“What if… it hurts?” he asked. I was already sitting on Yerin’s bed. While the lavender whispered from the diffuser on the wardrobe, a streetlamp slipped between the curtains and lit her pupils at a thirty-four-degree angle. Whether from the unfamiliar scent or the thickened air, she tucked a hand under her arm, then slowly withdrew it. Twenty-two, yet biting her nails. A single photocopied strand of hair slid across white linen, and her breathing—now shallow, now calm—teased my chest.
“Shall I slip my hand behind your back?” When she nodded, a spark flared beneath her skin. A fine bead of sweat on her forehead clung to my thumb. For an instant her eyes met mine, then turned away. Her throat dipped, the fringe on her brow trembled, and she bit her lip before letting it go. A low jazz bass leaked from the speaker and swayed through the room.
The Hidden Contest
I confess. Freshman year, a guy crowed at a bar:
“They say only two girls in our department are still virgins. We’ve got a bet on who pops one first, lol.”
The words lodged strangely in my chest. I had dated twice, both ending in nothing. Perhaps that’s why. One trophy—a body opened for the first time—seemed enough to square my slumped shoulders. The core of desire was the taste of turning the first page. The savage fantasy of turning innocence over tickled my brain. In that moment of tearing, I might become more of a “man” than any other.
The Second Date with Yerin
I met Yerin in the humanities library. A girl whose face flared at a first kiss. That day, when a kissing scene appeared in the film, she dropped her head and whispered: “Oppa, I… it’s my first time.”
My heart plummeted. The word “first” clamped my ribs without mercy. Her hand was cold; the minute tremor in her palm moved into mine. On the taxi home she fell asleep. Each time the streetlamp flashed across her cheek, anxiety strangled me again. The word innocence stared me down like a dare.
Mijin’s Tears
A month later, Mijin—senior in design, met through a friend’s blind date. In a back-alley pojangmacha we drank. When the liquor rose, she murmured: “Actually… I haven’t done it yet.”
Maybe it was the soju, or the thirst I’d kept corked; I pressed my lips to her nape and muttered, “It’s all right. We’ll go slowly.” Yet once inside the room, Mijin stamped her feet and burst into tears. “I’m… just… scared. I don’t even know myself…”
Those tears were a different species from Yerin’s. A typhoon of fear and hope, despair at being unable to deny her own desire. I wiped her cheeks, even as a cold voice spoke in my skull.
Virgin, or the Hand that Rips the Myth
Why do humans obsess over virgins? It is not mere collecting. Unknowingly, we re-enact ancient myth: virgin as sacred ground holding both purity and ruin. He who tills that soil fancies himself a hero. Freud said obsession is the wish to possess the symbol of lack. In modern society, virginity is no longer biological fact but a premium product—an identity untouched by anyone else. Thus we fear: what if someone else opens it first? What if footprints already mar that pure land?
Do You Really Want Innocence?
Suddenly I remember that night with Yerin. As I cautiously peeled away her underwear, she whispered: “Oppa, really, I’m fine… but your face—it scares me.”
Then I knew. What I feared was not her pain. I was terrified that the moment I crossed her first sentence, I would have to reveal who I was. To strip innocence is to confess the filthy desire coiled inside me. So that night I held her tight and let her sleep. I did nothing. I simply pressed her trembling into my chest and began the fight with myself.
I did nothing, yet the next morning she slapped my cheek.