*Note: I change names to protect the innocently stupid.
Now, it
wasn't my original plan to lose my virginity to my best/worst friend. In
seventh grade sex ed, I was one of the few, proud students (I think there were
3 of us) who raised their hands when the guest speaker asked that day if any of
us planned on waiting 'til marriage.
Personally,
even though at the time I, who hadn't appealed to any guy since grade school
anyway, wanted to wait, I didn't like this guest speaker. She spent the first
half of the class calling up six students and giving them cups of water. One
boy had flaky, orange Cheeto remains in his cup. She then had the students pour
water into each other's cups, "proving" that if you shared fluids
(had sex) with six people, you would get a STD for sure (Cheeto flakes were the
STD.) She then spent the other half of the class telling us how jealous her
daughter's roommates are of her virgin, college daughter, who was waiting until
marriage to "sleep with" (mom language for bang-bang) her wonderful,
virgin boyfriend.
I sometimes
wonder if that actually worked out for our guest speaker's daughter, or if she
eventually had sex with six different partners and got a case of Cheeto-flaked
herpes.
Maybe her
virgin boyfriend cheated on her, causing the perfect daughter to have sex with
a rebound, leather-wearing, Cheeto-eating new boyfriend.
This was my
take-away from sex ed. That, and a day when a random short, slightly pudgy man
with a small bald spot on the top of his head came in and expressed his disgust
for women who put out. Really, I don't know what this little, 30-something
man's qualifications were for talking to impressionable kids with budding
hormones about intercourse, but there he was.
This
speaker told us about how he had a girlfriend who actually agreed to have sex with him! Sounds like he was just
trying to brag, right? No, instead of being grateful,
he slept with her until he married someone else, a good, virginal girl!
"Never
marry the girl you sleep with," was this random, one-day educator's
advice, and I wondered why he would say that to a room that was 3/5ths female.
Don't
worry, I was always very liberal and didn't take his nonsense seriously. I only
wanted to wait and wear a purity ring because the Jonas Brothers wore purity
rings, and Nick Jonas was hot. It was my goal to meet Nick at a concert, fall
in love, wait until marriage in our early twenties, and then sit on his face.
But then,
my $6.95 faux-diamond purity ring designed by Bitten by Sarah Jessica Parker turned my finger green a few weeks
later, and a few of the stones fell off. I took that as a sign. I'm big on
signs. More recently, while I was reading Jen Kirkman's I Can Barely Take Care of Myself, half the flowers my current
boyfriend bought for died, only one day in my care. Super sign. (P.S., I'm thinking Super
Sign will be the title of my first book, or The Rectum is an Exit, Not an Entrance, and Other Negotiable Things.)
What does
this have to do with my story? Did I see a sign that I should sleep with my
best/worst friend, Dallas? No, I was just kinda horny. And my mother was always
accusing me of sleeping (see, mom term) with Dallas. The nerve of her! I
couldn't have one guy friend, freshman year of college!? She was just an old
school, out-of-touch prude! Why couldn't a guy and a girl JUST be friends!? I was so f*ing outraged about this, that I
immediately went to Dallas' house and made the f* out with him!
I also
learned that every square inch of your community college is really a
kissing-zone. Dallas and I made out in the common TV area, the cafeteria,
outside the cafeteria, did upstairs-outsidies in the courtyard, and grinded in
the stairwell.
The stairs
were actually built for this. They
were ideal! Between floors, there
were two sets of stairs separated by a short platform, with very obnoxiously
loud doors at the top and bottom of the stairwell. Not only could we stand in
the middle platform, leaving enough time to walk up or down the stairs if we
heard footsteps either way, but the doors made a loud, Chewbacca-like roar
whenever we were about to be interrupted.
In
conclusion, community college stairwell make-out sessions are awesome, and you
should all try them sometime (unless you're a Harvard or Yale snob. Bleh.)
Not in
conclusion actually, because I have to tell you about deciding whether or not
to lose it to my best friend.
The Pros:
1. He had
experience. A lot of experience.
2. If I
didn't like the actual act, at least I knew I would like the stuff that led up
to it (cause we already did the stuff that led up to it.)
3. My mom
was accusing me of having sex with him anyway (like she accused me of having
sex with everyone), so why not? If I'm a slut, I might as well actually get the
joy out of being a slut!
But, then,
there were The Cons:
1. Dallas
was an idiot.
2. Dallas
was an idiot who slept through all his classes and couldn't keep a part-time job.
3. Dallas
was my best friend, and what if I lost my best friend?
4. Dallas
was an idiot who had been hit by 11 cars.
5. 11 CARS.
ON HIS BIKE. AND HE KEPT RIDING HIS BIKE. WITHOUT LOOKING BOTH WAYS. I PULLED
HIM OUT OF THE WAY OF A CAR ONCE. HE WAS SUPERIOR TO AND STUPIDER THAN A REALLY
STUPID CAT.
And so I
didn't lose my virginity to my best friend, the 11-car-miracle-wonder boy. How did this boy never get in the local
papers?
In case you
are wondering, I also never met Nick Jonas, fell in love, waited until marriage
in our early twenties, and sat on his face. I did go to a Jonas Brothers
concert for my fifteenth birthday, though. That is another story.
