needed to yell for help). When the champion informed me that I had not "finished the job," I told him that, considering his world title, he could finish the job himself. I left feeling empowered.

Some feminists might fault me for not having exercised my right to sexuality. However, I was willing to give up a certain sense of pleasure to avoid feelings I feared: betrayal, emptiness, the loss of dignity and control. I was inspired by the Greek women led by Lysistrata, in the ancient play, who refused sex until the men of the city promised to end the Peloponnesian War. I was trying to avoid an emotional battle.

But at the same time, I have doubts. I have given up opportunities to have sex with men whom I had incredible chemistry with, and some whom I loved.

One friend, who did "save herself" for marriage, has argued that my virgin status is not 100 percent pure.

"If you've had an orgasm, you are not a virgin," she said.

"Dang," I thought, "I should've gone ahead with sex years ago! Have I been wasting my time?" Was I like those Italian companies recently called out for faking extra-virgin olive oil?

"What's a virgin?" I asked my female Saudi students during a recent women's lunch hour at the English school where I work. "An unmarried woman," one of them confidently answered. In other societies, the word doesn't even exist. Waiting to have sex with one man would be considered being stingy with your sexuality, which is something to be shared with the community. What is natural and healthy for one culture is unnatural and unhealthy for another.

"My mom found her true love when she was 52," a friend recently told me, in a poor attempt at encouragement. I didn't want to wait until I was 50 to finally have sex! Worse, what if Superman had already passed me by, and was already a speck on the horizon?

I have always been a saver. When I was a child, I saved my Halloween and Easter candy for over a year. By the time I finally took a bite, the candy was hard and stale. I still have gift cards that are over eight years old. By the time I get around to using them, I realize they've already expired. My fridge is full of exotic jams, untouched and unsavored but certainly spoiled. Full bottles of French perfume decorate my dresser, their fragrance fading every year.

Is the same thing going to happen to me? What is the shelf life of virginity?

Of the men I've had opportunities to have sex with, there were only two that I halfway regret passing up: the soldier and the painter.

Nine years ago, I flew to Paris for Labor Day weekend to meet a soldier with whom I had only exchanged letters, emails and a few short phone conversations. After that weekend, we continued to meet and fell in love, but a series of long deployments over a couple of years kept us from having sex. Distance and time, like moths in an unworn sweater, wore holes in the relationship, until it unraveled. I save his love letters in a drawer along with my fading regrets.

Two years ago, I flew to Chicago to be painted nude by an ex-boyfriend who is an artist. The weekend was richly romantic and sexual, but masochistic in so many ways. I put myself in the bed of the man whom I had long dreamed about. Would he have been the one if I had connected with him sexually? During our reunion weekend, I never wanted someone so badly, yet I denied myself. I walked away with some sketches and left him with a few to paint from, selfishly hoping I was planting a seed for another visit. I'm still waiting.

At 35, I still want to save sex for someone who is mutually in love with me and who accepts my virginity as a gift. After so many years of holding out, I can't change now. I just hope my hopes don't go stale before he shows up or, perhaps more important, before I recognize that he's been hanging around, waiting, the whole time.

Amanda McCracken is a freelance writer, massage therapist and running coach who teaches English as a second language.