One night my friends and I were chatting in our hotel in India over weed and the piles of cookies we hoarded from the convenience store around the corner. After weeks spent together on our study abroad trip that summer, we got to know every gory detail about each other and regularly vented about many of our personal experiences having to do with family, mental health, and everything in between. Tonight’s topic was sex, a subject that anyone who knows me knows I can’t talk enough about. After one friend recounted her first time having sex, the discussion shifted to the way penetrative sex feels. I listened eagerly and participated when I could. But when one friend asked me a specific question about if I could relate to the sensation she was describing, I said, “I don’t know, I’ve never had penetrative sex.” To which she replied, “Oh my god! You’re a virgin? I would never have suspected that.” I squirmed uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond.

Between friends and lovers alike, I have been labelled as a “virgin” at least 10 more times since that conversation. Not that there’s anything wrong with sexual inexperience, of course, but as someone who is so kinky and sex-obsessed, it feels super invalidating and excluding to be named the “virgin” in the group.

I have vaginismus, a condition that causes the muscles of my vagina to tense up so much that penetration (even by finger or tampon) is impossible. It can be caused by a history of trauma or anxiety, both things that I happen to have. Since age 12 when I tried to use a tampon, I’ve known that penetration just doesn’t work for me. And so in the years following, I never attempted to have PIV sex (or “penis in vagina” sex) with any of my sexual partners. Obviously I’d rather not feel pain in a situation that’s supposed to be enjoyable. But I also wasn’t about to embark on the slow process of introducing penetration with a person I hardly knew or didn’t consistently spend time with. After years of my own experimenting, I thought that the person I’d try that with would have to be someone I deeply trusted in order to get the muscles to relax enough. Of course, the condition has proven to be trickier than I initially assumed.

But that doesn’t stop me from having sex. Despite my sexual disability, I enjoy oral, pegging, and threesomes just as much as the next person. Previously, I didn’t explain to any of my friends how I can’t experience penetration, as it’s a subject I preferred to keep private and just between my partner(s) and I. So they were quite perplexed about my constant discussing of sex, as well as my growing sex toy arsenal, since I was a “virgin” in their eyes. Some were confused why I wouldn’t add penetration to my sexual repertoire, something that would open so many doors for my already adventurous sex life. Their questions were later answered once I came out about my condition. But in hindsight, I shouldn’t have to explain myself just because certain humans have a very limited idea of what “sex” is.

Sex can be any intimate moment you share with another person, whether it be kissing, touching, oral sex, or even spooning. Everyone has a different definition of it based on preference, comfort, and ability. It’s a mistake to see sex only as the PIV stuff you see in the movies since that erases tons of queer folks who don’t have penises or who would rather not be penetrated during sex. I had one partner who strongly held that limited perspective and saw me as an inexperienced virgin as we had sex. That icky rhetoric about what “real sex” is invalidates my sexual identity and implies that my disability makes me more naive or less of a lover. I don’t need a dick in my vagina, a feat that would be incredibly painful for me, to have a good time. I have sex differently from other people and that’s OK.

I know plenty of humans can have and do enjoy penetrative sex, which is rad and worth celebrating. But it’s also important for all to keep in mind that the penetration does not make the sex. People have sex in a number of different ways, and there’s no need to hold one kind as more “real” than another. Although people oftentimes peg me as inexperienced and let me know that I’m lucky to have such a “patient” partner, I completely reject both the sympathy and the “virgin” label. Sex is one of the most important things in my life, and it took me a long time to have a positive relationship with it again after being assaulted at 19. So out of pride for my recovery and out of passion for the topic, I’m not about to stop talking about it just because the way I do it might be unconventional.