When I was 17, I had sex with a man 14 years my elder. I lied, and said that I was 21. I said that my name was Sabrina. I was really bored that evening. The suburbs do that to people, so it seems.

He had graduated from Yale Law, and was an attorney at some firm whose name escapes me. Why did I do things like this? Was I this desperate for some sort of adventure? Why was this the way that I entertained myself? 

But was it really that out of the ordinary?  Isn’t everyone just looking for something, for someone, for anything? For the next step. For validation. For someone, anyone, who won’t judge you. To feel understood. To feel like all of this, everything, is worth it? It seemed as though we were all looking for the same things. But no one could find them.

I cried right after we had sex. I wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t done a thing wrong. I just felt so... empty. Wasn’t sex supposed to equate love? Society, at the very least, seemed to imply that it was best to always intertwine the two.

But here I was, 17 and emotionally removed. And I wasn’t going to apologize for that. Or for crying, for that matter.

I grabbed my purse and left. Abruptly. This evening had been a waste of my time. Nothing more.