You’re a compulsive liar. You’ve created a false reality, isolating yourself from the truth so deeply you’ve almost got yourself fooled. You’ve almost tricked yourself into thinking you’re not a virgin anymore. But you can’t. Even in your dreams your mind goes blank the second you’re meant to enter her. Every time, you get so close, and your subconscious shoves it right back into your face: nobody has ever, and will ever, fuck you.

You’re not ugly. You’re just not special. A combination of unlucky circumstances and the tendency to blend into the walls around you has abandoned you as the object of nobody’s desires. Nobody goes to sleep thinking about you. Nobody wakes up and prays for a text from you. Nobody ever has dreams about fucking you.

Every time you think you’ve gotten close it’s only ever been more lies. You fantasize about interactions you have with women you don’t even talk to, and when they give you an inch it makes you weird and unable to form sentences. You don’t tell them you’re a virgin, but they always, always know just by looking at you.

It’s in the way you walk, the way you talk. Everything screams what you try so hard to hide: virgin. You end up lying to anybody you can about it. You even told all your oldest friends you lost it years ago: a one time thing at summer camp with a girl no one could ever know, who only truly exists in the deepest, darkest, most pathetic corners of your mind. They don’t really believe you. You try to pass yourself off as enlightened—too good for the earthly pleasures of sex, abstaining in the presence of all that is good and pussy—when in reality you know not the first thing about pleasuring anybody but your right hand. Everybody sees right through you. No one wants to take you on as their little charity project, no one wants to take the time to teach you all that you should have known how to do so long ago. After all these years your peers just keep having the best sex of their lives, while you jerk off to a screen in your dungeon full of used kleenex and emptied bottles of lubriderm, trapped forever in your sad little web of virgin lies.