But the truth is, I’m not just a virgin in the sense that I’ve never had sexual intercourse with another human being. I’m a virgin in every sense of the word when it comes to romantic encounters. I’ve never been kissed. I’ve never had a man hold my hand. I went on a couple dates before taking my vows, but I’ve never had a boyfriend. And, persuaded at a young age that I would go to hell for doing so, I’ve never even attempted to masturbate. My body as a sexual object is a completely foreign concept to me, and I’m certain that any man who gets close enough to sniff this out will go running for the hills screaming.
So I gradually closed my online dating accounts, stopped accepting blind date offers, and embraced the shapeless sweaters that keep me nice and toasty in the overenergetic library air-conditioning. I started baking Sunday nights. I’ve taken up knitting, badly. And on Tuesdays, I get Pizookies with the girls at Lou Malnati’s Pizzeria.
For those sad, ignorant folk unaware of the beauty of the Pizookie, it is a pizza cookie: a half-baked, chocolatey dessert—crispy on the outside, gooey on the inside, and topped with cold, crisp vanilla bean ice cream.
I may have never had an orgasm before, but I’m pretty sure this is probably as close as it gets.
“Watch it, you’re breaching into my territory,” Matilda snaps as the three of us hover over the dessert in question, spoons engaged in a swift battle to ensure that no one gets shirked their full amount. This is a precarious situation, especially at a high-top table with a slightly wonky chair.
One of the things that I love most about my friends is that they love to eat. I’ve never known how to bond with someone who doesn’t truly enjoy food.
“We didn’t divvy out sections,” I remind her, “and even if we did, this is clearlymythird.”
Our bickering might have continued, but we suddenly realize that quiet Antonina is stealthily infringing on our territory with her own spoon. Silence descends once more as we each hurry to eat as much as we can before it’s gone.
Aside from our love of Pizookies, the three of us might not seem to have much in common. I’m the oldest at thirty-one, blonde, blue-eyed, round-faced, and completely swamped in my oversized sweater. What I like about the bulky sweater is that my actual shape underneath is impossible to tell, and I like the general, almost-androgynous roundness that my outfit gives me. (“Like a habit,” Matilda pointed out to me once, and I guess that’s true. Even though not all orders still wear the habit, and in mine it wasn’t required, I always felt safely invisible in mine.)
Matilda, by contrast, is tall and sleek, with formfitting, chic clothes that show off her athletic frame. She is twenty-seven, dark blonde, with a chin-length, no-nonsense haircut, cool blue eyes, and a direct stare that matches everything else about her hard-edged appearance.
Then there is Nina, who is twenty-four and uncommonly, ethereally pretty. She has long wavy brown hair that reaches almost down to her waist, a petite but shapely figure that a Disney princess would envy, and big brown eyes that always look a little dreamy and distracted. I’ve noticed she can go several meals totally forgetting to eat (a completely foreign concept to me). The only time she really seems to come to life is when she is eating dessert.
Yet despite our numerous differences, readily visible to anyone looking from the outside, I’m connected to these women in a way that no one else will ever truly understand, closer to them than I am to my own brother.
It all began a few months after I left my community house, when my then-therapist recommended a support group for former sisters, like myself. As expected, most of the women in the group were significantly older than me, and their individual relationships with the Church and their former lives as nuns were in some ways far more complex than my own. Still, it was nice to be around other people who understood, to some extent, what I was going through, and it was encouraging to learn that most all had gone on to live normal, unextraordinary lives with marriages, kids, and careers.
But it wasn’t until Matilda showed up that I truly felt as though I’d found a kindred spirit. Even though, as she likes to point out, she was a “real” nun, a cloistered sister who lived in a convent, and I was “just” a sister, a person who takes the vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience but still interacts with laypeople in the world. (I say I was a nun as a shorthand, since that’s the term most laypeople recognize, but Matilda is technically right.) And a year after that, sweet Nina arrived. (For the record, she didn’t even make it as far as taking her vows to become a sister, since she left when she was a novitiate. So, I’m more of a “real” nun than her. Not that there’s a competition. Well, not that there’s a competition to anyone but Matilda.)
The three of us are mainly tied by this one thing in our lives, but oh, what a thing it is. Though we’ve drifted away from attending the monthly support group meetings, our friendship provides a far more frequent (and delicious) form of moral support.
“I finished my chapter,” I inform the other women once we all finish our share of the Pizookie and can therefore relax and actually speak to one another, since we are no longer in competition to scrape up the last morsel.
“The sex one?” Matilda asks with her usual bluntness, rubbing at her little food baby, prominent on her otherwise flat tummy.
“Yep. It’s pretty steamy, considering it was based on pure imagination.”
Matilda and Nina are some of the only people in the world who know the full truth about my situation, and as always, it’s a relief to be able to speak candidly. They know where I’m coming from, even if their own situations aren’t exactly the same.
“Believe me, imagination is always better anyway.” Matilda lost her virginity as soon as she could manage it after receiving her dispensation to leave from the Pope, and she continues to keep a “booty call friend” on hand for whenever she “feels the itch.” She has no inclination for dating or romance, claiming she doesn’t want to finally reclaim her autonomy just to lose it again. And Antonina…
Well, actually, I don’t really know Nina’s status for certain. Nina doesn’t talk much about herself, just listens with those kind, sympathetic dark eyes that make it seem like she’s divulged her soul when in fact, she hasn’t contributed anything. Still, I can’t really imagine her setting up a “special friend” like Matilda has, and she’s never mentioned any dates or crushes, so I’m guessing she’s probably in the same boat as I am. Only Nina is twenty-four, not thirty-one, and ethereally beautiful, so it’s only a matter of time before she gets snatched up by somebody.
As if on cue, a compact, mildly attractive man in a suit approaches the table, his gaze fixed on Nina as if he is Galahad approaching the Holy Grail. “I’m sorry to bother you ladies”—he says this as if addressing the entire table, though his eyes never leave Nina—“but I was wondering if any of you would be interested in attending the symphony this weekend. I’d love to bring you all as my guests.”
It isn’t his fault, really; he seems nice enough, but it’s the third time our evening has been interrupted by some guy who can’t stop gawking at Nina, and Matilda has clearly had enough. “We’re all deaf. Go away.” Uttered in her pragmatic, faintly Russian accent, it somehow sounds even more cutting.
The man’s brow furrows. “But?—”
“No one here wants to talk to you. Take the hint.” Matilda shoos him, and befuddled, the man obeys, casting one last longing glance back at Nina.
For her part, Nina stares down at the table, never even so much as looking at him. I squeeze her hand encouragingly, changing the subject to distract from her embarrassment. “I’m going to read my chapter at my writing group on Friday, if either of you want to come.”
I know it might seem weird to invite your friends along to a public reading of your first sex scene, but it will be reassuring to see my two besties in the crowd. Or mortifying. I’ve never done this before, so it’s a real roll of the dice. Seeing Matilda’s already-forming protest, I add, “I’ll bring those muffins you like.”
“The red velvet ones?” At my nod of confirmation, Matilda purses her lips, considering it. “We’ll see.”
Beside me, Nina suddenly stiffens and sits up straighter. “Isn’t that…?”
Matilda and I follow the little jerk of her chin in the direction of a far corner table, so shrouded in shadow that it takes me a moment to recognize the Red Unicorn. I straighten instinctively, then immediately slouch back, afraid he might look up and recognize me. Or not recognize me. It’s hard to decide which outcome would be worse.
