By K.Q. Eggers

Dear Mark,

Remember when you took my virginity? That was so crazy that you did that. Oh, sorry, by “took,” I don’t mean you stole it or anything; I sure did give it up willingly since I was fat and everything. Yes, of course I was FAT, you don’t have to be polite or overly kind. You did that enough when we had sex for my first time. Because, lord, if you hadn’t had sex with me, who would have? Seriously, Mark, thank you.

Did you know I had never even kissed a guy before you? Isn’t that crazy? I got to college without ever even kissing anyone. Because I was fat. No, seriously, let’s not pretend I hadn’t already gained the freshman-15 on top of the childhood-35. Do you remember our first make-out session? We were sitting on my dorm room couch, and you were probably saying something astute about politics or mafia movies, and I was probably giggling and agreeing in secret oh-my-god-I’m-sitting-next-to-a-boy-on-a-couch terror, and you said “Are we gonna do this?” And then we rubbed tongues. Mine was as dry as beef jerky, so dry I couldn’t talk without sounding like I had just had a dental procedure. The last time that had happened was at the sixth grade skate party, when I got to couple-skate with Andy V., heartthrob of elementary school in his neon Umbro soccer shorts.

But we got through it, and correct me if I’m wrong, you gave me a hickey. Why does no one give hickies anymore? I was so freaking proud of that hickey, Mark. Because to me, that hickey meant that finally, FINALLY, a male had looked past the size 16 pants and liked me enough to burst blood vessels and cause hemorrhaging just below the skin.

I think that was, what, like a couple weeks after I met you? I met you when I couldn’t figure out how to make friends in college after being rejected by the sorority system because I was large and didn’t even know it so I went to the school newspaper office. And there you were. In all your geeky-band-shirt-premature-balding-overbite glory. I was there to apply to be an assistant copyeditor. Because grammar was a skill of mine. And you were the chief copy editor. And you gave me a test of punctuation. And you smiled at me. And after my first day on the job that I think paid $25 a month, I came home and announced to my roommate, “I’m in love with my copy editor!” So now you know, Mark. Yes, I actually said that! Because it made me feel like a real girl who had crushes and on whom people crushed back.

You were totally a TA and I was totally just 18 years old. And Mark? You were: So. Old. You were twenty-freaking-four years old. 24. It was like making out with a dad. Remember when I went to the class that you were teaching and pretended I was one of your students? That was titillating. Actually, that would be titillating nowadays too.

So anyway, after we hung out “as friends” a few times, we did that dry-mouth-make-out, and I got my first beard burn. And then a little time after that, we dry-humped and I got my first vulva bruise. And somewhere in there, I saw your penis for the first time—it was my first penis. I didn’t even know that testicles existed, Mark. No, I’m serious. And I licked it like a melting ice cream cone just like I had read to do in Glamour magazine. I was good at that, after almost two decades of excessive trips to Dairy Queen.

And then the sex thing came up, of course. You said you felt bad taking my virginity, and I said “It’s cool!” And it kinda really was. Because having sex meant someone thought I was pretty. And sexual.

Sometimes we would go to the grocery store together because it was kinda near your graduate student housing. But I had no idea what shopping like a grown-up was supposed to be like. So I shopped for a family. And even though we were walking back to your little bachelor apartment, I shopped like we were driving a mini-van. Oops. So I had a two-pack of gallon milk. A two-pack. And lots and lots of grocery bags that probably contained gallons of ice cream and cereal and Saltines and canned soup, because being a freshman, I didn’t know how to cook anything. And the bags broke on the walk back. And I thought I was gonna die of both exhaustion and embarrassment. You looked mortified and confused too. So thanks again for having sex with me that night regardless.

You know what I totally remember? The condom. It wasn’t like a familiar medical glove color or anything. I believe it came from your RA’s free condom-and-candy basket. And it was black. It was called Black Tuxedo actually, I totally remember that. And it made your penis more android and sinister than it probably should have been for a girl’s first penis, but hey, it seemed very protected. Safety first.

So you pulled off your black Weezer t-shirt and baggy jeans and took off whatever body-hiding t-shirt I was undoubtedly wearing and you totally put that Black Tuxedo penis inside me. It was really weird, Mark. Having something up in me. No offense.

Gosh, Mark, I don’t remember at all what I did while you were up in me. I hope I moaned and wriggled appropriately. You being an experienced lothario at age 24 with a whopping four former lovers and all. I really wanted to impress you and I really wanted you to like me.

But Mark, here’s the thing. Why did you have sex with me? Why was I the object of your desire for a few months there? I’ve seen pictures of myself at that dark time, and I have to say: I was big. Big like a Midwestern Rotary matron. And inexperienced and self-loathing and insecure.

So really, when I think about it, I am really impressed with you. I mean, sure, you always called us “Just Friends” and the only meal you ever bought me was the ramen you made once and you stopped having dorm-room sex with me when you started dating the editor-in-chief of the paper (whom you eventually married and divorced a year later—many happy returns on that, by the way!), but mostly, Mark, wow. You were the first guy to knock on the soft skin shell I had made for myself. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t. After you, I knew I wanted even more male attention, so I lost all that weight the summer after freshman year. And looky there. As if it was a math equation, I got to make out and have sex with loads more guys. LOADS, Mark. And every single one has been ridiculously over-the-top satisfying, of course.

So Mark, you led the pack. Congratulations on sticking it up in me. You made this fat girl a woman.

Keep in touch! I’m on facebook.
xoxo
K.Q.