Dear Diary, Why Am I Still A Virgin?

Dear Diary, Today marks my 27th birthday—also known as the 27th annual celebration of me being single, untouched, and extremely virgin. No kisses, no cuddles, no late-night “Netflix and actual chill.” Just me, my pillow husband, and a WiFi connection that knows too much. When—WHEN—will I finally experience the fabled touch of a man? Not the spiritual kind, not the “he bumped into me at the coffee machine” kind—I mean full-on rated-R touch. I’ve spent years doing, ahem, research on adult sites like a scholarly nun with a naughty dissertation. When do I get to apply what I’ve learned? I have techniques, Diary. Unused. Untested. Like an IKEA manual with no furniture. Now, speaking of temptation—today, the office AC broke, and the universe delivered a gift. Troy. Shirtless. In all his Calvin Klein ad glory. It’s not even the first time I’ve witnessed his Greek statue body—those six-pack abs, the V-line that points directly to the sins I want to commit—but today was different. Today, I accidentally touched him. And by “accidentally,” I mean I asked Jasmine to allegedly push me in his direction. And by “push,” I mean she launched me like a virgin missile straight into those washboard abs. Did I get smacked in the head? Yes. Was it worth it? Also yes. I’d do it again. Twice. With feeling. So now I’m spiraling. What if—WHAT IF—Troy is the chosen one? The destined deflowerer? My handsome deliverer from the land of celibacy? OMG, Diary, what if my purity ends not with shame, but with glorious ab-rubbing bliss? Stay tuned. Things are heating up—and it’s not just the broken AC. Still painfully pure, Me.