) You know that I love her and have been brainstorming ideas for how to propose to her. You know that she is deeply Christian and doesn't believe in sex before marriage, and that I wasn't sure she'd ever change her mind. For her, it's almost as serious as marriage, because to turn her back on her values is to forever alter the way she lives her life. And, finally, you know that both she and I are (were) virgins. Suddenly, those four words have a whole galaxy of meaning and memory behind them. They indicate long patience and compromise; they indicate a new way of life for "Caitlyn"; and you can probably imagine some of the fumbling that went on--not to mention the wide-eyed glances, the way she and I felt as we saw things about each other for the first time, the things we must have whispered afterwards, the way we must have clung to each other. Suddenly it means something. Because of the subtext, four words contain a ten-page essay's worth of meaning. And when you say, "I'm glad for you," you probably mean it. (And of course, this conversation could only have happened about a year ago, because "Caitlyn" and I have been broken up since late November.)) But in the end, unless the sex happens to someone The Reader cares about--someone The Reader cares about; the author's feelings are irrelevant--we aren't going to remember your tale at all. Not even tentacles are that interesting. 
