I was going to lose my virginity, and I needed an outfit to do it in. Not the little black dress in which you break a heart slowly over the course of dinner, because you are all the way across the table and not there in your sweetheart's lap being vigorously admired in a hands-on fashion, though I needed one of those. I was going to lose my virginity on Valentine's Day, after all, and we were going out somewhere fancy and for both reasons, I had to look spectacular, celebratory, fantastic, delicious enough to deflower.  

But I was worried about the rest of it. What was supposed to happen after dinner? We'd get undressed, and then I'd be naked, and that would be it? We did that all the time. This was a special occasion. There had to be some sort of intermediate stage to commemorate the big event and, if I were being totally honest with myself, slow it down a little bit. I had vague ideas that lingerie would perform this service: if I was wearing lingerie, which I never had, ever, in the whole course of my life, then he'd have to stop a moment and admire it, right? And then--I was fuzzy on what would happen afterwards. How did we go about getting on with it? We had done everything except actually putting it in, but for some reason, factoring in the actual process of penetrative sex made me panic, made me dither, made me lose my mind and start obsessing about what I would wear.

I went shopping with my best friend at the time, Kim.  She understood my strange impulse to be appropriately (under-) dressed for the occasion, which was one of the reasons I loved her very much. We spent a long time in the lingerie section, and she was very patient with me while I dithered crazily. I did not want to wear anything ridiculous and obvious like a corset, and this was before boy shorts got sexy (or existed at all, I think, as an option) so the idea of sexy bikini panties sent me hyperventilating. A slip? A chemise? Something? Nothing fit me, I was afraid of everything, and as my options dwindled my self-esteem plummeted and I was ready to die a virgin. No, Kim said. Look at this. A sheer, one-size-fits-all black flowered kimono robe. It fit me! I was tired of shopping! I did not think it through very well.

And this is how I ended up with my Sex Kimono, from Calvin Klein. I was so proud that it was from a designer, because I had never owned anything from a designer. And I thought that it was appropriately subtle--not screaming "OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO DO IT!" but still subtly indicating that I was a Sexy Lady, and this was Sexy Time. I was sure it was elegant and sophisticated, yet intriguingly sassy, and it was completely perfect, I thought. However, I failed to figure out how, exactly, I would move from In a Dress to In a Sex Kimono without any awkward interim moments. In the end, I just went pretty much straight from In a Dress to Intercourse.

My Sex Kimono remained unused. It's too see-through to actually use as a robe, and makes me feel a little self-conscious, because robes are supposed to cover up for the sake of the mailperson, not say Hello There, Postal Worker--special delivery up in here, please! I have carried it from house to house, across the country and back into Utah. It's always hung on the back of my various bathroom doors and more or less collected dust, as these things do. I don't think I've actually tried it on in years, and I haven't thought of that boy who stripped me down and happily didn't give me time to think about my fashion choices or worry about my body or my technique for just as long. I wouldn't wear it for anyone else, because that feels a little odd to me--I have weird senses of propriety and justice, I think. And yet, I keep on hanging on to Sex Kimono.