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I have a solid group of friends, a supportive family and a clear awareness of who I am and who I want to be. Yet the moment I have to tell the guy I’m dating that sex is not an option, I become a squirmy, awkward, fidgety girl who can’t make eye contact or put together a complete sentence.

And given the choice between having just one boy with whom to spend all my time or a group of boys, friends trumped boyfriend.

In college there were a handful of guys who probably could have been my first, but things never quite worked out.

One guy confessed to having a girlfriend back home just as I started to fall for him.

Another had such low self-esteem he wouldn’t make a move until just before he passed out.

Some play it cool while calculating how to coerce me into changing my mind.

(This usually involves the showing off of foreplay moves, tales of the extreme pleasures I’ve been missing and/or purring that they don’t mind waiting — unless it’s going to be, like, two years, in which case they’re not so sure.) Some bail immediately.

We were making out on my couch when he went to unbutton my jeans — which was about seven steps beyond what I was ready for, and my body language told him as much.

He awkwardly apologized, I awkwardly said it was fine, and we kept kissing, awkwardly.

There’s no good time to tell a guy you’re a virgin. So: There’s no good time to tell a guy you’re a virgin. I’m a 26-year-old woman with a college degree, a good job, an adorable duplex and no debt.

Wait until the third date and you risk being considered a tease. Perhaps, but at this point you’re both still fretting over whether or not to eat another piece of bread; delving into sexual histories (or lack thereof) seems a bit extreme. I should be better at sharing this bit of information by now.

Instead of just sucking it up and telling Boy One why I was being so weird, I decided to be extremely mature and wait until he had left to text him asking if we could talk.