Alright, I’m done yammering on about Seattle.
I’m ready to tell you about how I lost it…
I was never one of those people that put much value in being a virgin. I didn’t see the appeal of it. I still don’t. I didn’t so much ‘lose’ it as I did hurl it away from me like a live grenade.
I was ready to get it over with when I was 13. Luckily, mother nature, in her wisdom, made me completely unappealing to the opposite sex for many, many years. Which was good, because I have always liked men in their 30s and 40s.
By the time I was a senior in high school, I felt like the only girl that had never even officially kissed a boy. I was a fucking leper. And I was beyond ready to stop being a virgin.
I was always mooning over someone. But I am shockingly good at a) choosing the wrong guy. b) hiding my feelings so well that nobody in their right mind could possibly suspect I liked them in even a platonic way. And c) being so fucking awkward that even if someone did like me and I managed to show some semblance of interest I would put them off pretty quickly once they got to know me.
But that all changed when I met G. He was in my calculus class. I had never seen him before, which was noteworthy in my town. He was so handsome. He is still the objectively best looking person I have ever dated.
It turns out he was new at my school. And an exchange student from Germany. And in the wrong math class. We kept making eye contact the whole hour and a half.
I knew I would only get one chance to snatch him up for myself. I quickly scribbled him a ridiculous note with my phone number on it and gave it to him after class. For some unknown reason, he called me and asked me out.
We really got along. My awkward weirdness didn’t put him off. He got my sense of humor. And did I mention the accent and that he was really handsome? I still have a major thing for both foreign men and accents. They seem to like me more than American men too, even now.
I was ready to have sex before we ever went on that first date. But my friends told me I had to go out with him a few times. For some reason. Besides, I had no place to actually have sex considering we were two broke teenagers that lived at home.
I drove a pickup truck back then and decided that I was going to make it happen. In the bed of my truck. Like a total pimp.
On our third date I brought a blanket and condoms and drove him out to a deserted orange grove. Orange blossoms have always been my favorite flower scent.
I suggested we lie down in the back and look at the stars. We lay there and talked for a while. He called me his girlfriend and that turned into a huge talk about our relationship and suddenly I had my first boyfriend.
I told him I wanted to have sex. And since he had done it with two girls back in Germany (allegedly) I expected him to know what he was doing. We started kissing and got undressed.
No foreplay, no romance. He showed me how to use a condom and then we commenced to doing it.
Only, we didn’t. Because for some strange reason, it didn’t fit. We tried for close to an hour, both of us getting increasingly frustrated until we gave up. It was awful.
I drove him home feeling like a failure. More than a failure; I felt cursed. Cursed with virginity.
I have always had close male friends. The next day at work one of them asked me if I had finally done it. I hung my head in shame and told him the whole story.
He asked me about foreplay. But I wasn’t sure what that entailed. Foreplay had never even occurred to me. This was before I had access to the depravity and information of the internet. I actually knew very little about how sex worked.
I had seen a few of my father’s vintage porn tapes on VHS. They never needed stretching or foreplay. And in movies that shit always appeared to work or fit or whatever. Not that they ever really showed anything. They kissed once or twice and then got down to business. Wasn’t that how it worked?
It’s not like I could get sex books out of the library. I think The Tropic of Cancer was the raciest thing I ever read. But that still didn’t explain the mechanics of anything. Mostly it was shocking language.
The one bookstore in my town was a family Christian bookstore. They didn’t even carry Catcher in the Rye because of the prostitute scene. It’s a small, close minded town.
Both the school and library computers had strict parental controls. And don’t even get me started on the school sponsored sex ed program. Their mantra was ‘just say no.’
Those were dark times, readers. When all I had to go on was hearsay and rumors from my barely more experienced peers.
So the next Friday night, I took G back to that orange grove and tried to initiate some of this foreplay I had heard tell about. But he wasn’t interested. At all. I couldn’t figure it out.
We finally had terrible, terrible sex. But at least I wasn’t a virgin anymore.
The sex with him continued to be consistently bad for the duration of our relationship. It was so bad that I didn’t understand why sex was such a big deal in our society. And I certainly didn’t think it was worth getting an STD, or worse, pregnant over.
After we broke up and he headed back to Germany, I heard that he was gay. So that solved one mystery.
And I went on to have decent sex happily ever after.