Virginity is an anatomical term

In my novel Almost Adept, my heroine Eriale’s original goal in the beginning of the story is to lose her virginity. Some reviewers disliked it. They thought she should be less blasé about it, more ‘virtuous.’ Instead, she pursues her goal without false modesty, even while engaged in the more heroic activities that comprise the bulk of the novel. Her quest to lose virginity quickly becomes secondary to saving people’s lives, but Eriale never abandons it until she succeeds.

I’d like to explain her position here: why is losing virginity so important to her. Eriale is an Adept – a magician of enormous power. To be able to harness such power at all times is mandatory for an Adept, no matter her emotional or physical state: pain or grief, fury or elation, illness or sex.

Anyone who’s ever experienced a sexual intercourse knows that in the best case scenario – the best climax – for a few moments before, during, and after, humans become mindless embodiments of instincts, relinquishing almost all conscious control.

An Adept can’t allow this to happen, can’t allow control of her power to slip even for one second, or she could cause colossal damage. She must learn to compartmentalize her mind, so even during the most vigorous sex she would keep a tight leash on her magic.

Of course, like in any other activity, in sex, practice makes perfect. Eriale must experience sex multiple times to insure she has the necessary control, before the magic guild even allows her to apply for the Adept license. Being a virgin would equate an automatic denial to her application. Furthermore, the guild will check her status as a non-virgin before issuing the license. In their world, it’s a public safety issue, without any morality snags.

Sadly, for some readers in our world, the entire situation becomes a personal affront. In our society, virginity has been associated with morality for centuries. Keeping a girl’s virginity intact before marriage was always a social inhibition. Although the standards have laxed somewhat in the past fifty years, Eriale’s push to lose virginity still annoys some people.

I didn’t set out to upset their sensibilities when I wrote this novel, but I sincerely think that virginity and morality shouldn’t be linked. My protagonist is not moral or amoral, just practical. For her (and for me), virginity – an unbroken hymen – is a biological condition, akin to baby teeth. She can’t access her full magical (or female) potential until she gets rid of it. It has nothing to do with her morality.

Lois McMaster Bujold in her sci-fi Vorkosigan series has the right approach to the question of virginity. On Beta Colony, a rational, technologically advanced planet, all women lose virginity in the same way. When a girl reaches puberty, around 13 or 14, her parents take her to a doctor. He cuts her hymen (painlessly, with a sterile instrument), pierces her ears, and installs a contraceptive implant. After that, the girl is considered an adult and can experiment with her sexuality until she is ready to start a family. It’s not a moral issue but a common-sense way to deal with teenage hormones.

I tried to implant a similar value system, at least for magicians, in the fantasy world I created for Eriale and her friends.