Impertinent Question #1, Answered

This is a continuation of this post, in which I answer some impertinent but important questions. This is #1.

1. How old were you when you lost your virginity? Who was it to? Describe the event.

I had just turned 17. I was with my first boyfriend Keith. And he was a cutie boy.

He hand that long-bangs emo thing going, but he wasn’t emo. He was just a nice boy. My dad even liked him. He was Irish Catholic, too. And, naturally, we’d been having lots of oral sex. I was ready for the next thing. I wanted to wait till I was 18, but I knew I couldn’t.

Keith was a virgin too. I think that made him much more attractive to me. Not because he was a nerd, which he was, but because I asked him once, and he said, “no I’m a virgin. I never really had anyone who wanted me that way.”

Shy, awkward. I actually tricked him into asking me out, because he couldn’t. He wanted to ask me, I found out later, but he thought I would have said no, it would ruin the friendship.

In my mind, I had all the friendship I needed. It was high time I started getting some real action.

We’d been doing oral and lots of groping / fingering / stroking / humping, teasing each other and learning how to bring each other off. I learned how to give head with, if not exactly skill, a bit of enthusiasm. Finally one night during a very heavy phone conversation, I decided that I Wanted It.

“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice cracked. That was cute.

“Yes, I am. If we use a condom,” I said.

We agreed on a place, that weekend – his place, while his brother was out and his parents were at work. We set it up for the daytime, so we wouldn’t have to mess with curfews.

I was supposed to be at my summer job that afternoon, but I had called in sick that morning, and didn’t tell my mom or dad. I hurried over to Keith’s house instead.

I don’t remember as much as I would like to. I remember I wanted the lights off and the curtains closed in his room. The radio was on. We kissed for a bit, and then I said, “Let’s get undressed.”

He got out of his clothes pretty fast; I didn’t get the chance to undress him. Maybe he thought I might change my mind if he dawdled.

I got under the covers, then took off my clothes. I was really shy.

He went down on me but he told me he didn’t want me to do the same, “or this may be over with really quick,” he said. He was under the covers, his face between my legs. I looked at the ceiling. There was a crack on the ceiling fixture, I remember. It looked like a spiderweb.

I pulled him up to me by his shoulders. He tried to kiss me but I didn’t like to taste myself. I held his cock in my hand, and rubbed it. He took it from me, and sat up, rolling a condom over it while I looked. I wanted to make sure it was on right.

He got on top of me and started to rub it along my labia. He didn’t know what he was doing, and neither did I, but I held myself as open as I could.

I remember that when he started going in, the song “Dust in the Wind” started playing.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“It might hurt,” I said, clenching my teeth more in anticipation than in real pain. “Just let’s do it.”

He did. He was done long before the song ended. Oh, well.

“Are you OK?” he asked me.

I nodded. “I’m fine,” I said, kissing his sticky cheek.

He looked down. “No blood,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t expect much,” I said. “Horseback riding takes care of most of that.”

“I didn’t hurt you at all?” he asked.

“No, not a bit,” I said. He seemed disappointed. “OK,” I said, “maybe it hurts a little, but really, I’m OK.”

That was just the beginning that summer. We continued to do it a lot; probably every chance we could find to be alone and near a bed. We even checked into a motel a couple of times. He wasn’t that skilled at first, but as familiarity and enthusiasm increased, he got better.

I realize now that I was a hell of a girlfriend. I hadn’t come off of any abuse experiences, I was very giving in bed, and I didn’t play all the typical teenager attention games. I was willing to just hang out and watch a ball game with him, or go see his team play, or listen to his band “rehearse”.

After a few months, I had been going to classes at the local cow college, and he ended up asking me if we could “take a break”. I was somewhat surprised.

“Is there something wrong?”I asked him. “Is there something I did?”

“Well,” he admitted, “I really want to … um… ask Kendra out.”

“Kendra? Kendra?!? That fake goth chick?”

Kendra was the bad seed of our graduating class. Well, not the bad seed, but the wanna-be-bad seed. Black eye makeup, black lipstick, black everything except chalk-chalk-chalk white skin. She looked like she was a tightly-stretched animal hide over a skeleton frame.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, she’s really cool. She turns me on, I guess,” he said, finally.

“Well, why?” I said, looking down.

“She just seems … I dunno, real.”

“‘Real’. Oh.” I got up.

“Don’t be mad, [Yearning Heart].” He got up too. He’d had a few beers, and suddenly he seemed cheap, low-rent, shoddy and completely classless in his fake emo clothes and his stupid surplus store combat boots. He reached out as if to hug me.

“I’m not mad,” I lied, moving away. “I think I need … a break … or something, too. No, really, it’s OK. She’s nice. Ask her out,” I added, and started to leave. “I need to go now.”

“Are we still friends?” he called after me as I left.

“Sure,” I said. But I knew we weren’t.