Living in the State of Virginity
My sister and I kinda stood apart from the rest of the neighborhood, in that we weren't going to have sex until we were damn good and ready. You would not believe the peer pressure involved. By the time I was 12, everyone I knew (except my sister, and the girl next door) had done it, or was actively trying to do it.
At twelve years of age, I didn't even want to think about sex. I wanted to ride my bike and play at the park. I wanted to climb trees in the middle of winter and catch snowflakes on my tongue. I wasn't ready to grow up. And I was smart enough to know it.
For the next year, I watched my friends chase down boys and step into that unknown world. I watched them drift away from the things I considered fun; and frankly, it scared me. Virginity is a one time thing. Once it's gone, there's no going back. It should be something more than another mark on a bedpost.
I actually had a friend who wrote on her wall the names of every eligible guy in the neighborhood. Her goal was to fuck them all. There were 22 guys on the list. It took her 6 years, but she got them all. And each time she put a little star by a name, I scratched that name off my mental list of men worthy of my virginity.
(I probably sound righteous, and I'm fine with that. I don't know where her crotch has been, and I'm certainly not going to give myself to someone who doesn't see me as the god send that I am. So there! Anyway...)
By the time I was 13, I was getting desperate. I still wasn't ready to take that big step, but the pool of males was shrinking daily. The good looking guys would screw anything, so it had to be someone average or ugly. Acne was a plus, because it made it more likely that they would cherish the act. I really wanted my first time to be good. I knew there was no knight in shining armor for me. My neighborhood didn't hold any Prince Charmings. I knew it wouldn't be perfect, and that was ok. I would settle for someone (anyone) who would treat me well, give me time to perfect my skills, and not smirk about it to his friends.
Believe it or not, that was a tall order.
I finally found someone to fit the bill. My friend BG. The guy who, later that Summer, would share his front steps with my sister and I while we watched a man get beaten nearly to death.
I chased BG relentlessly, dogging his every step. It was harder than I'd thought. First, I had to get him to notice me. I needed him to see that I was an interesting female creature with, you know... tits and stuff. I got a haircut and started wearing makeup. I paid attention to how my friends let guys know they were interested, and began mimicking them. I tried standing really close to him, ohhing and ahhing over his prowess at Pac Man. I tried pretending like I was too good for him. I tried just hanging out, "being his friend", acting like I gave a crap about the stupid things he was interested in. And all of it failed miserably.
I started to think that I would actually have to wait for marriage. And boy, did that make me feel pathetic. Nobody in my neighborhood stayed a virgin until they were married. Not even the fat girls.
So I got really depressed and gave up. I scratched BG off my list. I scratched everybody off my list. Either I was going to lose my virginity in a fit of drunken stupidity, or I was going to lose it on my wedding night and that was that!
None of these guys were good enough for me anyway. Nyeah.
And then BG started hitting on me. Literally. He would pass me in the game room and whop me (gently) upside the head. That just added injury to insult, in my book. First he ignores every attempt I make, and then he starts smacking me? What a jerk!
My friends all said, "He likes you." They were certain of it. I couldn't see how a guy could 'like you' when they were hurting you. That was just bullshit.
I tolerated his hitting because when I tried to fight back I looked and felt like a fool. BG had been practicing martial arts for years. He was too quick, and I never laid a hand on him.
Well, I'd be damned if he made himself look slick by blocking my punches. So I ignored him, or at least tried to. It's not in my nature to take that kind of crap. He'd poke me, or slap me, and eventually (inevitably) I'd fight back. It infuriated me that I couldn't get past his guard. It infuriated me that he was picking on me, and it enraged me that he didn't see me as a woman.
One day, after I had yet again taken a swing at him, and he had grabbed my wrist and was making me slap myself... "Stop hittin' yourself...Stop hittin' yourself"
With me resisting for all I was worth, and trying so hard not to look stupid... I had a moment of clarity.
I let my arm go limp, (which didn't stop him, of course) and said, "You know, BG. You're a real asshole. And I think you need to get off my porch and not come back. You can have the Game Room (the local hangout), just stay away from me."
I said it the way you might comment on the weather. He just didn't matter anymore. I was done with him. There was a nanosecond of grief for the years of growing up together, but really- he'd devolved into an asshole like the rest of the guys and he wasn't worth a thought.
BG didn't get it. He kept making my limp hand contact my face as I rolled my eyes away from him and stared at a tree across the street. I knew he'd go away sooner or later, and eventually he did. I stayed out of the Game Room for the next couple of weeks. I sat on my porch and listened to the radio instead. If BG came up on the porch, I'd take the radio inside. I could listen just as well on the balcony in back. As a matter of fact, the balcony was even better, because we had a hammock to lay in. Mom had bought it at the carnival supply store for $7, and it was quite comfortable, thank you very much.
Five weeks later, BG stood on the sidewalk and apologized to me. A few weeks after that, we were dating. Sort of.
I don't think anybody knew. Perhaps the proper term would be expressing an interest in each other. I went over to his house a couple of times. First we kissed, then we petted, then we petted heavily. The third or fourth trip to his house, I had decided that today was the day.
On that day, I would give BG my virginity.
It never occurred to me that he might not want it.
We reached a point where I was entirely naked, and we were taking his pants off -when I had to go and open my big mouth. I said, "I realize that this was kind of a surprise. I'm a virgin, so I'm not on the pill or anything. You don't have any condoms, do you?" He said, "No."
Then I had to make a choice. Risk pregnancy, or stop it right there. With my hormones raging and my body on fire, I decided to take the risk. I felt that in the interests of fairness, I should let him off the hook, so I said, "I'm the one who started this, so if anything happens, it's my problem. I'll take care of it."
I thought I was being responsible. I thought I was doing the right thing. Apparently that wasn't the case, because he laid back on the bed, flung an arm over his eyes, and stayed that way.
"Um. B?" I asked, "BG?"
nothing. No response whatsoever. He just shut me out.
I sat naked on the bed for what seems like an eternity. Then I spent another eternity screwing up the courage to ask him the question I so didn't want to ask... Well, there was nothing to be done about it. I could sit there in the buff or I could find out what I'd done wrong. (sigh)
So I asked, "Um. Do you still want to have sex with me?"
He replied, "No."
I felt absolutely worthless.
I slowly put my clothes back on. I wanted to give him every opportunity to come to his senses. After all, how often does a guy get this kind of offer?
As I was buttoning my shirt, I asked, "You're sure?"
So I left.
I stepped out into the bright January sunshine, lifted my chin proudly to the world and went home.
(And then I pretended to let my best friend talk me out of suicide, while I secretly chewed aspirin after aspirin in an attempt to kill myself. Aspirin being the only thing in the medicine cabinet.)