The V-Word (15 page)

If you're socially awkward and don't know anyone and are slightly embarrassed because a boy you sort of like is making out with a girl you don't know in the living room while everyone watches, the keg is the absolute best place to be. First, there's beer. Unlimited beer. Second, it's the social hub of any party. Everyone comes to visit the keg. Everyone. Even the people who prefer to pickle their liver with bottom shelf vodka that could double as paint remover.

Everyone
visits the keg.

So I hung out and drank and laughed and drank and smoked and drank and joked around with people I didn't know while drinking some more. This was not the best idea I've ever had, because in general getting very, very drunk at a party is a recipe for disaster. I knew this firsthand from an incident at a previous party that had almost ended very badly for me. Due to a friend's timely intervention I didn't get raped, but unfortunately I was not so good at learning my lesson the first time.

So I started drinking more beer than I could handle. I was awkward and lonely and maybe just a little heartsore at being rejected. Not good reasons to drink to annihilation, but my reasons all the same.

In a stupidly short amount of time I was absolutely wasted.

Since I was too young to be drinking and too drunk to stand, I casually leaned myself against the side of the house, like I was cool and nonchalant and not completely shit-faced. I had just about convinced myself that I was not going to puke when a guy whose name I can't remember (It started with an M. Morgan? Morris? Mitch? Let's just go with Mitch.) came up and started talking about something (Music? Movies?). I nodded and laughed at the appropriate pauses, and he refilled my beer for me like a fine gentleman bartender. After a beer and a half he asked me if I wanted to go back to his place and watch movies.

I said, “Sure.” Or, at least, I think I said sure. I'm positive whatever I slurred out was a pale imitation of English.

Now, on any other night I probably would've declined. After all, I still had my two rules (
Bed! Condom!
) and I'd arrived with a friend. It felt weird to leave with someone besides the people I came with, like it was a sordid tryst or a drug deal. More importantly, I would've realized that “going back to his room to watch movies” was code for having sex, and I would've been so freaked out about it that I would've stammered out some excuse and bolted.

And maybe I would've realized that a guy who gets a girl drunk before trying to nail her is a complete and utter shitbag.

But I didn't. I was drunk, my inhibitions were gone, and my decision-making skills were terrible. Besides, he was cute. I think. I was pretty much seeing double.

After waving off my concerned friend—
Yes, I'm good. I'm fine. Everything is fine.
—we went back to his room and locked the door. (Rule #1? Check.) He let me pick the movie and I chose
Army of Darkness
. Not just because I really like that movie but because his DVD collection was alphabetized and it was just too hard to keep reading past the As.

As Bruce Campbell, the star of the movie, drove his car through a portal into the past, the guy I was with reached up under my shirt. It wasn't the first time I'd imagined Ash, Bruce Campbell's character in the movie, reaching up under my shirt. But this time, it was really happening. Only, not with Ash, but with Mitch. I laughed at the silliness of making out to a movie that had fueled my own sordid daydreams.

But Mitch didn't know any of this, and he thought I was giggling at him. When he asked me if I was ticklish I told him the sad, sad truth: I was a virgin, untried and unproven. Instead of that turning him off, it actually turned him on.

Because he was a dirtbag.

I have to interject a note of caution here: Guys that are completely okay screwing girls too drunk to give enthusiastic consent are the lowest of the low. There is something loathsome about a guy that hits on a girl who is leaning against a house because she is too inebriated to stand. Those guys should be avoided at
all
costs.

Especially if the idea of being your first makes them hard.

But I was drunk, lonely, and a little desperate to have sex. I doubt any earnest warning would have been enough to scare off my nineteen-year-old self. I wanted to have sex even if the guy I'd picked wasn't really worth my time.

My sexual debut, with the movie playing in the background and me trying not to puke up a pony keg's worth of light beer while I fucked a complete stranger, was not my finest moment. But I'm glad I did it, even if I do have one regret.

I was totally off my game that night.

Anything worth doing should be done well, especially sex. Alcohol may lower inhibitions but it sure as hell doesn't increase coordination. My kissing technique had devolved into something between a garter snake doing an interpretive dance and a sea anemone slap fight. I had no idea what to do with my mouth. I pretty much totally forgot I even had hands. It all just seemed like too much effort to even try. By the time Mitch went down on me I really just wanted him to take off his pants and get down to business so I could pass out properly.

You know, because I was
shit-faced
.

He slid a condom on. (Rule #2? Check.)

And, dammit, I was finally doing it.

And it, the sex, well, it was pretty uninspired. Definitely less interesting than
Army of Darkness
.

Eventually he finished (I didn't. No surprise there.) and pulled me into his arms while he murmured bullshit platitudes for my newly deflowered benefit. I fell asleep. (Passed out. Whatever.)

The next morning I woke up at the ass crack of dawn. I've always been an early riser and sharing a twin bed with a guy I barely knew was not my idea of romantic. I used the bathroom, noted the soreness in my lady bits, and gave myself a high five.

Yay me. I'd done it!

As I was searching for my other shoe, Mitch woke up and asked me if I wanted to go to breakfast. No, I didn't. I wanted a hot shower and another twelve hours of sleep in my own bed. Besides, he was a lot less cute when I was mostly sober and it was light out. He asked for my number, and I gave it to him out of some strange sense of misplaced guilt. He called me the next weekend so that we could hook up again. But it was pretty terrible and I was glad I'd been so very drunk the first time. I was relieved when I saw him making out with someone else a month later, ending our awkward, half-hearted courtship.

And that is the somewhat sordid story of my forgettable first time.

I like to think I used Mitch as much as he used me. I'm not really sure. Because what I remember is being really, really drunk. And horny. And more than a little desperate to have sex.

But I also remember 1990s Bruce Campbell, the star of
Army of Darkness
.

He was hot.

After hearing her friend's story of sex in the bathroom of a fast-food restaurant, Justina didn't have very high expectations for her own first time, and it played out more or less to expectation. Not the greatest show on earth, but she knew what she was getting into. She had sex on her own terms.

As the stories in this book show, first-time sex isn't a one-size-fits-all proposition. We bring our expectations, experiences, and beliefs into bed with us. Sometimes sex is a letdown. Sometimes it's transformative. Sometimes it's a hell of a lot of fun. The key is figuring out what you want and asking for it.

Jamia isn't looking for sex when she goes to the beach with a friend, but she unexpectedly finds herself in a safe place with a sexy guy who is ready and willing to give her exactly what she desires, as she figures it out a little bit at a time.

“H
ello, welcome to the Virgin Vault. How may I direct your call?”

When the communal phone rang in my all-girls boarding school dorm, we sometimes answered with the snarky name kids from other schools teased us with at sporting events. Peals of laughter would reverberate through the halls of the so-called Virgin Vault as we frustrated callers attempting to reach their sister, daughter, or friend.

When we weren't in class, this sort of innocent mischief imbued our days with a sense of rebellion. Joyful defiance was a way to temper our highly structured schedules, rigorous academic load, and extracurricular commitments.

Most days, deeply diving into my coursework, writing, and singing thrilled me. But sometimes, gripped with cabin fever, I would wonder why I was living with one hundred and twenty teen girls instead of following Lenny Kravitz's band on tour.

At the end of junior year, my friend Maureena (aka Mo) sauntered by me in study hall, interrupting business as usual at my desk. I welcomed the distraction. Using her long blond hair as a shield, she dropped a tiny folded note in my lap.

Risking demerits by reading her message, I pretended to be immersed in a close reading of
The Awakening
while attempting to avoid the proctor's gaze.

While reading Chopin's novel about a young woman's sexual discovery would have usually been a highlight during study hours, the contents of Mo's note were more intriguing. I devoured her artful scrawl without a clue that it would lead to my very own awakening a month later.

When Mo wasn't at school, she lived with her grandfather at the beach. She often went home for weekends while I was stuck at school because my parents lived in Saudi Arabia. We'd been talking for months about me going home with her some weekend, and I couldn't wait.

As I suspected, Mo's letter was about our trip. Her note instructed me to request a letter from my parents authorizing the sleepover. She said our trip would be low-key. We'd stay at her grandpa's home, hang out with her friends at the beach, and I'd finally get to meet the cute college-aged boyfriend she kept gushing about.

In compliance with school policy, Mo's grandfather wrote a letter to our dean stating that he would be hosting us for a weekend break in the beginning of May. He left the note open-ended, welcoming me any time. We finally received the permission form from my parents and we were ready to go!

The day finally came and I eagerly waited for Mo's grandfather to retrieve us from campus. Adorned in her uniform plaid kilt and gray cardigan, Mo epitomized boarding school chic as she ran up to meet me at the main building. Her lean frame, strong jaw, and long blond hair reminded me of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad.

“There's been a change of plans,” she said. Mo indicated a tall forty-something brunette standing next to a car. “Grandpa's tied up and running late. Jodie's mom is going to give us a ride instead.”

I looked at the main office nervously and asked Mo if we needed new paperwork authorizing us to be driven by another adult. She grabbed my hand and said, “Don't worry. Everything is taken care of.”

Two hours later, Jodie's mom left us at a Walmart near the beach. According to Mo, her grandfather wanted us to wait there for him to arrive. After assuring Jodie's mom that we would call her once we reached home, our chaperone departed.

Ten minutes later, Mo's boyfriend, Ben, and his friend, Steven, pulled up in an early-90s jalopy and whisked us off to what looked like a ramshackle frat house. When I asked when her grandfather was coming, Mo and her punk-rock paramour laughed in unison. “Sweetie,” she said, “My grandpa is in Europe. I knew you wouldn't come if I told you what was up. It's just us, Ben, and his boys.”

My gut churned with fear. We'd already violated school policy by riding in a car with unauthorized boys. Now we would be spending the weekend without parental guidance.

One by one, I visualized the privileges that would be taken away at school if our prefect or worse, the headmistress, learned that we broke the rules. I imagined sitting in a disciplinary council meeting and being punished for violating the honor code. If I got kicked out of school, I would spend the remainder of my life at a soul-sucking retail job. There was no way out without calling school, blaming Mo, and losing a friend. None of the options were appealing. We were in too deep by school standards already.

So I took a breath, and we entered the house. After all, I was almost a “grown-ass woman.” I often proclaimed this phrase while posturing with my girlfriends about how we deserved more freedom at school, but now, facing a weekend of potential debauchery that could get me in huge trouble, I felt like a scared child.

In preparation for our arrival, Ben had organized a small gathering with pizzas, beer, tequila, and bro-punk music blaring throughout the house. I was sitting in one of those party atmospheres I'd seen a lot on television but wasn't entirely used to since the dynamics of the social scene in Saudi Arabia were very different.

For the first hour, I sat silently on a dusty couch as Mo chatted with friends from home.

As soon as I digested the fact that I had nowhere to go without getting Mo and possibly myself suspended—or even expelled—I decided to mingle. I learned that Steven was in college about twenty miles from our school, and Mo's boyfriend was working and applying to art school. Mostly, I observed aspects of '90s American teenage culture that I'd missed due to my expat lifestyle. Flip-cup and beer pong hadn't made it to the Middle East.

After most of the guests cleared out around midnight Mo began playing Hacky-Sack with Ben and Steven while I watched. My panic rose again. Not only was I violating policy before college applications and recommendations were complete, but I was also putting myself in a position where my lack of coordination was about to be revealed in front of handsome college boys.

Steven, who was tall with short brown curls and a kindly grin, kicked the Hacky Sack in the air toward me and winked. I summoned every ounce of dexterity I had to ensure that the darn little beanbag never hit the ground. To my amazement and triumph I grabbed it in midair, and then stood in awkward silence when I realized that I had ended the game.