I lost my virginity on a one night stand.
Not entirely original, I know. But for a privileged, educated white female born in the late 80s to middle-class parents who opted for liberal city living and alternative public schools, who could expect much more “radicalism”? I grew up on Disney princesses and the feminist backlash. I graduated high school with a Women’s Studies course under my belt, and I spent summers lazing on city park greens watching friends roll blunts and sneak sips of 40s or bottom-shelf libations from their voluminous purses and backpacks. My sexual liberation? Well, fuck, you gotta get some first. So here goes.
The story goes like this: I am 23. (Old, right? I still think so). A close college friend is in town for a visit, and we’re going out. Of course, in lady-speak, this means I’m taking her dancing. We go to a trendy hipster club that has an actual line outside door. Why so surprising? Well, this club serves its cocktails out of mason jars, for starters. And its dance floor is decorated with a woodsy pine mural and chandeliers made out of antlers. It’s just how the 206 does classy, y’all. So there we are, going into this club full of men in beards and flannel and women in sheer H&M tops and tiny patterned skirts. I, on the other hand, am wearing a pastel pink tulle skirt (fine, a tu-tu) and a white sleeveless blouse. I look adorable and also a bit ridiculous, but I am in fact pulling it off because I have one of those attitudes that says fuck you if you don’t believe me.
My friend and I are dancing and having a good time when a group of seven or eight guys wearing the same t-shirt come onto the floor. They are wearing one of those tuxedo shirts, gag gifts no one seriously wears in public, and on the back is a terribly awkward photo of some guy’s floating, over-sized head Photoshopped onto a groom cake topper.
Yes, dear readers, they are a bachelor party. And what does this girl do? Make friends. I dance with them, and surmise after many attempts at audible conversation that they are fraternity brothers. From Canada. I ask why they are dancing at a bar here, in a city no one would call a party. Why aren’t they at a strip club, or in Vegas? They shrug; not that kind of stag party, I guess.
Quickly, I set my sights on one taller guy who is scruffy and blondish. After a couple of songs, it’s clear his frat bros are pushing him to talk with me, dance near me. We try to chat, and we dance around each other for many songs. When last call comes, I assume it’s the end of the night and that it will just be another funny anecdote. But it turns out my friend, who has for the past hour or so been AWOL, has also met a man and she has decided to leave with him for the night so they can keep “talking”. So there I am, standing outside smoking with the stag party. I find out they are going to “an after-hours joint”; I toss out names for a few places to see if I know of it, and they are surprised when I share I had never heard of nor been to it. So I go with them, because how could I not know about this place? And there, at this after-hours, living-room sized electronic club, I dance with the scruffy boy. And it’s clear we’re leaving together. So we do, and then this is where the story becomes my own, I mean really my own, and not one you’ve heard before (I promise).
We hit the street together, and start walking. His hotel? Negative–he’s splitting a room with five other guys. (I’m so not into group sex, y’all). So we have to go to mine, except that mine is also my dad’s. And while I have my own rear entrance and the entire basement floor to myself, I still live at home. It’s totally lame, but while I know it is (and was) very much temporary, it was clear that my living circumstance made him a little uncomfortable. Did I mention he’s older? No? Well, he is. He’s 28, and he works for the Canadian government in the labor department or something. He is an adult, that much is clear. Me? I look like a little girl playing dress up. But then we walk into the house and he’s still a little drunk and I’m not entirely sober. We go into my room and then we’re kissing, and he tastes good and everywhere he touches me feels warm; adrenaline is coursing through my body and I am literally aching to know where his hands will go next and what he looks like shirtless and how his chest feels against my skin. And so when he manages to pull my fluffy skirt up over my chest, my top and bra both coming off in seconds, I hear myself asking whether he has a condom, please tell me he has a fucking condom, and holy shit am I more adept at taking off a man’s pants than I thought I was. And he has a condom, so he puts it on and then pushes me back on my bed and kisses my hips and stomach and breasts and then his hands are pushing my thighs down against the mattress and then, there, he’s inside me. And it hurts, it does. But only for a few seconds, and then I am holding him closer and rolling my hips up toward him and we’re having sex. Just like that. There’s no music, no romance. If memory serves, we left the light on. But we’re two consenting adults and I made the decision that I was having sex and I wanted to have sex with him.
And then as soon as he starts, he stops, and looks down, and asks me if I’m on my period. Yep, this is where the really sexy stuff starts, dear reader.
And I pause and respond cautiously, “No…” and look down. There’s blood on my sheets, and I freak out a little in my head. I apologize and get up to go the bathroom, then I sit on the toilet and feel absolutely mortified. And of course the blood does not stop right away, so I turn on the shower and hop in. My man for the night knocks on the bathroom door to see if I’m alright, obviously concerned and I would assume totally freaking out, but I am ok. I mean, I’m pretty embarrassed I bled everywhere but I am, physically, fine. And I tell him so. I lie, and tell him it’s been a few years since I last had sex–and it was only once–so it must be that. By then I’ve regained some composure and cleaned off, so I invite him into the bathroom and he gets into the shower with me. We kiss in there, and he’s really sweet; he’s cautious and gentle at first, but I tell him it’s ok and that he’s not going to physically hurt me. And we start again.
You want to know why I lied, right? Why I didn’t reveal my virginity when it was clear that my hymen had broken? See, I didn’t want him to know. Losing my virginity was for me, and me alone. And, aside from the inevitable physical situation in which I found myself immediately after said sexual act, it was none of his business that he was my first. Sex, for me, didn’t need to be emotional. I am comfortable with myself and my body; I don’t need to know someone intimately to feel sexual desire towards them. I knew that already, and the timing felt right. I wanted to lose my virginity because I felt like it. I wanted to have sex, and I decided to do it with him.
Looking back, is that fair? Not at all. I don’t know what he thought then, or what he thinks about it today. My cynical brain insists I’m just another horror story to him, a drunk aberration or at best a funny story of his youthful antics. But to me, all it meant was that I wanted to feel what sex was. I wanted to feel good; I wanted to feel pleasure that was different from that created by good food or lots of booze or drugs. So I lied. I brushed aside my broken hymen like it didn’t matter so I pretended it didn’t.
And so we fucked in the shower and it felt really, really good. We moved back to the bed–after putting a towel down first, we’re adults here– and it was clear he was too drunk to come. Or maybe he wasn’t comfortable, so he couldn’t (or didn’t). So we talked and fooled around for a bit, and I played with his balls because he asked me to and then I really put myself on the map. I mean, REALLY. Are you ready, dear readers, for this mortifying tidbit?
I compared his balls to horse balls. And told him I think penises are weird. I mean, my exact words weren’t those. I think it went something like this:
“Nothing. Just… thinking.”
“About what? Share.”
“Well, ok, so women totally got the better deal, anatomically speaking.”
“I mean, the female form is just so much more physically pleasing to the eye, you know, circles and all that. And male genitalia…. Ok, well, the penis is kind of funny. And balls are weird.”
“*awkward laughter* What?”
“Well, uh, I just mean that penises, in general, are kind of anatomically strange when you think about it. I mean, I grew up familiar with the phallus ’cause I used to ride horses and work in a barn so I’ve seen large ones but still balls are just… weird.”
There’s not much to say after all that, is there? I’m pretty sure I redeemed myself a little bit (I now hope) when the conversation turned towards whether men like to be tugged (oh come on, we’ve all seen that Sex and the City episode!) and what he likes and what I can do that he likes…
You get the idea. When we realized how late it was–4am–we decided to sleep. While he promptly rolled over and passed out, I mostly laid there thinking and absorbing all of it. And I was happy. I mean, I wanted him to touch me and not be totally absent, sleeping and snoring lightly on the other side of the bed. However, I also felt I couldn’t expect much because he was basically a stranger; I didn’t feel empowered enough to demand a little post-coital cuddles. (Note: now, I feel much empowerment in that regard–if you fuck me, I get to demand what I want.) But, hymen and post-coital activities aside, I was happy with the situation.
In the morning, I drove him back to his hotel. That drive was uncomfortable, and probably the worst thing about the whole experience: both of just sitting in this space, not knowing what to say first. And of course the awkward was prolonged: I had to drive around in circles looking for the hotel because he couldn’t remember its name–turns out he had gotten wasted in the car with some of his buddies before they even checked in. After a few phone calls, he figures out the hotel. When I finally arrive, he kisses me on the cheek and thanks me for the ride. Then he gets out of the car and leaves. We don’t exchange numbers because, well, what’s the point? He lives in Canada. I never asked his last name, either, so I couldn’t Facebook or Internet stalk even if I wanted to. He is gone, and I doubt I’ll see him again. And I’m 100% fine with that.
I do know his first name, of course. But a girls’ gotta have some secrets. So, in honor of my best college friends to whom I told this same story to later that day, my first will be forever known as “The Mountie”. Because, well, Canada. And well, you know, he mounted me. For the first time. Ever. Yeah.
And that’s the story, which the Internet now has on record. I will be sharing the others that came after, and perhaps even as they happen in, albeit slightly delayed, real time (who would blog as they had sex? That’s just rude), but that’s for another post and another day. What I can tell you now is that there is less awkward. And I literally mean LESS awkward. Because I really have no clue what I’m doing; I just know that I like doing it.
Until next time,
The Blushing Lush