(Mom stop reading now.)
“I’m having sex tonight.”
“What? With who?”
“I don’t know. I can just feel it.”
“That’s not really how this ‘having sex’ thing works.”
“Fuck you, I know that.”
I was having what has now been dubbed a “Miss Cleo prediction.” My insanely eerie ability to read people had pinpointed a moment of “sexing” in the near future. My first “sexing” moment to be exact, and while yes, technically it was a hunch, and most likely a just self-fulfilling prophecy, that shit turned out to be pretty on point.
He had asked for my number in class two days prior by simply handing me his phone.
“Hey, is this your number?”
“Of course it isn’t. We just met this semester.”
“Oh. Well, put it in my phone then.”
That was it. Simple, concise and discreetly to the point. It was one of my favorite things about him: his hidden directness.
We liked one another that was obvious. But also, we so obviously wanted nothing that resembled a relationship. We were friends, with some pretty heavy heated sexual tension and that was it. He had gotten out of a 4+-year relationship and I was just ready to get the deed done.
It was the perfect match.
I wanted unemotional sex. I never wanted to associate sex with my “first love.” In my mind, my “first love” would forever be associated with heartbreak, failure and eating your feelings, and that shit needed to stay out of my sex life.
So I knew the moment I walked into that sketchy hipster house party on South Main Street alone, I was going to get exactly what I wanted.
He had texted me immediately after running into each other at a concert and after pleading desperately with my best friend to accompany me but to no avail.
“Please, just come! Please! I will buy you anything!”
“No, I will not go with you on your 'get laid' mission. SVU is on.”
I had never gone to a party alone, (and I would later find out that if I was going to a party solo…it was only in attempts to have sexual relations with a specific man at said party), and quickly realized I didn’t quite know the protocol of showing up to a party where I knew absolutely no one. So I drank.
I drank, and I drank and I drankity, drank, drank. Until I saw him come towards me with a red solo cup filled to the brim with PBR. And then I drank, and I drank and I drankity, drank, drank some more.
It hit a point in the night where he and I were the life on the party. We were surrounded. Jokes just flying out of our asses. Literally. If I remember correctly there was a moment where I turned, pointed to my ass and screamed, “Joke!”
Like I said, life of the party, but then it turned serious. He had taken off his shirt for a joke or whatnot and without any hesitation or thought, I blurted out,
“If you asked me, I would say yes.”
Everyone stopped.
“Let’s go inside.”
We ended up on a hidden staircase in the basement. My ironic white dress pulled up around my waist. Him kissing the corner of my neck in such an orgasmic way that has yet to be replicated by another other man.
There on those uneven steps, that would also lead to the worst sexual sprains of my life, it happened.
And was fun, and enjoyable and slightly painful at the beginning, but most importantly, it was good. DAMN GOOOOOOD. Well with the exception of those two stoned chicks accidently walking in, it was quite possibly the best first time ever.
I was so happy with all my choices. I was so happy I had waited until I was twenty, and that I chose my first time to be with a friend that I felt no emotional commitment and/or attachment to, and thus would never associate this great moment with sadness when our relationship inevitably went sour.
I had won. I beat the odds, without even having to tell him I was a virgin! Double score.
And then I looked down.
“What is that on your shirt?”
Uh oh.
“Maybe you cut yourself?”
He was going to ask. I tried to spew out a lie in attempts to hide my embarrassing truth, but he beat me to the punch.
“Were you a virgin?”
“Nope.”
Lies! All lies! But he was drunk enough to believe it, and I was drunk enough to think my only real choice for an escape from this potentially embarrassing hellhole was a two mile walk of shame back to my apartment, littered with lewd cat calls and a few “Hey baby! What’s that on your dress? Lemme clean that off for you,” inquiries.
To this day, that guy doesn’t know he took my virginity, (well he doesn’t know I gave him my virginity). He graduated a year before me, and we lost contact pretty quickly afterward. He was a friend. Nothing more, nothing less. There were no roses placed strategically around the staircase. We didn’t hold hands and talk about our hopes and dreams for the future. We had sex. Good-ol fashioned, accidently semi-public, sex.
I wouldn’t want it any other way.