The Birheng Kapre: Confessions of a 6-foot, 23-year-old virgin baller
My friends call me the Birheng Kapre.
It’s a corny inside joke that isn’t subtle at all, but I’ve learned to not pay attention to it through the years. It started when I was 16 and in college. Now I’m 23 and I have to say, the joke is getting stale.
Just like most of my friends in our 20s, I make decisions on a whim. And no, it’s not purely because of the Gen-Z stereotype where we want instant gratification. It’s just who I am.
First of all, I’m a basketball player.
Being spontaneous is vital when you’re playing basketball. A six-footer hurtling toward you like a comet—his wide frame seizing at you, not caring what’s about to happen to you once you collide. It’s all good, very effective. I find myself very powerful on the court, and no one dares to approach me.
One look at me and you’d see a force of nature, a towering Moreno that can throw you down and make you stay there. Humility aside, I know I’m not bad-looking, but the moniker stuck. So have the assumptions: “Matangkad ka, ilan na girls mo?” “Marami ka na sigurong napaasa.”
These are just some of the words that I hear often. And the worst that deserves a spot in the Hall of Fame: “You’re six foot tall. You must be a f–kboy”
Imagine hearing that when you haven’t touched a girl in your life—ever.
It’s not that I haven’t had the chance, I’ve had a girlfriend and a few flings here and there, but when the time came for the deed—as with any decision I make in the heat of the moment—I simply decide: No.
The first time that it happened, I was still with my first girlfriend. Raised as a religious mama’s boy, I found myself in a situation I never expected.
Unlike in basketball, I wasn’t on top of my game when it came to my sex life. I haven’t even trained for this. It was so awkward that I froze in worry that I’d disappoint my mother and Jesus Himself. “I’ll be going to hell in my dreams,” I thought. So I told my girlfriend that we shouldn’t try it again. She respected my decision, but I knew she felt the bitter sting of rejection.
But that experience, that moment, that first—it will last forever.
Meanwhile, the last time it happened was in a completely different emotional realm: I was with a stranger I met on the Internet. A new thought came to mind: What if I never see this person again? What if this person will leave and take away the thing I’ve held onto for 23 years? That split-second of decision, the shot clock ticking. I said no, again.
For all the girls near and far between, I’m not sure how to feel about never taking that last shot. Rarely did I take the free shots at basketball in my younger years. I’d like to think that I’m more of a giver than a taker. In basketball, it’s the pure point guard and the defensive juggernaut.
The pandemic has also made it extremely difficult to get to know people beyond the surface level. While I’ve enjoyed swiping left and right at beautiful women at my disposal, I can’t help but feel that this isn’t the way to really get to know anyone, let alone well enough to know—and show —the dirtiest parts.
I know, some people reading this are probably face-palming right now. But forgive me, I know that I don’t want it just yet. Though it sounds like a total cliché, I want my first to be memorable, to be with someone I love—not just some one-night hookup that will leave me high, dry, and feeling like the rest.
Being raised in a God-fearing household might have lent a hand to it. But really, the celibacy has become more spiritual than religious.
I make decisions on a whim, but sex is something that has always felt sacred, no matter what the world screams. No matter how far away I get from the religious environment I grew up in. I’m not a believer anymore, I know very well that virginity is a construct for both genders and it has hurt more than it had helped. But still, I want to stick with this belief.
The experience, the moment, that first—it will last forever. I’d rather wait for it than give it to some stranger who will just come and go.
And I know I’m not the only one. In recent years, the term volcel (voluntary celibates) has cropped up in small Internet communities like Reddit.
Compared to their bitter counterparts that are the incels (involuntary celibates) that thrive on misogyny and downright harassment because they can’t get women, voluntary celibates see it as a conscious decision to stray away from sex, whatever their reasoning may be—it rolls off the tongue better than Birheng Kapre, too!
Though I wouldn’t go as far as proclaiming I'm part of a group of fellow virgins, there’s a comfort in knowing that the Gen-Z culture is more than the sex culture that the media portrays. While we may be spontaneous, I’d like to think that this spontaneity is borne from substance.
I want to shoot that shot but just like the NBA greats, I’m in it for the win, not for the grand alley-oop gesture.
