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Virginity was not uncommon amongst my high school friends — having gone to a Catholic arts school, our share of male interaction included and was limited to coaxing the occasional boy out of the closet and talking to the young male substitute teacher who’d kindly humor our attempts at flirtation.
Going away for university doe-eyed and hopeful for brand new boy interactions, I had an idea of exactly how I wanted to lose my v-card. For me, the unfortunate stigma surrounding virgins, that they’re prudes, weirdos, unwanted, etc., was a vulnerability that I’d never want to bear before a boy that I really liked. My plan was to meet a cute boy that I liked but not enough to get attached to, and let him set me free into the wild territory of the sexually active. However, despite a couple of frisky dorm room makeout sessions, it was soon time for me to go back home for summer, a virgin still.
A couple of weeks into summer, I met him — a bearded, green-eyed looker in too-short shorts, at a dingy dive bar that didn’t ID and served $10 pitchers of beer, giving him my number out of sheer drunkenness. My date thought he was gay, and so was completely unfazed when he put his number into my phone. I didn’t expect to hear from him, as pretty much all of my past drunken bar connections completely fizzled upon sobering up. Surprisingly, he texted me the morning after, and after a couple of persistent texts, I agreed to see him again.
I’d never been in any sort of relationship, yet alone flirtationship, but I knew this would be a drinking-then-hooking-up type thing. The drunken “dates” eventually led to drunken sleepovers, upon which I gave my first blow job. I was so nervous the first time we heavily hooked up at his place that I insisted on taking a break mid hook-up and going outside for fresh air, which led to us getting locked out of his house — him being completely naked and me in my socks and underwear. I thought he deserved a blow job after having to walk a block in the nude to break into the back door of his house. I remember the actual act being quite sloppy, which I like to blame on my drunkenness and inexperience. He however didn’t seem to notice, finishing quite quickly and determinedly going down on me afterwards to return the favor.
The next time I saw him, I knew that sex would be inevitable — he was 23, I was sleeping over, and we’d done just about everything else. After our next drunk-date, we ended up on his couch with his roommate, who insisted we watch the latest episode of Game of Thrones with him. I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything about the episode, we were engrossed in exploring each other’s bodies next to his much oblivious roommate, who was in a Game of Thrones induced trance.
When the episode finally ended, he carried me up to his room and immediately tore off his clothes. My clothes shortly followed suit, and before I knew it, he’d put on a condom, excitedly telling me he remembered to bring one this time. Before he was about to put it in, I blurted out that I was a virgin, much to his surprise, and he asked me if I wanted to do it. I gave him the go-ahead, and in no time there was a naked man thrusting in and out of me. It hurt wildly for about 3 seconds but didn’t really feel like much afterwards, as I was mostly focused on rejoicing in the relief of my newfound sexual freedom. I ended up bleeding everywhere, which mortified me more than it did him. He just shrugged and pulled me to sleep next to him.
The next morning, I gave him a peck on the cheek, silently laughing in victory my whole way out the door as he started up his washing machine.
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