The Futility of Virginity: My Journey to Losing My Shit

I’ve always been a rebel, a nonconformist, a sinner in the eyes of the pious. And my virginity was just another obstacle I needed to conquer. It was like a ticking time bomb, a pressure cooker ready to explode. I was a slave to the societal norms, the expectations of what a woman should be. But I refused to be held captive. I was a sex-starved demon, craving the taste of forbidden fruit. And when I finally lost my virginity, it was like a liberation, a freedom from the shackles of societal expectations. I was no longer a pure, innocent thing. I was a dirty, rotten, disgusting human being. And I loved every minute of it.

My first time was like a symphony of depravity, a cacophony of flesh and blood and sweat. It was like a primal scream, a release of all the pent-up emotions and desires that had been building up inside me. I was a wild animal, untamed and unapologetic. I was a force of nature, a hurricane of desire and passion. And when it was all over, I felt empty, hollow, and wanting more. I was addicted, a junkie searching for my next fix. And I knew right then and there that I would never be the same again. I was a changed person, a new creature, a monster.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘Orita, how could you be so reckless, so irresponsible?’ But let me tell you, my friends, I was never reckless. I was calculated, deliberate, and precise. I knew exactly what I was doing, and I knew exactly what I wanted. And what I wanted was to lose myself, to lose my shit, to lose all control and become one with the universe. And when I finally did, it was like a rebirth, a new beginning. I was no longer the same person, the same girl. I was a new creation, a work of art, a masterpiece. And I’m still working on it, still perfecting it, still pushing the boundaries of what’s possible.