My mother once told me that the moment I realized that my hands could reach my genitals, they never left. And coming from her, that must be saying something, given how prude she likes to pretend she is. So much so in fact, that if she were to ever happen upon this blog, I would likely be reprimanded for making it public information that she ever uttered such words. But I’m not here today to talk about all of that (that’d be more befitting of some psychoanalytic study than a blog about random bullshit), but instead to address an age old enigma that has forever been shrouded in ritual and delusions of grandeur: losing one’s virginity. I know of few things besides this that are so needlessly riddled with lofty and unrealistic expectations, placing even more pressure on a person than choosing a life-long career or buying a house. So I am here today to share with you my own vision, and am curious to hear yours as well, in hopes that together we can all break down some social stigmas and just let our oversexualized selves get it on already, without the need to “make it special.”
Just as my mother had stated, I truly have always been eager to discover the boundless realms of my own junk, even well before my physical being was biologically capable of reaching orgasm. I was oft exploring it, enjoying various sensations that ranged from humping my pillow whilst pretending it was the nerdy guy from Information Society or some other awful 80’s band (I was 6) to trying out that new fat make up brush I got with that set for Christmas (obviously at a later age). I also recall having an affinity for grinding on the edge of the couch once I reached that state where my clitoris was becoming more active in it’s pleasure properties, causing me to achieve a feeling that I once believed was orgasm, but later learned was just a prolonged version of the feeling you get right before actual climax. It was nice. But it was actually a few years after my virginity loss that I had my first come-to-Jesus (or, er… cum) moment in a ghetto motel room watching Skinemax while my Dad was out at the bar. Basically, I have a history of being a sexual person, and unlike many unfortunate souls, did not deny myself. Perhaps this was the reason I never understood the so-called logic behind girls wanting to wait for some special, perfect event to be deflowered. I was always of the sentiment that, “hey, a penis is going in there. It’s something even your dog does without much thought, and you’ll be doing a lot of it. It feels good, it isn’t magic. So just fucking do it, already.” Obviously I also didn’t buy into any dogmatic teaching that one should wait for marriage to maintain some false sense of purity. I knew at a young age that I wouldn’t dare do something so stupid as to actually marry someone without fucking them first, lest I became stuck in a miserable and sexless marriage that would end in cheating and divorce, or worse. I actually wanted nothing to do with marriage either, and unlike all the other girls who already had designed their dream weddings by the time they started having periods, I spent time planning my dream funeral, as I knew it was something I’d actually be present for. So maybe it was just my view, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I was alone in this, particularly as a female. Over the years when sharing cherry-poppin’ tales with friends, I’ve simply heard an alarming number of really lackluster, boring tales of disappointment. I’ve most often had more male friends than female or other, and while they shared the same feelings of just wanting to hurry up and do it, I can’t count how many times I heard the same ol’ ho-hum tale of losing it to the older babysitter ’round the time their boners started to fully manifest. I don’t know if there really were just a huge influx of slutty, borderline pedophiliac babysitters in the 90’s, or if I just wasn’t getting the whole story. But the girls’ stories weren’t much better. Some were even on the verge of traumatic. After building themselves up thinking they had to make it special, they usually just ended up having some sub-par event which involved bloody sheets and a fear of sex replaced with a need for talking and emotions with some boy that talked them into it, whether at prom or elsewhere. I had a friend who at least got a bit more creative, and after hearing romantic tales of her mother making love in a field of flowers decided to mimic this and ended up with poison ivy in terrible places. Even my own sister almost horrified a 10 year old me, when she told me how much it hurt and how much blood there was. Fortunately, I’ve always been one to ignore the advice of others, and assume that situations would certainly be different for me, for better or worse. Luckily this time, for better, since I happen to be a pretty big fan of sex things.
So I really never developed some expectation of virginity loss, thinking it to either be great or wretched, and just simply wanted to start doin’ it when the opportunity presented itself. But, sadly for young me, finding such an opportunity wasn’t nearly as easy as it is for adult me. Chances to even share physical space with the opposite sex were often sparse, as I was a strange and sheltered child. Prior to age thirteen, there was no hope of having anything even similar to sex (and I now see that this isn’t a bad thing), as I was stuck in a snobby God-school for the children of rich conservatives. Obviously, I did not fit in. When I finally experienced public school for the first time, I still didn’t have much hope as I was socially clueless. Fortunately, it did not take long for my oddities to be appreciated by the usual crew of 8th grade outcasts, and my chances begun to improve. But my first virginity loss story happened during the transition from total loner loser to loner loser with potential loser boyfriends, so it would be the stranger of the two. That’s right, I have two experiences to recount, and am actually unsure as to which story would be the technical loss of my virginity, so I’ll tell both. Actually, I know damn well which one is the real deal, but the other makes for a good laugh as well as provides insight into just how odd I was back then, so I have no choice but to share it with the world. So, here goes!
At thirteen, not long after my first kiss, I lost my virginity to a ghost. My first kiss was to an actual human- that somehow happened. But as for my first sexual experience with anyone other than myself and my own imagination (or so I then thought), it came to pass with a spectral presence. And this wasn’t just any ol’ run of the mill ghost, either. But none other than the ghost of Kurt Cobain. Nirvana’s own, the God of Grunge, responsible for basically forming my entire loser generation. He takes his own life, leaving stoners everywhere sad, and prepubescent losers obsessed. I was one of said obsessed losers, and he of course became the subject of my fantasies. So just imagine my ecstatic surprise when I start having “experiences” with his spirit, only to learn that he has chosen ME as his post-mortem mate. Looking back, I can’t even exactly recall the events that led up to all of this, other than the fact that I divulged my obsession both with Nirvana and the paranormal to my then only friend, who for the sake of literature I’ll call Summer. We’d stay up into the wee hours playing on Ouija boards trying to make contact, among other weird teen activities. Then, it slowly started happening. Love notes, written on my mirror whenever Summer had been at my house, and strange, whispered phone calls, whenever Summer was not at my house… all claiming to be none other than my late love, Kurt. I’m not sure if I actually knew it was Summer fucking with me all along, and I just so badly wanted to believe it, as well as have an outlet for my raging teenaged hormones, or if I truly did miss the signs, thinking I was being molested from beyond the grave. But the power of the human mind is fucking awe inspiring, as it wasn’t long before I started having actual, physical experiences in which I felt a rush of sexual energy that one would think of if told to imagine what it’s be like to have sex with a ghost. And that magical “first time” occurred after a typical Ouija session at Summer’s. The messages had been of a particularly sexual nature, and in some rush of passion, led to me flailing about, emitting labored-breath moans on Summer’s waterbed like some possessed girl in a movie about exorcisms. I can only imagine what must’ve been going through Summer’s mind as she sat a few feet away on the floor, watching me with bug-eyes. Was she watching in awe, or terror? Could she have then realized the gravity of the situation, the ramifications of what she thought to be an innocent prank as she was now subjected to watch another teen girl getting off on her very own aqueous bed? Or perhaps that was her endgame all along. Maybe she harnessed a secret desire for me that she was unable to express by any normal means, since she was both fairly Christian (the kind that don’t approve of same sex experimentation) and even more self conscious about her own body. I may never truly know. Years later, I finally confronted Summer about pretending to be Kurt Cobain and seducing me spook-style, and her reaction was that of shock and insult, asking how I could ever believe that she would ever do such a derelict deed. She acted as though I had wounded her deeply by even entertaining the thought of her being so manipulative and possibly horny for me. If I were to believe her, I could easily say that I gave my purity to the ghost of a grunge rocker. By societal standards, I think that would make it an even worse sin. Not only did I engage in out-of-wedlock relations, but I was guilty of lying with the dead! Necromancy! Surely, it was then that my soul was condemned to the fiery depths of hell. But it still compares not to the tale of my actual loss of virginity, an event that may have just been blessed by Beelzebub himself.
Things with Kurt and me eventually started to fizzle out, as is the progression of so many normal young relationships, and by the time I reached the middle of my freshman year, I actually had a small group of friends and had even started to date some living boys. I really thought that I was going to lose my physical virginity to a boy named Billy Sanders, but when we finally had the opportunity to hang out solo, I happened to be on my period. And somehow, to Back-then Me, divulging this information to Billy was somehow embarrassing. So we made out a bit before he attempted to go down on me, I prayed he didn’t get close enough to smell blood (apparently I also thought that Billy was a fucking wolf), and made him stop. Good thing for me, he was no rapist. Whether or not he was a wolf still remains questionable. I don’t think he smelled blood however, as he soon thereafter dumped me and proceed to tell everyone that I was a prude. Can you imagine? Me, a prude?! I’m still just trying to grasp the concept of ever being too embarrassed to tell a dude that my uterine lining was shedding and being expelled through my vagina. But, such is childhood psychological development, I suppose. I suppose also, that this was all in Satan’s divine plan, for if I had lost it to Billy, it would’ve just been one of those aforementioned sub-par events in a bed. And what kind of way is that to kick-start an awesome sex life? ‘Tis not!
Months later, it just so happened that the Devil brought to my school a new boy by the pseudonym of Mick, who’d just been kicked out of Catholic school for some devious reason. That already had him one up on my scoreboard, and soon in another forgotten sequence of events, we got together. He too, was a virgin. And neither of us really felt the need to plan the damn thing out, but were simply looking for an opportunity to get it on. An opportunity that came our way in the form of Kitty the Satanist, our only friend with a car.
Kitty was a self-proclaimed Satanist and fair-weather lesbian. She’d made it known that she’d even broken into a mausoleum at the local cemetery to pilfer human remains to put on her altar, one of which being a human skull. Everyone thought that this was pretty much bullshit, but we all still hung around Kitty because she was our friend’s older sister and the bitch had a car. A rare commodity in those times. And a much needed one for a bunch of outcasts more interested in skipping school and getting high than actually being present in class. Thankfully I didn’t have to try hard in school, though I am still amazed that I graduated early with honors. Not sure how that happened.. On one particular April afternoon, our wayward group ended up at Kitty’s parent-free house and, while most were experimenting with the new gravity bong they’d crafted out of a giant water jug and a bucket, Mick and I realized that our long awaited opportunity had arrived. We snuck off to find a dark, quaint room with not much in it, and figured that this would be optimal for not having interruptions. But to be safe, we ventured even further into solitude by way of a closet in said room. By this point, things were already getting hot and heavy, so neither of us paid much mind to our surroundings. We rather just maneuvered around whatever was in the closet until we found enough floorspace for him to sit while I assumed the position. First, I’ll say that there was absolutely nothing remarkable about my first time having a P enter my V. My thoughts were probably something like “Hmm, ok, this feels good, but I don’t get the hype about the first time… nothing hurts, it’s not awkward, seems pretty damn self explanatory.” It was more as though I were trying a new ethnic food than doing something that every prepubescent teen reveres with such astonishment. The whole act came pretty damn natural to me. No biggie. Glad to have gotten that whole thing out of the way, now I can just enjoy this shit. I guess it helped that I apparently had no hymen, no “cherry” to be popped. The only rampant passage of fluid being the spooge of Mick that, yes, went into the reservoir tip a condom. It was at that moment that we begun to gather our wits, and prepare to head out of the closet and go try that gravity bong, and I proceeded to back my ass up in retreat and find my footing. But my ass hit something, and I heard things shake and rumble in ways they do when they’re in danger of being knocked over. “What in the fuck is a table with shit on it even doing in a closet,” I likely thought to myself. I turned around in order to see what my ass was attempting to destroy and to remedy its clumsiness, and I saw exactly what the fuck a table was doing in a closet. What I saw exactly, was a human fucking skull, staring at me, surrounded by black candles and other odd baubles accentuated by pentagrams, all atop a small table in the corner of the closet. A Satanic altar! I just lost my fucking virginity in front of a Satanic altar?! Even more astounding was learning that Kitty hadn’t been full of shit. Maybe she actually licked poon full time, too! Now, I probably could’ve screamed and freaked out a bit. But this is me we’re talking about, not the kind of girl who had prerequisites of limousines and roses on prom night in order to put out. So my reaction? “Hmph. Well, this should be fun!” I thought, contemplating the future that awaited me sexually. If there really was any truth to the crap they taught me in Christian school about sex being evil, surely Satan would now smile upon my sex life and make it interesting and enjoyable. And such it has been… The whole scenario was made slightly more awkward, but in a campy and fun “Twin Peaks” sort of way, by the fact that our group of stoned friends were no longer loafing on the couch, but were awaiting us outside the closet with a hearty round of applause. Somehow I don’t think Mick was as amused as I. But we continued our sex-frenzied relationship for a long ass four months, an eternity in high-school years, after which I ended it because he was bragging about my trip to a mental institution, and that was my accomplishment- not his. Plus I had started developing a thing for guys with eyeliner, and he was still holding onto that old passe’ grunge look. But all of that is for another time, another story.
I think the whole subject of “virginity,” especially when it comes to losing it, is becoming increasingly arcane and outdated. I mean, I could say I have even a third story if I touch on the first time I had same-sex sex. So really, how do we even define it, unless we are just straight, cisgendered people alone, adhering to a definition that hardly fits an evolving society of people actually having the balls to be be themselves and embrace the fact they’re sexual beings? And why the hell do we even have to? To me, sex is just an inherent need in humans such as eating and sleeping, that somehow got blown way the fuck out of proportion and instead of seeing it as an awesome enjoyment and necessary means of nourishment, many people have this contradictory sort of hateful reverence for it that turns them into complete sexual deviants or murderous nuns. I also don’t think it can be considered to be a “loss” (virginity being something you lose), when in actuality, you end up gaining so damn much from “getting rid of it.” I personally was eager to give that shit away and had no desire to find it again after the fact. We have some seriously messed up beliefs when it comes to sex, and I think it’s a damned shame. I could get real profound right now and talk about how we should just give a big “fuck you” to these stigmas and standards for the sake of future generations (not to mention our own sanity!) but I’ll save that for my future as a self-help author. I’ll keep this blog crass and shallow for my readers’ pleasure.
Many, many years have since passed, and I’ve had quite the fill of pleasurable encounters with other human beings (and some of those not-so-awesome ones, too), and in some pretty impressive places (and some of those not-so-impressive ones, too), and in, shall I say, interesting ways (you get the point). I even ended up riding the penile pony in that old broken into mausoleum that Kitty stole the skull from. It was years later, and a bum ended up moving in afterwards, but it was a nice little gesture to honor my humble beginnings. Would I still go as far as to say that my sex life was blessed by the Dark Lord? Probably not, seeing as how I don’t believe in any of that. But I have no plans of stopping any time soon, and just maybe I’ll get an answer to that. Until then, I shall continue on my crusade to enjoy the hell out of this physical vessel and its sins of the flesh until my labia hang to my feet and I turn to dust. And then in the afterlife, I’ll simply take a cue from my dear old Kurt and continue forth with my passion, helping others of the living realm throw their virginity into the ethers on the way to a better life. I urge you all to do the same, in the name of Satan. Um, no.. not really. Just do it because it feels good, because we’re human, and because we’re here to freaking enjoy this shit.