Been to Australia.
Woken up on a mattress on the floor of The Owl.
Had sex during my period.
Had sex, period.
Fucked/been fucked/made love/engaged in vaginal or oral intercourse/held hands.
Had a threesome.
Used a tampon.
Had sex in the stacks.
Had sex in a car.
Figured out what an orgasm feels like (or if I can actually do that imagine-your-way-to-an-orgasm thing I read about in The New York Times).
Understood friends who can divorce their bodies from their emotions, and/or can experience pleasure from another person without getting attached, and/or can embrace their need for attachment and be funny/cool/mysterious enough to get someone else attracted to them anyway.
Done it in a jacuzzi.
Hooked up with someone whose name I didn’t know.
Been allowed to touch another person’s flesh and feel how it seems fuller, heavier, gentler than my own.
Found an answer to how to be sexy without being objectified. (Or even had that be an issue.)
Felt anything other than bad, or guilty, or damaged, when my parents and relatives demand to know why I’ve never had boyfriend.
Satisfied the aching loneliness of a college dorm bed on a Saturday night.
Gone to third base on a dance floor.
Relinquished the weight of the things I haven’t done—or the social unacceptability of my ten little fingers, virginal and unbent even this late in the game—or the fear that only creepos or the ultra-religious will want to date/kiss/sleep with me now.
Done doggy style.
Not used a condom.
Had sex in a bathroom.
Been lactose intolerant.
Sucked and swallowed.
Felt another human being fill my negative space: the concavity of my arms, the gap between my calves, the sulci of my mind, the instep of my breath.
Believed my own voice when I tell people I’d be happy with an apartment, a career, and a cat.