Virginity

It was December 9th, although the time of year has nothing to do with my recollection of this. She was willing, she was enamored, she was Asian, she was kind of pudgy. At the age of seventeen, having been deprived of female contact for a very, very long time, I had recently somehow transformed myself from a nerdy slip of a boy into a long-haired kid who was perceived in much the same way as a rock star. Traces remained, though, of who I was, and though I probably could have had any number of willing young fillies, I chose her, mostly because I was glamorous but shy. I had never thought what it might be like to finally pull some tottie, but now, having been pulled out of my tighty-whities (these too would soon go), there was no turning back.

It had been quite a night. I had made the official "asking out" earlier, as was convention in high school, and we had been officially "going out" for all of three, maybe four hours. Already, we'd kissed, traded massages, experimented with bondage, and I had recieved the first bout of oral sex, well, ever. I was a complete nobody, but now that she was naked and so was I, I could have been John Merrick for all I cared. I was going to get laid.

I hated myself. It was not because of that night, although certainly I had cause to; I'd said "I love you" to justify, in my head, the fact that I was about to put the pipe to someone I barely knew. No, I was seventeen and full of angst, which I think added to my appeal in ways, and the fact that I hated who I was precluded the fact that she was deep-voiced, smoked, was about as sexy as a stomach pump, and just about average in every way. She wasn't all that bright, but I didn't care. She was naked. Finally, so was I.

I sort of managed to get the birth control in place (I'm told some try to unroll it first; this is bad) and positioned myself atop her on the floor. I pushed slightly. I was ready. I had seen some Cinemax pornos and thought that, by watching Shannon Tweed dry-fuck any number of failed soap-opera actors who seemed to be getting along just fine despite still having their pants on, I would learn the way to please a woman. I was sort of right. Being young and retarded, I actually asked her if it was in. A few times. Being understanding and all, she said, "You'll know when it is." A little manuevering, a little touchy-touchy here and there, and she said to me, "Push."

I pushed.

It was heavenly. It was everything and more. It was life, it was love, it was sweaty, naughty, illicit teen sex, and for the duration of that magical adventure, I was king of the world. She moaned my name. She whimpered softly. I was a god. I was delivering wave after wave of nigh-unbearable orgasmic pleasure to her quivering form.

I had to move slightly, for comfort.

I lost my erection.

I'm still not sure why that happened, really, but it did. Figuring it wasn't no thing, as it's said, I gave it a few jerks, touched her a bit.

Nothing.

She offered her services, orally speaking. Nothing.

She used her hand. Nothing.

Cooed in my ear. Nothing.

It just didn't happen. All night we tried, completely in vain, to get some life back into the damn thing. Nothing worked. I was ready, she was willing, I was unable. Eventually I took her home. She was satisfied in some way, I was on fire. The entire world sucked. I had lost my virginity, and had missed out on the story's expected happy ending.

Call it angst, but I sometimes think that the whole experience neatly encapsulates my existence.

Other experiences were more fulfilling, but none were as pure. I'm still not sure if this is a good thing.