NEW YORK STORIES

Chastity in NYC by Katie Rose

I’m 22-years-old, have bottle-dyed blond hair, own several pairs of killer stiletto heels, turn the volume way up when a hip-hop song comes on and … have decided to wait to have sex until marriage—a rare decision in New York City. Picking me out in a crowd would not be easy; I could be any girl on the N train or in line at Starbucks feeding an addiction to caramel frappuccinos. 

It’s not easy to uphold this deal I made myself, especially in New York. It takes more discipline and commitment than a fat girl desperate to be thin. Plus, there’s no cheating as with diet pills or with a finger down the throat—you either are or aren’t chaste.

For the record, I am religious and I grew up in a Catholic household, which certainly influenced my decision. But the choice to give myself for the first time in marriage isn’t tied to some disordered fear of hell. 

I made the decision in high school, after seeing a close friend hurt and heartbroken. The 15-year-old guy she’d given it up to, and was planning to marry, was kicking it with a girl at a rival school. She went from on to try and fill the void with a new guy, and then another and another; a trend I see in a lot of New York women. 

Perhaps I would have changed my mind in college had my freshman year gone differently, but I ended up living with the most promiscuous girl I’d ever met. Beyond playing referee between the several booty calls she got nightly and the boyfriends she tried to maintain on the side, I got to hold her hair away from her face as she threw up in the communal bathrooms after a long night of partying and listen to her crying that no one liked her. And it was true—most people didn’t like her. She was mean and self-centered—traits that only got worse as she added another name to the list of “conquered” boys. By the end of the year I listened to almost daily complaining fests about guys, close friends and parents. One year of that was enough to solidify the promise I made to myself—marriage or bust!  

Then I made the big move to New York City, a world I had never even visited before packing everything I owned and boarding a plane. Journalism and the hope of landing a kick-ass job brought me to the city. But living here with this personal commitment has taken on a whole new meaning. Sex is rampant in the city that never sleeps. If the billboards and bus ads don’t prove that point, the general summer wear does.  

Living chastely in a city where that term is a foreign concept takes concrete solutions.  

Despite being very observant, I tend to see but not look. Advertisements like the new Victoria’s Secret 34th Street display that uses bodies to sell products, music videos playing in Times Square or the naked cowboy strumming his guitar are all on the list of things I notice but don’t look at twice. It’s not prudish—it’s just a healthy knowledge of human nature; when bombarded with this at every turn, previous resolve slips and ideals seem less important. 

I don’t do clubs. There’s too much of a sexual vibe in the air, and people are only thinking of one thing on the dance floor. I like bars but steer clear of the crowded rowdy types full of guys with too much testosterone. I drink my Miller Lite or Jack and Coke but know my limits—because I like to keep my wits about me. One of my friends, who was also waiting for marriage, went out one night, had a little too much to drink and woke up the next morning in some guy’s bed. Two months later it turns out she’s pregnant from that first time encounter. No thanks. I have a good time out, but I’m not imprudent.

I’m a firm believer in dressing to show my dignity as a person while in the latest fashions. No “open for business” sign will be emblazoned on my chest as it is on many women on the streets today. I don’t dress like I’m from another era, but I also don’t walk around in skin-tight, ultra-short, cleavage-baring outfits. Guys have enough things to catch their attention; I’d rather my smile be a focal point than my chest.

Lay the groundwork early on—like on the first date. A simple conversation explaining the respect I have for myself and the commitment I’ve made is usually enough to show whether the guy is even worth another 10 minutes of my time.  If he isn’t cool with waiting, I’m not interested in dating. Guys everywhere will push to find a limit so standards are a must. 

And no, this isn’t something I’m going to take back in the  years to come or auction off through Jane magazine. This isn’t a year long commitment like Paris Hilton claimed to make a few months ago or the three years Rivers Cuomo (lead singer for Weezer) has abstained. To me it’s more than a challenge; it’s a way of life.