Artwork by Josh Evans
The first time I thought would be my first time, didn’t go exactly to plan. A combination of the wrong boy, his words, and an uncomfortable fit all led to the downfall of my cherry-poppin’ plan.
Having seen a motion picture or two and read some teen novels in my time, at 19 I figured I must have been the last girl on earth to have not done the nasty. Imagine, almost 20, and not one pregnancy scare had wracked my girly bits. I was clearly destined to die alone, perhaps with photographs of cats that had once been mine but had seen the light and run away. There was no need for a chastity belt—I was the Human Contreceptor, exterminating desire at every hideous turn.
And then—a boy! A sweet, tipsy boy. This boy—who I soon found out was actually a man, older than me by a number that required two hands to count—was lovely, in an untidy way.
Admittedly, he didn’t make it to that first date we organised … nor the second or third, but baby, he kept calling and I took Bieber’s advice and never said never. The night finally came. He had cancelled our movie date earlier that day, but at 2am my phone rang.
“I miss you,” he said. “I’m sorry,” he said. Ten minutes later I was at his house.
For a man who was nearing 30, he lived like a 14-year-old boy. To this day, I have never seen mess like it. There were tectonic plates of rubbish that shifted around his room, colliding with miniature earthquakes that spewed dirty shirts and undefinable detritus across the carpet. Luckily, his bed was close enough to the door of his room that I didn’t have to put my feet on the living mass that was his floor. (I did, later, lose my bra in there. I swear it was consumed by a creature of the deep.)
Knowing this was a booty call (HURRAH, thought I. I HAVE BOOTY WORTH CALLING), I did think it sweet when he put on a film to make the ’movie date’ charade a little more real. However, I thought it less sweet that the film he chose was a gritty terrorism thriller that revolved around blowing foreigners to pieces in the name of ‘Merica ‘n’ justice ‘n’ shit. Romance never died, sisters, it just got distracted by military-grade weaponry.
The plot was mildly interesting, so we spooned away and watched until suddenly everything went dark. No, there was no blackout. No, there was no problem with the movie. Prince Charming just stretched my shirt over my head, where it got stuck on my face.
This boy dashed many of my fantasies that day—in particular the myth that ’older guys’ know what they’re doing. Well, this older guy had had some girlfriends who let him get away with a Poor on their Sexual Satisfaction review.
There was biting raw of parts that didn’t enjoy being bitten. There were fingers jamming away and stubble chafing a lifetime’s supply of skin off my face. Just to make it stop (and perhaps he was more cunning than I gave him credit for) I turned the tables and offered him a blowjob.
“Please stop what you are doing, I would prefer to have your penis in my mouth than for you to ever try and pleasure me again, thank you.”
And here is where his kind words come in to play.
Gentlemen, if a lady ever tells you, mid-slurp, that she has never had a sexual reproductive organ in her mouth, then the polite thing to say is definitely not “No shit?? Seems like you’ve done it heaps of times!”
Do not backhand-compliment a girl while she has your tender parts between your teeth.
After providing a slag-worthy show of lip service, my man then grabbed my arms, dragged me onto my back on the mattress and he settled down for a tussle.
After reminding him that condoms exist (and then watching in horror as he dug around on the floor for a packet) he again settled in for the show.
And then PAIN. If you are a girl, you may know this pain. If you don’t know the pain of a virgin being de-virginised, put your fingers in your mouth and pull your lips as far sideways as you can. Do you feel that pulling, tearing, stretching sensation? Imagine that times a billion in your sensitive cellar parts.
My man was in turns delighted and bemused by the achingly slow and uncomfortable struggle to conquer my castle—although, his comments about how he “must be the biggest thing you’ve ever seen!” were wholly unnecessary. It was at this stage that I replied, “You’re the only thing I’ve ever seen.”
He stopped. Lodged in, but out, he trembled on his man-arms then scuttled backwards down the bed (the emergency ejection also hurt, thank you).
“Oh, no,” he said. “Aw, sorry,” he said. “Shit. I don’t do virgins.”
And so, the great romance of the 21st Century was over. He kept my bra and my dignity, and I left confused about whether I was still
technically a paragon of purity or whether I was a buffet sandwich that someone selected, then rejected, remembering at the last minute that they hated that particular filling.
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