Chapter 1: The Gift

I remember clearly the night I lost my virginity.

It was homecoming night, sophomore year of high school. I was fifteen, and in love with my boyfriend Danny. We were high school sweethearts, wrapped in all the rituals of young love—even though, even at that age, I was never naive enough to believe in forever.

We never actually made it to the dance.

I wore a long white gown with black floral embroidery, and Danny wore his ROTC uniform. His mom was a waitress at a high-end restaurant on the intracoastal, and she pulled a few strings to get us a romantic meal there. After dinner, we wandered along the beach, still dressed up, shoes in hand, the salty breeze tangling in my hair.

At some point, tucked behind some dunes, I told him I was ready.

He was surprised. He’d never pressured me—not once. But I felt ready. Emotionally. Mentally. Even if my body didn’t yet know exactly what it was doing.

We kissed. Fumbled. Began.

And then—out of nowhere—a flashlight. Cops.

Someone must’ve seen us. I panicked, then quickly lied, telling them Danny was on leave from the military and we were staying at a nearby hotel. Maybe they believed me, or maybe they just didn’t want to deal with two awkward teenagers, but they let us go.

We drove back to his mom’s trailer, laughing in disbelief. And later that night, we crossed that threshold.

It was tender. It was important. And, in all honesty, it was forgettable.

Danny and I stayed together for a little while longer. He was sweet and steady. I loved him in that pure-hearted, high school kind of way. But the physical part of our relationship never quite imprinted on me.

That came later—with someone I wasn’t even dating.

Anthony.

Anthony was a friend—nothing more. Not a crush. Not a boyfriend. Just someone I trusted, someone I felt safe with.

He was kind and slightly awkward in the most endearing way, with this gentle, eager smile that made you want to root for him. We’d had a few classes together and floated in the same social circles, but we were never flirty. Our friendship was easy. Platonic. Familiar.

It was the end of his senior year. Graduation was just a few days away. I was still a sophomore. Danny and I had recently broken up—my family was moving out of state, and we both knew we couldn’t handle a long-distance relationship at that age. We ended things with hugs and heartbreak and the kind of quiet sadness that only teenage love can fully understand.

Anthony, meanwhile, had just gone through a breakup of his own. His girlfriend had dumped him shortly before prom, and he hadn’t quite bounced back.

One afternoon, we were hanging out in the school gymnasium after finals—just the two of us, lingering in that quiet space the way teenagers do when they’re not quite ready to go home. 

That’s when he told me—hesitantly, almost apologetically—that he was heading off to college still a virgin. And that he felt embarrassed about it.

There was no pressure. No request. Just the quiet reveal of a secret.

And for reasons I couldn’t yet articulate, I felt moved to respond. Not with pity. Not with romance. But with something that felt like grace.

It wasn’t about attraction. It wasn’t about fixing him. It was about offering something soft, something kind. A moment he could take with him that wouldn’t carry shame or awkwardness, but warmth.

So I offered to send him off to college with a little "going away present".

The experience itself wasn’t cinematic. It was brief, a little clumsy, full of teenage nerves. At one point, I think he had to hide in the closet when my parents came home earlier than expected.

But what stayed with me wasn’t any of that.

It was the way he looked at me afterward.

Like I had done something sacred. Like I had healed something. Like I had offered him something more than just permission—I had given him a memory.

He wrote in my yearbook that he’d never forget me. That what I gave him was more than an experience. It was kindness. Safety. A beginning.

And in that moment, I felt something awaken in me.

It wasn’t about being wanted. It wasn’t even about being seen. It was about being adored for what I had chosen to give.

About bestowing a gift with full intention—and receiving reverence in return.

That reverence… that’s what stayed.

Not being taken. Not even being touched. But being remembered. Worshipped.

It made me feel like more than a girl. It made me feel like a story.

Looking back now, I think that was the beginning of a deeper truth I’ve been living ever since: I was never trying to be anyone’s possession.

I was trying to be their myth.

And over time, I would learn that being someone’s myth was both intoxicating… and complicated.