Sex and Not Sex

By: Isabel Friedman

The island of virginity is a temperamental island. 

In youth it blossoms like the petals of a delicate rose, 

Glimmering like the whitest of sand on a clear summer day. 

Its inhabitants bask in its effervescent glow. 

Years pass and the volcanic rock that supports the island begins to contract. 

Members dive into the fiery waters one by one, 

Consumed by the sparks beneath the tranquil surface. 

The once vibrant island begins to feel like a desolate entrapment, 

With you as its lone member. 

The rest of the world seems shrouded by a misty fog, hidden in plain sight. 

Virginity is knowing there is so much more to the human experience but being unable to grasp it. 

It’s like everyone shares a common secret and speaks a secret language, 

One that you could only feign to understand. 

This is the primal thread connecting us to our caveman ancestors many millennia ago. 

Eating, breathing, fucking, the tried-and-true recipe of life. 

So how easy it is to feel as though one is not living. 

But one day, someone whispers the secret in your ear, teaches you the secret language 

And only then do you realize that the island may have secluded you, 

But the misty fog wasn’t so dense. 

You knew the world better than you may have thought. 

The language is indeed special and lodges itself in your heart, 

But it doesn’t answer to everything around you. 

Sex may be part of the survival of a species,  

But an individual is so much more than just that.