She whispered it with a trembling smile, “I am slightly used.”
Her words hung in the air, naked and raw, more honest than most confessions I’ve ever heard. Not a virgin. Not untouched. Not polished like something freshly unwrapped. No—her body had known, her heart had carried, her soul had survived.
And yet, she thought this admission made her less.
Men she met circled her like buyers in a showroom, running their eyes like greedy fingers over invisible price tags. They wanted new cars, but their wallets couldn’t afford the luxury. So, they sampled from the available used cars—test driving souls, spinning wheels, pressing pedals just to feel the rush—then walking away, pretending she wasn’t good enough.
But here’s the thing they never understood.
Not all “used” things are broken. Not all secondhand treasures are diminished. Some are refined. Some carry stories. Some carry secrets that only the fortunate get to unlock.
I leaned closer and told her the truth no one else dared say: “Some camera clothes, the slightly used ones, are even better than the new ones. They have been broken in. They fit the body like a glove. They know how to hold you, how to caress you, how to make you feel… seen.”
She blinked, unsure whether to believe me. Society had carved shame into her skin, whispering that purity is the only currency of love. But love is no auction house. It is no bargain sale.
Even we, in what people call happy marriages, did not marry virgins wrapped in plastic. We married women with scars, women with pasts, women who were slightly used. And you know what? Those women are the very reason we have learned how to taste the richness of intimacy—not in its novelty, but in its depth.
A brand-new car might shine brighter under the showroom lights, but it is the slightly used one that already knows the road, that glides with experience, that whispers confidence in every mile.
So here’s the the question that lingers in the silence: Who told us that being “slightly used” is shameful? Who decided that love is reserved only for the untouched? Who benefits when we keep pretending that experience is a sin rather than a gift?
I’ll tell you this—sometimes the “slightly used” is the most dangerous, the most delicious, the most unforgettable. Because she knows how to love not just with her body, but with her history. With her hunger. With her fire.
And if you’ve ever been lucky enough to hold such a woman, you know— it is not the newness that ruins you. It is the depth.
Her words hung in the air, naked and raw, more honest than most confessions I’ve ever heard. Not a virgin. Not untouched. Not polished like something freshly unwrapped. No—her body had known, her heart had carried, her soul had survived.
And yet, she thought this admission made her less.
Men she met circled her like buyers in a showroom, running their eyes like greedy fingers over invisible price tags. They wanted new cars, but their wallets couldn’t afford the luxury. So, they sampled from the available used cars—test driving souls, spinning wheels, pressing pedals just to feel the rush—then walking away, pretending she wasn’t good enough.
But here’s the thing they never understood.
Not all “used” things are broken. Not all secondhand treasures are diminished. Some are refined. Some carry stories. Some carry secrets that only the fortunate get to unlock.
I leaned closer and told her the truth no one else dared say: “Some camera clothes, the slightly used ones, are even better than the new ones. They have been broken in. They fit the body like a glove. They know how to hold you, how to caress you, how to make you feel… seen.”
She blinked, unsure whether to believe me. Society had carved shame into her skin, whispering that purity is the only currency of love. But love is no auction house. It is no bargain sale.
Even we, in what people call happy marriages, did not marry virgins wrapped in plastic. We married women with scars, women with pasts, women who were slightly used. And you know what? Those women are the very reason we have learned how to taste the richness of intimacy—not in its novelty, but in its depth.
A brand-new car might shine brighter under the showroom lights, but it is the slightly used one that already knows the road, that glides with experience, that whispers confidence in every mile.
So here’s the the question that lingers in the silence: Who told us that being “slightly used” is shameful? Who decided that love is reserved only for the untouched? Who benefits when we keep pretending that experience is a sin rather than a gift?
I’ll tell you this—sometimes the “slightly used” is the most dangerous, the most delicious, the most unforgettable. Because she knows how to love not just with her body, but with her history. With her hunger. With her fire.
And if you’ve ever been lucky enough to hold such a woman, you know— it is not the newness that ruins you. It is the depth.
