True Stories: Final Fantasy

There's one thing I've never done, and I'm saving that for my future husband.

By Kate Carraway

Once in a while, my friend Isis will smirk and comment that my "pearls are showing," always in response to some girly exposition on my part. This most recently occurred during my tirade about how I refuse to have anal sex.

But there's a reason I refuse, and it's not forever. As a vague nod to the traditionalism I typically reject (yet continue to idealize), I'm saving my back-end virginity until marriage. As an easily bored single girl, I've engaged in an extensive laundry list of sexual behaviors, but have never allowed a cock in my ass.

At some point early on, I decided I wanted to reserve one sexual niche exclusively for my future husband. And I certainly can't offer him my virginity, my first threesome, or my first time fucking in a rooftop hotel pool at dawn. Anal sex is something I've flirted with, considered, but never done, all in the name of keeping something, as they say, "sacred."

I played my teen years like a Gonzo fairytale, fast and loose, and slowly evolved toward an adulthood of (mostly) calmer and (mostly) more considered sexual habits. Always informed by an unhinged curiosity and a pro-fun feminist sensibility, my sexual decision-making slowly came to include consideration for other stuff, too. Like many women of my genus — young, single, urban, analytical, horny — my sexual narrative is informed by the tension between an abstract idea of my future — babies, a swimming pool, anniversaries — and the sex I'm having now.

Acknowledging the sundry intricacies of this shit can be genuinely impossible at this point, so my friends and I often attempt to make order of the chaos with restrictive, even punishing, life choices: "I'm only going to sleep with my exes this summer. New people would just complicate things." Or, "I'm off sex till I'm done with my thesis." Or, "Just making out at parties. I'm not going home with anyone." Some girls take an approach that's similar to mine in its self-preservationist agenda: they'll have anal sex, but not vaginal, allegedly keeping their virginity both spiritually and physically intact.

Since I have the kind of Type-A personality that's satisfied by rules, I contend with the tension between here and there by purposefully not doing something (anal sex) until a fixed date (marriage), not as a joke or endearing quirk, but as way to deal. Not everyone understands. I get hell from my girlfriends for not trying it. "You write about sex, weirdo. You can't not do it." A few of them think my decision is based in fear: of pain, of the unknown, of crossing some invisible slut line. Some of that might be true. I'm typically a wholehearted submissive (unless instructed otherwise), and there's a lot that's sexy to me about all kinds of power dynamics and their manifestations. But anal brings nothing to mind other than a stinging shock. My ever-expanding universe of imaginary and porn-related fantasy (a recent addition: panty-specific porn — so hot!) has never included anal. I click away from anything that meanders unexpectedly assward. There's no appealing wetness over there, no give. Watching a particularly large penis go to work on a young lady's backside is in no way erotic to me, even to the part of me that generally responds all too quickly to the combination of pain and pleasure. Anal just seems like too much sex, sex that undermines itself, a bloated and ridiculous version of the original.

My distaste is isolated, applied only to me, and only for now. I thrilled to discover that a Rory Gilmore-ish girlfriend of mine is a hound for ass sex.

And, penis-insertion aside, I'm not ignorant of the rewards — I've warmly welcomed fingers and tongues into the fray. I'm curious, of course, about the feeling of anal sex. The anticipation is tremendous, in fact.

Still, the whole concept feels too personal to share with a man who isn't the designated "one." My boyfriends, even important ones, aren't allowed to see me in certain compromised situations. I don't pee with the door open, greet them sans mascara, or hang around in sports bras. While I'm an advocate for frank discussion of sex, I don't enjoy talking about non-sexual bodily functions, which is difficult when you're friends with vegans. A maximally WASPy background has me convinced that giving it all away upfront is an autobahn to disenchantment, and moreover, bad manners.