You Can’t Break the Hymen if You Miss the Hole, Brad

A short historical roast of purity, hymens, and the bizarre capitalist resale value of women’s bodies.

Virginity was invented by men who couldn’t find the clit, couldn’t read a room, and definitely shouldn’t have been left alone with a scroll and a quill. It is not a real thing. It is a centuries-long panic attack in a wig. A myth built by insecure men who saw women experiencing pleasure and thought “we must regulate that immediately.” There is no medical definition. No scientific proof. Just folklore, fear, and a lot of grown adults acting like a tiny piece of vaginal tissue is the spiritual gate to womanhood.

If you still believe in virginity, I assume you also believe the hymen is a magical blood lock, the clit is a leftist conspiracy, and that women bleed their sins out on satin sheets just for dramatic effect. This isn’t biology. It’s rebranding. A long, patriarchal marketing campaign designed to convince women their worth expires the minute they feel good. So let’s begin. A quick roast of the lie — and the men who built a global moral crisis around the word “pure.”

The hymen is not a seal. It is not a freshness sticker. It is not a divine pop-up notification that says “Access granted: now ruined.” It’s a stretchy bit of tissue that varies from person to person, and in some cases, barely exists at all. You can wear it down riding a bike, doing gymnastics, sneezing too hard, or simply living in a world that treats your body like a sacred vault with a price tag.

But of course, men turned it into a mystical force field guarding the gates of virtue. “Popping your cherry” is a fantasy invented by men who needed to feel like Indiana Jones entering the Temple of Vaginal Doom. To this day, women are still subjected to virginity tests, hymen reconstruction surgeries, and “re-virginisation” packages advertised like wellness retreats. All of it based on vibes, shame, and zero actual science. Need proof? Here’s what’s been considered “evidence” of virginity throughout history:

• Not bleeding on the wedding night = witch

• Bleeding too much = cursed

• Not screaming = suspicious

• Being confident during sex = clearly a whore who’s been possessed by Satan and also probably French

It’s not medicine. It’s medieval fan fiction.

The hymen isn’t a moral indicator. It’s just tissue.

You’re not impure. He’s just mad you didn’t leave a Yelp review stamped in blood.

Virginity was never about innocence. It was about ownership. Once upon a deeply cursed time, a woman’s so-called purity could buy a plot of land, merge two warring families, or earn her father a goat and some social clout. It wasn’t sex. It was property law. A financial exchange based on whether or not your vagina had been previously visited. We’re talking dowries, bride prices, marriage contracts, and the iconic but deeply unhinged tradition of laying out the bedsheets post-wedding night like some traumatised gendered version of CSI: Medieval Edition.

And before you think it’s just history: fast forward. We now have teenage girls making TikToks about saving themselves for marriage while their dads smile creepily in the background like purity-ring pimps. There are entire purity balls in the US where daughters pledge their virginity to their fathers like it’s a stock option. The whole thing feels like a cult where the main deity is Dad’s Approval and the ghost of a hymen that never existed.

And let’s not forget the modern resale market. Women are still being judged on their “body count” like we’re vintage handbags losing value every time someone unzips us. The idea that a woman loses worth after sex is just patriarchy dressed up in resale logic and sold to insecure men who think their own virginity is adorable and hers is a moral crisis.

Celebs are still asked if they’re virgins like it’s a Netflix spoiler. Grown men say they “don’t date women who’ve slept with too many guys” while having the sexual restraint of a damp Greggs napkin. It’s not about purity. It’s about control. And a truly deranged level of male delusion dressed up as tradition.

Purity culture is porn with a Bible filter. It’s not holy, it’s horny with better branding. The entire obsession with virginity doesn’t desexualise women; it turns them into slow-burn fantasy objects who exist solely to be “unwrapped” like a prize on a game show hosted by Jesus. It’s not purity, it’s pre-approved, scripture-themed objectification.

You’ve got purity rings being handed out like communion snacks, fathers pledging to protect their daughter’s hymens like they’re national monuments, and Disney Channel graduates apologising on talk shows for kissing someone before marriage while their co-stars rack up DUIs and get Spotify redemption arcs. Meanwhile, girls are told their value is in what they haven’t done. Their resumes are just one long list of “never.” Never touched, never seen, never wanted it. Men get “boys will be boys.” We get “God’s watching you touch yourself.” No babe. You’re not holy. You’re just horny and repressed with a Hillsong playlist and a tab open for abstinence merch.

Let’s be real. The only reason virginity ever got this much press is because men couldn’t be arsed to learn where the clit was. They erased it from sex-ed, ignored it in science, and still somehow think it’s mythical. There are better diagrams of Bigfoot than there are of the clitoris in most school textbooks. The Greeks thought it was a disease. The Victorians thought it was optional. Modern men? Still treating it like a boss level in a game they never learned to play.

Imagine inventing an entire global hierarchy just because you couldn’t look half an inch down. That’s not empire. That’s erectile distraction. If the clit had been studied, respected, and correctly spelled in Year 9 biology class, the virginity myth would have crumbled like the ego of the man who wrote it. The clit doesn’t care if you’re a virgin. It just wants consistency, clean fingers, and lighting that doesn’t make your trauma flashback.

Virginity is not something you lose. It’s something they invented so you’d keep your mouth shut, your legs closed, and your worth discounted at the slightest hint of autonomy. It was never about your body. It was about their control.

Your value has never lived in your “first time.” It lives in your first real yes. Your first safe no. Your first moment of pleasure that didn’t come with shame stitched into the sheets.

Virginity is a myth. The clit is not.

Stop giving men credit for “taking” something that was never theirs. You’re not impure. You’re not broken. You’re just unbrainwashed.

And they’re terrified of what you’ll do now that you know.