Losing Virginity

by Ava Michaels

  The rest of the classroom responded with a chorus of mumbles and groans. I sat up straight at attention, thrusting my breasts out, pushing my shoulders back and trying to look as composed as possible for someone who got about four hours sleep. Everyone in the room probably had a full day already, too. Or, more likely, were still recovering from last night's hangover.

  I couldn't stop thinking about the night before. I mean, did the one thing I'd failed to accomplish since I'd sprouted breasts have to be so rudely rubbed in my face with all of that grunting and caterwauling? Was that really necessary? I knew Jess was this extreme party girl, hitting every frat house, making the circuit nightly, and I was glad that she had found ... Whatever it is that she'd found. But listening to her and "Gaines" and Tiffany making noise all night had just put the final nail in the coffin for me.

  None of the guys slumped in their desks throughout the room interested me in the least. They seemed like cookie cutter males wearing either jeans or khakis. Apparently it was against some code to have them washed and wrinkle free. T-shirts are okay but does it have to be a rock band from the 1960’s? Who cares about The Who anymore? Just at a quick glance in this class alone there was a dude with the famous Rolling Stones lips on it. Some nerd wearing The Beatles and of course, no tribute to perhaps the worst era fashion wise would be complete without Jimi Hendrix. And that was a chick wearing that one. You know they bought these at Traxx or some other equally weird store. So, to say the pickings were slim in this class was an understatement for this underclassman. But I knew that there was some guy on this campus who would be happy to woo or maybe enchant, or perhaps just cover me with kisses and bring me into this other plain that every other Dartmouth girl seemed to have already reached.

  I opened my textbook. Sexual Practices of the Yanomamo tribe. How appropriate. Maybe Gaines would get along with these people.

  My eyes glazed over throughout Professor Tunde's lesson. Honestly, the only way I could keep my eyes open and seemingly alert was to focus on him - the confident way he carried himself, his sturdy but slender frame and dark skin. He was short but well-built, with broad shoulders and an intense, intelligent face. His eyes were sharp. An undeniably attractive man of late forties maybe even early fifties. At times during the lecture, I could feel him looking right at me, and I felt stirrings that I most definitely didn't want to be feeling during Cultural Anthropology Class! It could have been him, but it was more a case of being horny. There’s only so much you can do for yourself.

  "... and the Yanomamo were also known to marry their daughters off as soon as their menstruation cycles began, which could happen as early as ten or twelve." He stated this as if he were reciting a grocery list,

  Lovely. Just the thing I need to be thinking about today - menstrual cycles and forced marriages. They both were bad to me. Menstrual cycles were worse based on firsthand experience. I always wondered WHY PERIODS? Why can't Mother Nature just text me and be like, 'Waddup girl. You ain't pregnant. Have a great week. Talk to you next month.' If only that was the truth.

  There were the smallest ghosts of sweat stains spreading from under Professor Tunde's arms through his designer shirt, and I kept thinking about what he might look like without it. The shirt, that is. The sweat didn’t seem to bother me at all. Sweating and teaching us about the Yanomamo? I’m surprised it was required by the school board. Was last night really getting to me this much? I couldn't keep on like this.

  Eventually Professor Tunde turned down the lights and put on a film strip – really scratchy, outdated 1970's anthropological stuff. I was happy to be in the dark now and to have something taking my mind off my professor and his sweaty designer shirt.

  Lucky me - the film began with a shot of none other than Professor Tunde - standing in the in the middle of the Amazon rain forest. He claimed that the footage was indeed from his time in the Amazon in the 1970's. Holy hell though; he only looked about ten years younger! Tunde seemed to be like one of those poor fellows who suffer from Dick Clark Disease. Dick Clark didn’t age until about three years before his death. I think he was about 106 years old at that time. Up until then he looked exactly as he did on American Bandstand back when my parents were teenagers. Needless to say, women do not suffer from this disease.

  I couldn't believe that our teacher had gone out himself into the asshole of South America to live with those savages. But that's exactly what he did. And, not unexpectedly, as I watched the film, my mind started to wander.

  Did you know the women of the Yanomamo tribe are prohibited from participating in almost any of the activities that the males do, except for "endocannibalism?"

  Do you know what endocannibalism is? I didn't either. Apparently, it's the practice of eating the deceased of one's own tribe in order to keep their spirit surviving through the ages.

  Did you know that Roy Hamel, who sits two desks to my right, has this huge boner almost every class and seems completely unashamed of? Frankly, it was huge. But totally gross, none-the-less. Not in Professor Tunde’s class, pal. Show some respect I thought as I gave him a dirty look he didn’t see.

  Did you know that the Yanomamo ingest a hallucinogenic drug called Yakoana in order to meet spirits? Smells a lot like the 3rd floor of Dunbar Hall on a Saturday night to me.

  The class made the requisite "ewwwws" and "nastys" during Professor Tunde's video. Throughout it, he was leaning back in his chair, feet on the desk, grinning widely with those gleaming white teeth. He had clearly impressed all of us, and no one could take their eyes off the screen as a much younger man hacked his way through the jungle and tore into raw-looking sides of pig alongside the head-dressed, nearly naked Yanomamo people. Nobody that is, except me.

  I kept glancing up from the sparse notes I was pretending to furiously scribble, taking furtive glances in Professor Tunde's direction and thinking more than once that he seemed to be looking back at me ...

  Did you know that the Yanomamo men were notoriously ... virile?

  OKAY, maybe I just made that part up.

  ………

  When Professor Tunde's film wrapped up, the class spontaneously erupted in applause. It was not like the conclusion of any lecture I had ever seen, and the professor clearly relished the warm reception. I closed my notebook quickly, after realizing that I had been doodling some vaguely tribal-looking figures doing things that one really shouldn't be doodling during Cultural Anthropology.

  "I'm glad you all enjoyed the film, and as always, I'll be available after class to answer any further questions you may have," the Professor said, smiling at everyone, before turning mockingly stern. "And, as always, I expect a reaction paper with a strict 'Informational Objective' from each of you this coming Friday on the film."

  An "informational objective" was Professor Tunde's phrase for the titles of our reaction papers, stating exactly what we had sought to learn from the book or film. It made our homework assignments unnecessarily difficult. There were a lot of jokers who groan constantly about how much time they had to spend on just this class because Tunde’s assignments were so hard. They were also the dorks whose semester schedule included such thought provoking classes as Global Studies or Human Sexuality or, my personal favorite, Introduction to Film. What the hell did they think college was about? It was about losing your virginity in your spare time, in between classes. Duh!

  After announcing are assignment there was a collective groan, and then, instead of hustling out like everyone always seemed to do, almost every male "specimen" in the class seemed to congregate around Professor Tunde's desk. The professor was the bomb now, apparently. I tried to keep my head down and just hightail it through that door and back to the apartment, so I could hopefully get at least half of one homework assignment done that night (though I wasn't sure how to prioritize between Bio, Anth, and Brit Lit). But, I was hit with a horrible premonition. What if Jess and Tiffany are at it again? I just might in fact scream. My dreams of a clean exit however, were quickly shattered.

  "He
y, Ms. Kitridge! Not so fast."

  It was Professor Tunde's voice. Unmistakable. I turned slowly, one foot already out the door. He was gently pushing his way through the throng of students clamoring for his attention, all of them suddenly filled with fascination about the Yanomamo tribe now that they knew their professor had gone down there and lived among them.

  "Yes, Prof-," I stammered before he interrupted me.

  "You know, you can call me Michael, right?"

  He was not a foot away from me and looking down with this gentle smile that somehow sucked all of the speech functions straight out of my brain. I just nodded.

  "It seemed like you were taking rather ... copious notes during the film," he said, looking down at the notebook I was holding tightly under my arm. "I'd love for you to share your particular insights with me sometime."

  What? This guy is all ‘up in my grill’ because he thinks I was taking notes? Because he thinks I was so enthralled with his eloquent lecture I could barely stop myself from capturing every golden word in my spiral bound journal? The male ego never ceased to amaze me. And their maturity level was always front and center, too. I was all-too conscious that the guys over by Tunde's desk were snickering and not missing a word of this conversation and shot them dirty looks as my cheeks flushed. Is this what hot flashes were like? Either way, I was speechless, and red as a beet.

  "Perhaps I could show you the rough cut of the film sometime, Olivia? That is, if you're keen ..."

  That was it. I managed to gurgle out a few words about how I really needed to get back to the apartment, was really "keen" on getting my homework done, that someone was expecting me blah, blah, blah. How should I know what I said! I wasn't sure why he would pick on me like this sometimes. I definitely didn't look anything like Jess or even most of the other girls in this lecture hall. Maybe it was because he knew I was genuinely interested in this topic and that I always did my assignments? Had I mentioned to him my work with the non-profit? Maybe that was it. Either way, I stepped back with Professor Tunde staring at me and smiling benignly, looking so handsome and demure the whole way. Then I ran off.

  I immediately started plotting ways of explaining why I would be missing from the remaining sixteen classes of Cultural Anthropology 101.

  -----------Chapter 5-----------

  When I got home, Jess was nowhere to be found.

  Thank goodness, I sighed with relief.

  I was able to sit down beside my computer and drink Red Bull before I started some research on some of my classes.

  It was a full semester. British Literature, Anthropology, Biology and Russian. In eagerness to start college I was bitten by the smart bug. That sometimes happens. The smart bug infects the host with a delusional hormone that makes them think they are suddenly more capable of doing things they never would have attempted in high school, like learning a language like Russian. They don’t even have the same alphabet. In addition to my classes I was also working nearly twenty five hours a week at We Can Do It!

  School was going to be like a boner this semester, long and hard. The continuous moaning alarm clock in the bed next to me wouldn’t make it any easier.

  I spent a few minutes contemplating what it would take to turn Jess into a society-fearing hermit: a terrible rash mixed with a public nudity scandal, a sudden onslaught of hypochondria brought on by WebMD and suspiciously (after the fact) ripped condoms, or maybe I should just leave lots of sweets and junk food around the room? Ten additional pounds could do the trick. No, that plan could backfire on me too easily.

  All of these were far outside my abilities and I couldn’t really do that to Jess. I really liked her, no matter how much she frustrated me at times. I needed her. She was like my other half.

  Whenever I said we should study for an upcoming test in Anthro, believe it or not she was in my Anthroplogy class, she just never showed up. She would bring out a bottle of whiskey and try to tell me some convoluted history of the liquor.

  It was not made by whisking something. It was not made by dropping a severely drunk man into the docking bay and letting him urinate. Jess even claimed, in her more lurid moments, that the Celtic sailors had discovered the Fountain of Youth and used its waters to create the first bottle of Jameson. Jess was only half Irish, with the other half being Italian, but that girl drank like she was making up for the years of the Great Potato Famine.

  I decided to stop by the local liquor store, borrow Jess’ fake I.D. and bring back a bottle of Jameson for the old girl to have when she came back from class. We didn't look alike, but everyone knows that in a college town, the local liquor store is willing to sell you anything as long as you have an I.D. that is the same sex and close to the same race as you. They need the business. This idea was a good one because everyone is always more open to suggestions when they are greeted by a bottle of whiskey when they enter a room.

  ………

  I called Hector from my Bio class who also worked at the campus van service.

  "Heyyyy Hector," I said conspiratorially.

  "Uhh... Hi Olivia," he stuttered.

  "You knew it was me?"

  "Yeah. Your voice is very distinct. No break in the pitch. It's a good singer's voice."

  Hector was in the Musical Arts Department and was said to be somewhat of a savant in that area. Wow. That was a compliment, and I recognized that it was. Was Hector flirting with me?

  "Thanks Mr. H," I said, trying to distance the flirt that just happened.

  I continued, "When are you going into town next?"

  "I think the next trip is to pick up the volunteers at the aquarium in a half hour."

  "Great," I said. "Would you like to pick me up and take me on a liquor run?"

  He paused.

  "Olivia... I know you aren't twenty one..."

  Here I was thinking I was the most naive person on campus. I needed to find a way around this and I think Veronica's advice was the best.

  "Mr. Alvarez, I'll have you know that I lied about my age so I could be one of the first to breach the beaches on D-Day," I lied extravagantly, so that when people understood the lie, they just thought I was cute. It was a good tactic. "You wouldn't stiff a veteran, would you?"

  He laughed on the other line.

  "So I suppose you were never in the Eastern theater?"

  Oh, he was a war historian.

  "Of course not. I was out there to Shave Ryan's Privates, sir. Nothing else."

  He laughed out loud.

  "So when should I pick you up?"

  SCORE. I told him where to meet me and walked downstairs.

  Hector pulled up in a 2002 Toyota Previa. He was a cute guy, with the cheekbones of the Japanese and the jaw structure of the Spanish, but he was more awkward around other people than I was, which was totally a turn off. I never understood why.

  "Hey Olivia!" he hailed from the van which had the school logo emblazoned on the side. "I guess freshman year is the best time to try your luck at buying alcohol underage while driving in the school van."

  I grinned at him, hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. That's what the Spanish did, right?

  Hector blushed and fumbled a little with the gear shift as his face turned red.

  The ride was fun. It wasn't awkward. We listened to some Belle and Sebastian, Iron and Wine and some old Violent Femmes.

  Hector was a nice guy. He was the sort of guy I would like to end up with. However, I think there was something that made me not want to lose my virginity to him. He would be one of those guys who would ask if I was comfortable, if he was hurting me, if I was okay a hundred times during the whole process. Of course I was uncomfortable. I’ve never done this before. Yeah, it hurts a bit. I’ve never done this before. Yeah, I’m OKAY. For the love of Pete, I’m OKAY. That wasn’t at all what I wanted. I wanted a guy who knew what he was doing so I could be on automatic pilot until I learned what I was doing. I knew that was unfair to Hector and all the super nice guys like him. But it was true.

&n
bsp; I wanted to lose my virginity to some guy I would never be able to have like some cowboy coming through town just for a night or maybe a trucker on a coast to coast shipping job or a sailor getting ready to ship out to Europe. I wanted to lose my virginity to a superhero that was on his last be-all end-all mission to eradicate crime in this dirty city. Although Hanover wasn't dirty at all. I wanted an old fashioned man’s man, you know, the kind that walk quietly but carry a big stick. Strong but silent. Silent but deadly…OKAY, now I’m just being childish.

  I knew Hector would be a great protector down the line. Eventually he would leave college, get an amazing job, take care of his family in Juarez but that wasn't what I wanted right at this point.

  I wanted a man who was ready now…

  ………

  Our conversation on the way to the store was fun. We talked about the Oscars, which were on the night before. We talked about who should have won, who deserved it, and who was wearing the best dress (although I did most of the talking on the last one).

  We stopped by the liquor store, I bought the Jameson without any problems and we picked up the volunteers on the way back.

  It was strange that I didn't want a man who was good for me. I wasn't even entirely sure what 'good for me' meant, since I hadn't let anyone balance the family checkbook other than me.

  In high school, I was all I needed.

  Now I wanted more. How should I change to get that?

  ………

  Hector kissed me goodbye on the cheek, taking advantage of my earlier bribe, and drove the volunteers to their quads. I smiled, waved him goodbye and made sure to sashay on my way to the apartment door... I’m sure he looked... I hoped he did… Knowing someone liked my body would give me more confidence.

  Veronica was right. There was more to understanding sex than having sex itself.

  I could project. I was good looking, so I thought. I had a symmetric face and birthing hips (goddamn Anthropology and Biology for making me think this way). Maybe I could snag the guy I wanted. I didn't necessarily need Jess’ good looks, but I needed Jess’ confidence.