I am 22 years old, and since I was freshman in college — who made it through high school without any firsthand experience with the horizontal squirm – I have been okay with the scarlet V on my forehead. But a quarter-life crisis can be a powerful thing, and on my 22nd birthday, I was thinking about how easy it would be to just get rid of it. To rip the bandage off because one night stands happen all the time. It’s just that whenever the opportunity passed me it seemed off limits. You can’t just do it for the first time with a guy you don’t even know, I thought. People would think I was a slut, right? WRONG! said my newly 22-year-old psyche. Well, maybe they would think I was a slut, audience, but I didn’t care anymore.
So last night, I got dressed up and headed to a student bar with a friend and I got approached by a tall, nice guy from out of town (excuse me while I gag on this cliché). He was single. Good. Liked a lot of television. Alright. Quoted F. Scott Fitzgerald. Swoon. The list went on. He qualified for bonus points after saying he played Pokemon Red on his gameboy color on the plane over here. I could tell we spoke the same language.
I was concerned though, that since he was a college student visiting, he would only have his friend’s couch and my place was out of the question because I live with five other girls. But don’t worry, audience; whatever mystical being is in charge of getting your clam shucked was on my side tonight, because that nice pair of shoulders had a hotel room. I went with it. We got to his place.
I’ll level with you, audience: before I met this guy at the bar my game plan was to not tell potential hymen-rippers I never had my belly button tickled from the inside (thanks, YIR). I was going to lie back and think of America, but this gent was so nice I decided to ‘fess up in between dry humps. Bracing myself for a Shoshannah moment (even though I was pretty sure I was totally not an attached bleeder), I was surprised when he said it didn’t bother him, so we got a little more naked, took necessary precautions, and BAM! Magic. Painful, painful, painful magic.
I don’t know long it lasted. I mean, it lasted long enough because damn. Ouch. You non-virgins are right: it hurts. Despite the pain, though, I genuinely got along with this guy. Which was great because I think it would have been pretty awkward when I knocked over a glass of water with my foot, or when my torso was hanging off the end of the bed and I thought I was going to fall, or when he fell out of me. We weren’t serious about it. We giggled and teased each other. It calmed me down.
Years of waiting after almost everyone I knew had done it made me attach all this meaning to sex. It had to be love and roses. It had to be serious. If you didn’t take it seriously, you were an animal. And maybe for some people, making love on a bed littered with rose petals while Sia plays in the background works. But for now, just for now, I think my taste is more ironic Marvin Gaye with someone I can love like a friend. And, audience, I’m ok with that. Because even if I wasn’t in love this guy, I don’t regret it.