I’m so good your mother never saw me coming. There’s something about my big puppy dog eyes, shoulder length golden hair and sweet innocent smile that has mums all around the world thinking “What a nice sweet girl.”

I was recently lounging on my friends couch with half a bottle of wine swooshing in my glass while I explained the sex appeal some men have on me. After a moment of silence she looked at me; astonished and quite confused. “Marley?” she asked “Can I ask you a personal question?” I’m not a private person. If a friend wants to ask me something personal, I’ll answer truthfully and hope they won’t run screaming if they didn’t get the answer they were hoping for. So naturally I said sure. “Are you a virgin-virgin, or just a theoretical virgin?” I couldn’t help but giggle and ask her to define virgin. The grin on my face must have said it all. This might not sound like an earth shattering experience but you see, she knew I hadn’t actually had The Sex but was stunned by the way I could so vividly describe and scream out how I felt when looking at a man. A man that was created so beautifully, that just a look from him gives you an OOTS (Orgasm On The Spot). And believe me, I’ve seen my share of men that are breathe taking (they do tend to render me speechless *mock horror*, but they exist).

It hit me then that I haven’t come across a lot of people that write about being a ‘virgin’ with… well… let’s call them ‘cravings’. Virgin or not, I’m like any other bonny lass – orgasms make my world go ‘round. Granted, I haven’t tried ’69 positions to make your man go wild’ but I have a vivid and lively imagination. It’s been sculpted out of hundreds of Harlequin books, endless chick-flicks and secret fantasies I won’t even tell my diary about. Virgins have a sex-drive that, apparently compared to an active member of The Sexing World can’t be compared, but on nights has us screaming which ever name we like into the secrets of the night (or day).

But mothers never saw us innocent virgins coming. I remember asking my mother if I looked innocent, she scoffed and said my eyes made it clear that there wasn’t an innocent bone in my body. Even she doesn’t know the half of it. You see men, before a chick of my age (early 20’s) decides that you’re the ‘right’ person to ‘de-flower’ her, she’s got an imagination (and even then the deflowered women have minds of their own). She’s all got an idea built up in her mind of how the first time is meant to be. It’s been built up from imagination and tell-tale truths from friends. I’ve heard sex can be good, sometimes really good, but what’s really the hype over it? Do lightning bolts shoot from the sky? Is it so good you see stars, hearts or unicorns?  There’s such expectation over having sex and experiencing what’s supposed to be the best thing in the world. Is it really all that? Is it so life altering that no one should wait longer than necessary? Call me a romantic but I’m waiting for the guy whose mother never thought that warning him of me would be important. And I’m not the only one.

There have been TEQUILA nights (Cue from dark corner: “Andale! Arriba! Arriba!”) where I haven’t been the only virgin eyeing a guy out and telling my fellow stalkers just how luscious his bottom would look without those very tight jeans. One of my closest stalker buddies has just started coming (no pun intended) out of her shell and has started whispering the crudest comments my poor, innocent ears have ever heard. We’re so proud of her! Now, she is so good that not even I saw her coming.

Remember: never judge a book by its cover. You never know what kinky secrets are hiding under the surface. Now if you’ll excuse me, my binoculars are staring at passing college men and my stalker-buddy keeps squealing at them.

My room is filled with what I consider to be my party-mood music. Pitbull, Kat DeLuna, Sean Kingstonm Daddy Yankee, Ne-Yo, hell even R Kelly. You name it, if it has a beat, it’s probably on my list. My trust wine glass is in my hand, red liquid heaven making me smile and dare a few dance moves you won’t see me doing when in public. No amount of drink will have me to doing booty shakes in the middle of the club. Then again the clubs play techno or house most of the time so the chance to booty shake doesn’t often present itself. But in the safety of my familiar four walls, I’ll attempt all I can without tearing down the house.

In the comfort of my own room I’ll try shake my hips like Shakira and do body rolls taught by Carmen Electra. And I’ll feel good doing them. Lots in my own world of música y vino nothing can get to me that I don’t want around. And then, all of a sudden, all the moves in Pitbulls music video’s is childsplay and as heavens red liquid makes me more confident I’m tempted to find my way to the closest club, dressed in a little-black, and show everyone what I know.

The safety of wine and my bedroom does wonders for the imagination. it doesn’t matter that I occasionally have two left feet – when I’m alone, I’m the best there is to see. And I’m having fun.