Alexis Lambright was a confirmed virgin in NYC for 10 years. Determined to hold on to her innocence, the Catholic schoolgirl was committed to a life of celibacy — until marriage. But when she realized that dating in the most superficial city in the world wasn’t virgin-friendly, the 28-year-old funnywoman living in Sunnyside, Queens, turned to comedy as therapy: She created the one-woman show “The Alexis Lambright Tell-A-Thon: Combating Adult Virginity,” which is running at the New York International Fringe Festival on select dates from Saturday to Aug. 24. She tells The Post’s DOREE LEWAK her story . . .

It was a beautiful evening in July, and my boyfriend Chris and I had just spent our two-year anniversary at the beach in Seaside Heights, splashing around and cuddling. Even though I wanted to cap off this special day in our lives with a movie, Chris had other ideas, asking me if we could go back to my place.

As we lay naked in bed, he thought this was it — the moment was finally going to happen.

“It’s such a special day,” he said, “why can’t we take it to the next level?”

But I just couldn’t do it. At 22, I was a New Yorker — and still a virgin.

My parents back in Dayton, Ohio, would have been relieved. They were strict with me growing up as the middle daughter between two boys. My dad’s a former Marine reservist and my mom is a teacher, and they’re both Presbyterians who wouldn’t let us go out on school nights. It was instilled in all three of us that sex was a sacred act only for married couples.

This was reinforced by my Catholic high school, where we had a freshman workshop taught by nuns called “Chastity by Choice.” Everyone signed a pledge card swearing they’d wait until marriage.

I figured a promise was a promise, but my school friends had other ideas. As I watched my friends hook up with guys and talk about dating, I tried not to be judgmental, but I couldn’t help it. I had normal desires but I didn’t put out. Also, I was super-shy, so I found it hard to talk to guys. I went through high school without even kissing a boy. I attended school dances with my girlfriends or gay guy friends.

At 18, I moved to New York City to study film at the College of Staten Island, and I felt even more like an outsider.

The drama club was a big part of my life — and everyone around me was dating. There’s nothing more annoying than theater majors hooking up and rubbing it in. I felt like everyone was doing it but me.

One day, when I was almost 20, I went to the mall to shop for a shirt and a tall, smooth-talking man sidled up to me.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Levon.”

I felt my face turn red. I didn’t know what to say, but he was clearly into me. He got my phone number, and eventually we started dating.

Levon was the same age as me, but a lot more experienced. He started having sex at 13 — and never stopped. He was used to having sex on a first date — or no date at all.

When I told him I was a virgin, he looked at me like I was a museum exhibit. He told me he wanted to deflower me.

One night we were sitting on the couch in my living room watching “Cannibal,” and Levon had his arms around me. At one point he turned my chin and we started kissing (my first kiss!). I was so excited, but I didn’t show it.

An hour into the makeout session, he led me to the bedroom. My head said “no,” but my body said “yes.”

Things got hot and heavy, but in the end I couldn’t go through with it.

He left early in the morning and said he’d call later, but I never heard from him again.

I was heartbroken. And it made me even more timid about the dating game.

And so it went — I’d date a guy, and he’d tell me he wanted to deflower me, but for all the wrong reasons. It was a power trip for guys.

A few months after Levon, I was studying in the library when my friend introduced me to a tall guy called Chris with curly hair who had a killer smile and dimples.

Chris and I became friends, partly because he was shy like me and, I eventually found out, a virgin. We started dating and became boyfriend and girlfriend.

There was only one hitch: I wanted to wait until marriage and he didn’t. For two years he tried to convince me to sleep with him, and we came close many times, but I always found an excuse not to go through with it.

By this time, being a virgin had become a weird point of pride for me. It was like a reverse scarlet letter. Chastity was my identity.

After I refused him on our two-year anniversary, we broke up. I graduated from college and started my New York life as a single woman.

“Sex and the City” my life was not. In New York, there’s this hookup culture that makes it impossible for someone like me to date. People just want to go on one date and have sex on the next one. Men have so many women to choose from, it’s tough for someone who’s not giving it up right away.

I was working odd jobs and eventually became a regular on the improv scene. At 24, I moved to Harlem, where I fell into a crowd of theater people. I got to see the world outside of my strict religious bubble. In church, I was doing a lot of nodding, but not feeling it as much. I started to step back and realize I didn’t need to be married to have sex.

I needed an outlet for my feelings, so I started to write a one-woman show about being a virgin in New York. To my surprise, it was picked up by an off-Broadway theater, and suddenly I was telling my story to complete strangers. It was a relief to hear people laughing with me rather than at me.

Meanwhile, I was thinking about sex all the time. My friends would unintentionally rub it in, gushing about their hot sex lives and one-night stands, saying, “Girl, sex is so good, you’re really missing out!” Sometimes it would get to me.

I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. But, by this point, it was even harder for me to lose my virginity. What kind of man wants all that pressure — to deflower a grown, working woman in her mid-20s?

A co-worker at Whole Foods stated my worst fear: “You better hurry up and get that taken care of, or you’ll just be an old virgin.”

Suddenly, I was on a mission: I wanted to ooze sex appeal. For most of my life, I’ve been a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of gal, but I started wearing short skirts and makeup. Now that I looked the part, I actually started to feel it.

Lots of guys were interested, and I dated a lot. For a virgin, I really got around. But I didn’t want to have sex with just anyone. It had to be the right guy.

Three years passed. I still hadn’t done it. It was clear that just changing my clothes and my attitude wasn’t going to cut it. I had to do something drastic. I had to pick a guy and just do it.

I met a certain someone through a friend at a film screening in Brooklyn, and we were immediately attracted to each other. We hung out a few times, he told me he’d heard about the show and he seemed actually cool with my situation.

After about a month of dating, he invited me to go on a trip — and we both knew what that meant.

We went on vacation in St. Croix for a weekend sexcapade. The irony is not lost on me that St. Croix is in the Virgin Islands. Looking out into the deep blue Caribbean, there was a definite mixture of excitement and nerves— and relief that I got that bikini wax beforehand. My head was spinning with so many thoughts. I may not have felt especially sexy, but after all these years of anticipation, I felt ready — or at least at the point where I wanted to get it over with.

On our first night there, with no wine, no candles and hardly any foreplay, we just went to bed and it happened.

And the next morning, I woke up a non-virgin.

Everyone was telling me sex would be bad the first time (another reason I put it off), but it was worse than I thought it would be. He wasn’t affectionate or attentive. The rest of the trip was just awkward. We only did it once.

Back home, we dated for a bit, but we both knew it was over. But even though it wasn’t the best first time, I was so relieved it was over.

At 27, I was no longer a virgin. And I’m now officially having sex.

Today I look back and I admit I’ve had regrets — about waiting so many years, about doing it with him — but no more. I believe it was supposed to happen that way, with him, at that time. Now I’ve got my groove on — and there are no more labels to hold me back.

dlewak@nypost.com