The summer after my junior year of high school I spent every afternoon with my girlfriend, making out in her basement.  She had moved her bedroom downstairs where she could paint, make a mess, and generally be left alone by her parents. 

Each afternoon we got naked, rolled around on her bed and made out for hours.  She had a few partners before me, but I was new to it all. Each afternoon, she asked me to “put it in”, and I always said no. I was nervous and unsure, but most of all, she never mentioned the word condom.  I wanted to bring it up, but I didn’t have the experience or the comfort level to say a thing.  So, instead, we did other things until finally we broke up a few months later.

A year late I had sex for the first time.  She told me she was anxious.  I told her I wasn’t sure what to do. We bought condoms together, and we tried a few times before we discovered what worked for us. We laughed about it and struggled with it, but after a while we mostly moaned and groaned and screamed our brains out as we learned how to fuck one another.

So, what’s my point?  The way I knew I was ready was when I found someone I could talk to. It wasn’t a matter or timing or love or even lust. It wasn’t about being special or sacred.

Honest communication was what made it work, and I’ve found that to be true for the last twenty years. When I can voice my concerns and have them listened to, when I can state my wants and desires alongside my fears, and when my partner can do the same, then I’m ready. 

So, for me, the old cliche was true.  I couldn’t have sex until I could talk about it. 

I’m not sure if that helps at all, but it’s what I got. For me, the “someone who means something” was the someone I felt comfortable enough with to be honest. And was it important? Absolutely.