Words by:  Anonymous
Art by: Tash Aldred

“You’re just a virgin who can’t drive!!!”

Everyone watching felt that — collectively wincing at the sharp sting of this insult, so perfectly delivered by the talented Brittany Murphy. Her arms propped, pink lips curled into a snarky, condescending sneer. I remember stifling a laugh when I watched this scene in Clueless for the first time — the delicate offence unfurling on Cher’s pretty, blond face, her wide eyes and cherry red lips caught in the perfect :o. You couldn’t help but feel sympathy for her narcissistic and yet well-meaning character. 

Many years have passed since I first watched that movie, and as a virgin who still can’t drive,  I’m definitely not laughing anymore. 

I was raised Christian; extremely Christian, think like rock-music-and-harry-potter-is-for-devil-worshippers level of Christian. So, being submerged in purity culture during my formative years may or may not have had a lasting impact on my sexuality. On that note, I’m going to proceed on this topic using an extended metaphor. 

I have a car. It’s parked in my garage, shrouded under a sheet that’s covered with a thick layer of dust. It drives just fine — sometimes late at night, I’ll take her for a quick spin myself. But no one else has ever touched the steering wheel. 

I watch enviously as other people roll their cars comfortably out of the garage, sleek paint glinting in the sun, tyres squealing as they accelerate out of the driveway. Hell, others much younger than me have had their cars driven by multiple people — but for some reason, I just can’t bring myself to unlock the doors. 

It’s not for lack of want or a lack of offer. It’s probably got something to do with the purity culture I was raised in; one that’s rooted in shame and shrouded with secrecy around that-which-shall-not-be-named, the forbidden S * X. It’s probably got something to do with fear — the worry that one day, when I do sweep off that dusty old sheet, the other person will laugh, scoff, or raise an eyebrow with what they’re presented with: flat surfaces where the curves should be, short body, little dents and nicks on the exterior. Another part of me fears that after going on long road trips together, they’ll ditch me for some other, newer, shinier model, without so much as a blink of an eye.

It’s probably also got something to do with watching other people’s cars getting carelessly crashed. I see my friends in the aftermath, picking themselves up, dusting themselves off, leaving a trail of dust and glittering shards as they walk, legs shaking, away from the wreckage. I don’t know if I’d be brave enough to do the same. 

All of these fears are pretty much completely unfounded; there’s nothing really to justify their existence. But altogether, they’ve formed a pretty powerful cocktail that deters me from opening my doors. I know that one day it will happen, and it will probably be overwhelmingly underwhelming; a brief collision, maybe some sparks, not even any real guarantee that the maximum speed will be reached. Even so, at this point, I just want to get it over and done with. 

As each day goes by, the fears slowly dissipate, replaced by a crystalline awareness that life has to be more than the cruel whispers floating around in my head. I’m sure, one day, my car will get driven. Of that, I have no doubt. But until then, I’ll just keep going on solo drives — until I meet someone who’s lucky enough to take the wheel. 

If you’re still here, thanks for following me down this long-winded road and metaphor. If you’re taking that drive, whether it’s a spin or a road trip, make sure to stay safe and keep your seatbelts on when you do.