Losing Virginity

by Ava Michaels

  Harold was a special brand of human that thought everyone had a price. He was a science geek in high school, which was why I initially felt comfortable around him. I hung out with a lot of the science geeks, too... When I wasn't hanging out with the boys in the band. Harold was there to comfort me when I broke up with Carlos and eventually asked me to prom.

  It was the worst decision ever!

  When he showed up at my house, he brought his mother's mini-van and tried to get me to drink cheap vodka on the way to the prom. I wasn't into that at all. He had also bought me a diamond bracelet, something that his rich parents could afford, and gave it to me expecting a little more than a kiss afterwards. I refused the bracelet and he got pissed right off the bat. Everything went downhill from there. He danced with everyone else but me. He had about twelve people stand in a prom picture that was supposed to be for just the couples and then said “Here’s some money for a cab. I’m going downtown with Eddy and his crew for an after party.”

  And people wonder why I’m still a virgin.

  "So, what do we do about this?" Jess said.

  "What do WE do?"

  "Yeah, 'we'," she said. "Olivia, I am going to help you. No matter how much you want to bag some grimy popcorn-eating rum-soaked pizza-face, I am going to make sure you find the right man," she finished with a self-satisfied grin.

  I threw another pillow at her. I needed to start filling the pillows with rocks.

  "You're a bitch, but you're right. I guess I should get back on the horse, so to speak."

  Jess laughed.

  "Well don't mount too soon, cowgirl!"

  I was out of pillows to throw.

  "I just need a little time off, I think. I don't want to go out on another date like that too soon. The next guy needs to be vetted a little better."

  "Oh, we will vet him. I've even got Alex in on this now."

  What did she just say? Please for the love of all that is sacred and holy did she just say that she told Alex that I was a virgin?

  "Please say you didn't."

  She grinned and nodded her head.

  "We were at the bar last night and I saw him and we talked. He asked me how you were. I told him you were going on a date tonight... As a virgin! To Bad Boys 3! Where all virgins go!"

  She laughed and fell back on her bed.

  "Why would you say that to him?"

  I was angry. Jess was my friend and I thought I could trust her NOT to blab every detail about me to just anyone. Especially to people I work with… And lie to on a regular basis.

  "I don't know... It was the drinks and it was also the fact that I think a gay man's perspective here might do you some good."

  She was probably right in that arena. So far, I had only been getting advice from other women.

  "Okay, well, what did he say?"

  "He wasn't surprised. I mean, he didn't know it or guess it, but he wasn't surprised."

  That figured. I was a walking billboard of virginity. The Junior Anti-Sex League could use me as a mascot for erotophobia.

  "So, that is swell. Did I get any golden pieces of advice out of this encounter?"

  "Yeah, he did say that you are one of those people that gets super suave and confident after three beers, but super awkward after six beers. It's your 'Goldilocks Zone' he called it."

  Goldilocks zone. Yeah, I guess that made sense. It wasn't too cold or too hot in between three and six beers. Just right.

  "Okay, so his advice is to bring a six pack on my next date?"

  "No, but we were thinking that you should probably just meet a guy at a bar but be three beers down when you meet him."

  That was there advice? I was screwed and not the way I wanted to be.

  "Did he have any other advice?"

  "Oh, he also said that your legs are your greatest assets. Wear a skirt and heels, but not a tight skirt. You aren't the sort of woman who pulls off power clothing very well and the virginal part of you will look better in a sundress and heels."

  I had to admit, my legs were pretty great. Track in high school did my body good. Of course, it was among the numerous other extra-curricular activities that I did in order to secretly sabotage my sex life.

  "Well, that is the advice I was looking for. Now all I need to do is find Mr. Right and show him these scissor blades," I said, jumping on Jess and crushing her between my legs.

  “Are you sure you aren’t a lesbian?”

  “Shut up!” I shouted, laughing and rolling off of her.

  ………

  After my bad date, I was a bit more selective in who I went out with, which unfortunately meant nobody.

  It seemed Mr. Right was going to take a little while to find.

  There were a few guys on the dating website that seemed like potential hookups. "GreatBeyond" was an adventuring sort of guy; he had been to Thailand and liked animals. However, he also loved "bong rips, fat chicks and hacky sack tricks", so he was definitely not a keeper.

  "SilentArtist" was another potential. He liked to discuss books, edited his own 'zine at the college which mainly featured his own poetry and he liked red wine to accompany discussions of French new wave films. However, as with every guy, "SilentArtist" also said he was obsessed with the rape scene in Straw Dogs and thought that Dave Eggers was the reincarnation of Jonathan Swift. Yuck.

  There was an avalanche of "thickstud69" and "bigdawgDexter" type characters that just messaged me asking if I was 'dtf', or Down to Fuck, in their parlance. I was dtf, but not with someone who would ask me if I was. What a paradox that must be for their small brains.

  So I forgot about the dating website for a while just so I could focus on getting that filing project at work done and keep up on my homework.

  ………

  At work, Alex and Veronica kept up to date on every detail of my quest to attain full womanhood. Both of their advice generally summed up as "put out more". As if I wasn't doing that by being on a dating website.

  As they joined me again in my private file room for lunch they had quite a bit to tell me.

  "Girl, just because you are on a dating website doesn't mean you aren’t still playing the field," Veronica said. "You are looking for the first time that the majority of people don't get. You want it to be a nice respectable guy who isn't your boyfriend to take you all Fabio-like, lay you on a bed of flowers and stuff you like a goose-down pillow. That ain't gonna happen. You either get the flowers and a nervous white boy who might chop you up afterwards and make a shrine to you in his closet, or you get a guy just as inexperienced as you and end up more confused than satisfied.” She looked around like some invisible thing tapped her on the shoulder.

  Alex nodded sagely, thinking his metaphor was the height of Zen thought.

  I wasn't sure I really wanted to get 'stuffed'. I would just like a gentle a roll in the hay.

  "So, I do want the impossible I guess, and that is why I've been a virgin for so long," I said, a bit deflated from the idea that I needed to be stuffed like a pillow to get this over with. "Women need a reason to have sex, men just need a place."

  Alex and Veronica looked at each other and laughed.

  "That was Billy Crystal that said that," Veronica said through laughing fits. "How about Sophia Loren for a bit of inspiration: Sex appeal is 50-percent of what you've got and 50-percent of what people think you've got."

  I absorbed that.

  Maybe Alex and Veronica were both right. Their initial advice was always to put out, but when they gave more thoughtful advice it always was to be more confident. I know that everyone gives that advice, but they gave it in a way that made me listen to it. Why is it so damn hard to find the right guy? And why couldn’t my brain stop thinking about sex? Is this want men feel like?

  ………

  After work I walked to class through the cooling fall air.

  If sex was so natural, why was there so much discussion about it? Why was there so much advice to be given about it? Shouldn't it just happen and be the most
instinctual natural thing in the world?

  I was on my way to Anthropology class and my mind started shifting towards Professor Tunde's view on the subject.

  Professor Tunde thought about sex through the lens of an anthropologist. It was there to propagate the species and the tribe, to create a line of successors for the transference of cultural norms and mores. It was also a very sacred thing to him, more like the worship of a fertility cult or secret goddess religion. That was a little bit more of a responsibility than I was willing to take on.

  His talks on sexual relations were not the standard Biblical Adam and Eve sort of talks. They were like business deals or alternate arrangements that would solve some kind of problem.

  When I got into class, it looked like we were going to be learning about courting rituals around the world. This was going to be scary and a bit on the depressing side.

  "Alright class, settle down," Tunde bellowed in a way that felt like a wave of molasses washed over you. "You might think that I started these classes in the wrong order, but I decided to hold courtship after sexual practices because it is a more complex form of sex, when you look at it. Courtship is the delayed promise of sex and procreation. Courtship is the careful selection through rituals established intergenerational for the right DNA to pass down the family tree."

  The right DNA? I had hardly thought of this during my research for a possible suitor. Yes, DNA would be swapping, to a certain degree. Ewww. Sounded gross that way.

  "Courtship is an elaborate dance that has always held very culturally significant rules and has informed anthropologists and social scientists throughout the ages on the values held dear within a society," he continued.

  "When we have the practice of 'bundling' through Europe and colonial America, where young couples in love would be allowed by their parents to sleep together in the same bed, as long as they were wrapped in separate blankets and often with a board called a 'bundling board' placed between them," Tunde held up what looked like a long head piece to an older style bed. "This board allowed the couple to be close, to talk in private, to sleep together and to be intimate, but it did not permit sex."

  One of the freshmen behind me commented that his 'bundling board' could break through that flimsy piece of wood and play 'hide the butter churner'.

  I laughed out loud. It wasn't a bad one.

  Tunde looked straight at me.

  "Is this material too prudish for you, Ms. Spurgeon?" He raised his eyebrows and a tiny smirk rose to his face.

  "No sir, I imagine that young couples throughout the ages have found ways to circumvent their parent’s rules," I said, turning red, again.

  Tunde smiled. "An imagination is a powerful thing," he said and continued with his lesson.

  Did I just flirt with Professor Tunde right there? Jesus Penus. I was becoming a mess…

  Suddenly a ball of paper hit the side of my head.

  Jess was sitting two desks to my left, miraculously in class, wide eyed and mouthing the words "you should sleep with him". Then she moved her hand back and forth to her mouth as she pressed her tongue against her inside cheek and then let off. I shook my head, smiled and turned back to my lesson. No way was I going to be one of those girls who would sleep with her Professor or even a blow job. I’d do the right thing and drop out school first or wait until I graduated.

  Back to the lesson, Olivia, I told myself.

  Victorian women had a complex system of sending courtship signals with their fans. If she was available, she would fan quicker, and if she was taken she would fan slower. If her fan rested on her left cheek, then she was not that into you. If it was on her right cheek then you were in. Whoever got rid of the fan thing? That sounded great to me! I've been borrowing my courtship rituals from Victorian England and sending the slightest, tiniest, most miniscule signals to guys that I was interested. I was assuming that boys could understand a complex system of unspoken language. It wasn’t me after all. It was them!

  I needed to be more obvious about my signals, it was as simple as that.

  In Finland, girls who were ready to marry would wear an empty sheath around their waists. When a guy wanted to date the girl, he would either make or buy a knife and put it in her sheath.

  Tell me it doesn't get any more obvious than that. Maybe I should just walk up to the next boy I want wearing a sheath. Would he get it then? Somehow I doubted it.

  If the woman wasn't interested in the man, she would give the knife back, but if she wanted to marry him she would keep it. Women in those cooler climates always carried knives around.

  I resolved that I was going to drop the fan and go for the knife. It's time I made a sheath.

  -----------Chapter 8-----------

  After my personal revelation in Anthro class that evening, I walked around with somewhat of a strut. I wasn't going to titter and stammer around boys anymore, I was going to be cool, confident Olivia.

  Jess was nowhere to be found when I got to my room. This might be a good time to get some 'me time' in… And not that kind of me time. What was I good at? What made me feel confident? Where could I go to show off my skill?

  I decided to take the school shuttle to the supermarket and pick up some groceries. One of the girls at the Houston House, a group-living situation on campus, had offered the use of their oven for any baking projects some of the girls might have. I could guess they were probably getting a little tired of the same, old ‘special brownies’. I’ve got just the thing. Yes. A couple Caramel Apple Pies. Who could resist my delicious homemade pies? No one, that’s who.

  I could make goodies but not Subway sandwiches. I was an artist… At making homemade pies… I could use my hands, just not with foot longs… Sex, Sex, Sex. I decided to ditch me time and hoped cooking pies could get sex off my mind. Pies.

  I called up Hector and we took a ride with a few other freshmen who hadn't yet brought their cars to campus and we all went to the local supermarket. None of them were worth a second glance. Plus, their grocery lists were a bit on the depressing side. Ramen noodles. Two liter bottles of stuff called ‘Red Pop’. Crackers.

  I looked like a real pro next to this group of rookies. All-purpose flower, butter, eggs, sugar, cream, red wine, vanilla bean, lemon, a cinnamon stick and last but not least, four Granny Smith apples and four Gala.

  I brought it all down to the Houston House and a girl named Karen opened the door. She was in boy's boxers, a sports bra and opened the door with a joint in her hand. I guess they might not have been tired of ‘special brownies’.

  “Hey, girl, long time no see.” She raised her hand for friendly high five.

  “Hola, Karen. Mind if I do a little domestic work in your kitchen?” I hoisted up my grocery bags filled with supplies.

  “No problemo. C’mon in. Whatcha gonna make?”

  I smiled slyly. They loved the idea of Caramel Apple pie, so I picked up three very stoned helpers pretty quickly.

  Throughout the prepping and combining processes we talked about everything but sex and relationships, which was exactly what I needed.

  Karen, who was a chemistry major and a prodigy at that from what I've heard, was trying to make her own bathtub gin in the house's second bathroom. Apparently it was going well and would be ready for a party by the end of the month.

  “You gotta bring some of this pie, Olivia, for our Roaring Twenties party. Bathtub gin? Get it? Come over for the early party, make a couple of these, stay for the main event, and then just chill with us at the after party. Kay?”

  “Of course.”

  Sasha, who was in my British Lit course was combining the flour and salt, cutting in chunks of cold butter with a fork. She was also holding the joint in the corner of her mouth and talking about the uprisings in Iran that her parents had fled from. I saw ashes fall near the dough and rather than criticize my staff I plucked it from her mouth and passed it on to Jessica who was peeling apples with a paring knife.

  Sarah was a silent type, but she always looked y
ou in the face when you were speaking and nodded at the right parts. She was a great listener and when I started talking about troubles at work, she nodded her head empathetically. I met her at the liquor store. I had made it all the way out there only to realize I forgot my fake ID. She was kind enough to take my basket and add it with hers. Disaster averted and she became a good friend.

  "So how are you and Greg, Sarah?" I said, wondering about her long distance relationship with her boyfriend.

  The girls laughed and I was confused.

  “Well, we sort of broke up but he still comes to stay here a few times a month and I still see him when I go home every once in a while.” Jessica said as if she were explaining a delicate surgical procedure.

  "So you guys are just friends with benefits?" I asked.

  "No, they are still together," Sasha said, gesturing with the joint and adding more ashes to next to the dough.

  “We aren’t together.” Sarah insisted.

  “She’s just saying that to relieve her conscience from any guilt that she might have for sleeping with her Creative Writing professor.” Sasha was giggling hysterically.

  Sarah, sort of proud, shifted from one foot to the other,

  “You guys are just jealous. Let me just say it is very unattractive of all of you.”

  Her mock seriousness cracked everyone up. She continued her explanation.

  "Did you have a car in your hometown, Ol?"

  “Yeah.”

  "Did you buy it?"

  “Yes, I did buy it.”

  "Have you ever leased, rented or test drove a car?" she said and Karen laughed so hard the caramel sauce spilled a little into the flames and leapt up.

  "Well, no. But I don't think the comparison is a good one. People aren't exactly like cars," I said, feeling like I might be out of my league.

  "No, the comparison is a different one," Sasha started. "Some people believe that to drive a car, you should own it. However, they also think to drive a human, a.k.a. sleep with them, that you should own them. This is a boyfriend and girlfriend mentality that leads into marriage."

  "Plenty of people screw without owning the car," I said, tilting my head like a dog that hears a high pitched whistle.