- The Old Maid [Contains Sexual Content]
Once upon a time, my friend Kayla, a German foreign exchange student, and I were all hanging out in the guest bedroom in my parents' basement, drinking freezing cold red wine and having a gay old time.
My parents--currently sound asleep in the bedroom above us--would never know this wine was missing. They didn't drink the stuff--my mom was too pious, and my dad too macho. This wine had been opened at Thanksgiving and would have stayed in the deep, dark, sticky recesses of the refrigerator, expiring, until Easter, when the people who actually drank wine would be back at our house for the next family get-together.
At the stroke of midnight, the same upperclassman who had visited my basement two years ago and given me my first real kiss, sent me a text message asking if he could come over. By now, he had graduated and moved away for college, but he was back in town for a few days.
He came downstairs and hung out with us on the bed for a while and told us all about his college experience so far. After a while, Kayla and the German kid decided to go outside and smoke a cigarette.
Once they were gone, this boy started putting the moves on me, which I hadn't expected. I know that seems silly and naïve, since he is a boy and he called me late at night, but he did also like me as a person--we had been in some of the same extra-curriculars at school, and we were friends.
Apparently, he wanted to, like, do it, right then and there in that guest bedroom, while our friends were out for a smoke. Whatever he said, he must have said it alright; I didn't feel threatened. In fact, I considered his proposition.
I reasoned, inasmuch as I could after two glasses of red wine, that, you know what, I was 17 years old--I was practically an old maid at my school; most of my friends had been having sex since age 14 or 15. I had done my duty waiting as long as I had. As a senior in high school, I was now old enough and sufficiently mature.
Sure, it wasn't the most romantic context for losing my virginity, but that didn't matter. In fact, so much the better. I needed the experience to complete my education before I was thrust out into the Real World after graduation, and this seemed like the safest, most dispassionate way I could get it. I trusted this boy, and ultimately, I felt like I maintained a lot of control.
The act itself was easy enough to engage in, and it felt okay, maybe even nice. It was a neat sensation anyway. We practiced "safe sex" like our public school had drilled into us, and he was kind the whole time.
Meanwhile, my friends had finished their smoke. Kayla opened the door to the guest bedroom, took one step in, then said, "Oh! Oh, I'm sorry!" and closed the door. The boy and I kept on.
Thirty seconds later, she opened the door again. Maybe she thought we would have been embarrassed enough to pull ourselves together, button back up, and make it so that everyone could hang out in the guest bedroom once again. But we weren't that self-conscious, or polite.
I hissed from the bed, "Can I HELP YOU WITH SOMETHING?!"
She stammered "no" and "sorry" and closed the door. She and the German sat on the couch and tried to watch TV, but that particular remote control wasn't the most reliable, so they couldn't figure out how to turn up the volume enough to mask what was happening in the other room. They ended up just sitting there until it was over a few minutes later.
Kayla met me at Barnes & Noble the next day so I could dish about it and apologize to her. She totally understood. We sat in the café and giggled, and I'm sure some people overheard us, but I didn't care. I thought it was a funny story.