Let me make things perfectly clear: I am a virgin. Never been kissed, disrobed, or had my hand held. Now let me make something even clearer: I’m not a virgin because no one wants to have sex with me, but because I’m incredibly good-looking – think an 11 on a scale of 10 – and I can get anyone I want.

Even though I’m a virgin in every conceivable way, I’ve had many awkward – and universally hilarious – experiences that I’ve decided to share with you in this column space. Let’s start at the beginning. I went on my first date when I was 18, a few months before I journeyed east for the bright lights of Montreal. Suffice it to say, it was life-changing.

I remember the phone ringing and my mother picking it up, shouting that it was for me. But I already knew that – it was Mr. Teen Supreme, my adolescent crush and the ex-boyfriend of my second best friend’s cousin’s uncle. Super awkward, I know.

“Want to go to the mall?” he asked. I shivered with delight. Goodbye virginity!

Mr. Teen Supreme picked me up in a Lexus at 3:57 p.m. He was seven minutes late, and I was freaking out. When he pulled into my driveway, I immediately walked to the driver’s side of the car, and the door hit me in the shins as he clambered out. I started to cry. Not a good start.

On the way to the mall I plugged my iPod into the car’s sound system, and we sped down Main Street listening to “My Heart Will Go On.”

We ended up watching Bruno after our trip to the mall, which was funny, but also a little uncomfortable because I was also a newcomer to on-screen nudity.

He drove me home and I thanked him for the “wicked ride.” Then came the moment of awkwardness I’d been dreading all afternoon: the leaning-backslap-fist-bump-hug. He leaned forward, and I followed suit. He extended one arm, and so did I. As I went for the full-body embrace, though, he turned away and mumbled something about not wanting to date an 18-year-old who had never watched a movie without her family. My face burned as I walked up the stairs to my room.

The next day, I spent hours reading the comments on his Facebook wall and trying to discern the extent to which he was plagued by self-doubt. I sent him a few messages, but that only resulted in him deleting me as a friend. I called his phone, then his mother’s phone, demanding that he grow a pair and provide me with a legitimate reason for breaking up. I never got through to anyone, and after a week, I realized that he had changed his number.

I never stopped thinking about Mr. Teen Supreme – I’m thinking about him now – and this is probably not the last time you will hear about him. Since then, I’ve gone on three other dates to the movies, usually with a group of girls. The thought of being sentenced to a lifetime of leaning-backslap-fist-bump-hugs keeps me awake at night, but as I bide my time waiting for Mr. Right, I can still offer you some of the best non-sex advice you’ve never needed.