Virgins Feel… Different

It's Monday, and as it happens, this past weekend birthed an unintentional relationship for a friend of mine - otherwise known as fodder for my blog.  I love a good story that starts out with, "Okay, don't judge me…" because right off the bat, I know I'm in the presence of a kindred spirit.

So I settle in - make myself good and comfortable - and announce to my buddy he's in the trust bubble.  He proceeds to tell me he called this girl ("just a friend") to go with him to a buddy's birthday party on Saturday night.  Since she likes him more than just a friend, he gives her the option: meet there, take separate Uber's home OR meet at his house, drive together, take one Uber back to his place, and she could sleep on the couch.

What?

Seriously, this was his best logic, and he was really crossing his fingers she was going to choose option number one.  His words.

She chose option number two.

Now, my buddy doesn't think he's charming, but he's an idiot.  He's great looking and he's funny.  Just add alcohol, and he's a real panty-dropper.  But he tries to tell me anyway that, contrary to his best effort (so as not to lead this poor girl on) he came off like the Dos Equis guy instead.  You ever have those nights when you're just on your A-game?  Well, this was his night, I guess - and it just happened to be the one night he didn't want to be impressive.  Sure.

First red flag in the story is: every time he walks up to the bar to order drinks for he and his just-a-friend, she disappears to the bathroom.  Instinctively I think she's skiing, but turns out, it's not "just like smoking when you drink."  The real reason she kept disappearing is because she's twenty.

The night continues, so does their consumption, one thing leads to another, and they're home bound in an Uber.  At this point he's still trying to convince me she was couch-bound - but now he's thinking maybe it's okay to make out with her?

Well, we all know making out leads to babies.  Clothes started coming off almost immediately after they crossed the threshold of his apartment, and right as he was about to find himself on the road to the Cabbage Patch with Just-A-Friend, he hit a wall - hers.  He says to me (and I quote), "I kept thinking to myself: I don't remember it being this hard to enter…"

My first thought is, "Moron!  You need to take the tampon out first!"  But then it dawns on me, he just fucked the Twenty Year-Old Virgin.

I remembered my first time - laying there on that dorm room bed with my boyfriend from high school.  I remember it for two reasons:

1) Getting fucked for the first time is not dissimilar from a volcano erupting.  It's explosive (physically and emotionally), sometimes there's lava, and if the boy's not clean, it can leave you burning and shooting fire out of your pee hole.

2) Still, I definitely imagined what dinner parties with our friends would be like - how all our kids would run around and play together - the kind of wife I would make (whether or not I would take his last name), where we would live, and how many kids we would have - all while having sex.

Point being, this chick is about to go straight-up Gloria from Wedding Crashers on his ass.  But warnings can't be retroactive, so instead I just make fun of him.

Moral of the story is three-fold:

• Don't ask out Just-A-Friend's
• Don't casually fuck virgins if you don't want to get married.  (Do your research).
• Don't tell me your stories.  I will use them as entertainment.

My 1st Gyno Visit

Speculum

I was seventeen and a late bloomer.  That is to say, I was still a virgin.  So, by today's standards, a "late bloomer."  There was really no need to visit a lady doctor up until I decided to go on a hunger strike in protest of post-pubescent weight gain and ended up with amenorrhea.  If there's anything I'm really good at, it's overshooting the mark.  So, off to the doc I went.

My first mistake was taking the advice of my mother and going to her doctor: a MAN.  Not that I have anything against male lady-doctors… I see one now.  I mean, what straight, hot-blooded American boy wouldn't wanna grow up to be elbow deep in clam juice all day long, and get paid for it!?  I get it.  But I had never been with a man before.  I had barely even kissed a guy.  Now I was on my way to have one open me up so he could stab me with his instruments… medically speaking.

My second mistake was staying for my appointment after walking into the waiting room.  It seemed this "doctor" had a thing for "themes."  Maybe he was from New Orleans or something?  I hear they like a good theme party.  I have a friend from there and she's a regular Martha Stewart when it comes to that sort of event.  But I digress.  Dr. Feelgood went in a different direction, dedicating each examining room to a male celebrity heartthrob (and a questionably straight one at that,) i.e. Tom Cruise, Richard Gere, etc.  I guess he thought that's the sort of thing that would put a woman at ease as she experienced the cold metal of a speculum.

Dead.  Sexy.

I was set up in the Patrick Swayze room.  Or maybe it was the Mel Gibson room… it's difficult to remember from the blackout I slipped into.  (The body has a miraculous way of protecting itself.)  Either way, the only Braveheart in the room that afternoon was me, as I vaguely recall laying there, looking up at a bouquet of beefcake pics that had been crudely cut from People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive of 1985.

People Magazine

People Magazine

To add insult to injury - if that were even possible at this point - because I was still a delicate flower and my lady parts were all in-tact, the doc had a difficult time performing a standard exam, so he had to do it anally.  Hand to God, I can't make this shit up.  I think a little part of me died that day, and the seed of my affinity for butt sex was planted.  (Not really, but I sure did like to talk about butt sex years later when I was drunk at parties with my parents).

In hindsight, I don't see how any of this could have been legal, but I swear, it's all true.