By: Jennifer Ambrose

He had his sister’s car for the night; it was sparkling white with plush, leather seats. We hadn’t seen each other for a few weeks, and he wanted to take me on a date. Our destination: A Jersey goth/alternative club, similar to those I used to frequent on Under 21 nights. I met him in Herald Square, where he worked, a few blocks away from Macy’s. His employer produced and distributed low budget pornographic DVDs.

I arrived dressed in a black polyester dress with spaghetti straps and a short, unevenly cropped hemline complemented with expensive black punker boots from Paris. He most likely wore something black, too; he always wore black, and he smelled like Chanel cologne. He’d been summoned to pick up some pot for a friend, so before we headed to Jersey, we circled around the corner of 33rd St and Seventh Ave until the dealer paged him. Before he exited the car to meet the dealer, he swiftly leaned over and kissed my lips, lightly, firmly, sexily, and I felt it all the way down.

The deal took only a few moments, but I was impatient because I needed to urinate. Badly. As we moved slowly through the West Village amidst the taxis and energetic New Yorkers venturing out on a Saturday night, I mentioned it, even though I was embarrassed. He offered to pull over as we passed the Hangar, a gay bar with men in g-strings and a rancid odor. He double parked on Christopher Street. I scurried out of the car and into the bar, peed as quickly as possible in the rank bathroom, darted out past all of the men (prompting only a few curious glances), jumped back into the car, and sat back, quite curious about my impending Jersey experience. I didn’t understand why he wanted to go there when better clubs lined the bocks of Manhattan. Maybe it was so he could point out the loft apartment he’d once shared with a member of the industrial band KMFDM without seeming like he was bragging about having lived with someone many would have considered a “rock star.”

The club was called QXT, and the bartenders poured good drinks--no flat tonic water at this place. I drank a lot, quickly, so I preferred Frenching him to dancing. On the basement level, we watched a dude in a wheelchair groove by making little wheelies and propelling his chair from side to side, then we made out some more on the black cushioned bench pushed up along the wall. He was eager to dance so after awhile, although he didn't dislike my affections, he pulled me upstairs to the second floor. I pushed him against the bathroom door and kissed him, yet again. At least one person scolded us: “Get a room!” “Jealous!” I slurred in retort. By the time he finally persuaded me on to the dance floor, I’d been beset by the spins. One song, that’s all I could do. I didn’t feel bad, either, because two hours is enough time spent at a goth club.

He decided we should go back to his place, not mine. He lived with his parents and younger sister in Staten Island. I was in no state to argue and remained semi-coherent for the duration of the ride. I only remembered that Peter Murphy’s early nineties alternative MTV hit “Cuts You Up” blared from the car speakers.

We pulled up to his parents’ tri-level. The neighborhood felt so suburban, even somewhat safe and relaxing, in comparison to my noisy Brooklyn neighborhood. As soon as we got inside, we headed straight to his room, which was small with blue and silver striped walls, plus a fancy stereo system, and a closet full of black clothes: so him.

I next thing I remember was sitting on his bed, holding onto a cup of water, when he pounced, ravenous. He pulled my dress off and began nipping at my mound over the top of my black panties, instructing, “You can leave the boots on.” I didn't, though, because they're heavy. We wrestled and tussled while his mood music, which included a lot of Morrissey, blasted in the background. Just after we each became very fiesty, however, we passed out; the gin and vodka proved to have more seductive powers than either of us.

Several hours later, I awoke very sore from sleeping in a contorted position on his rock hard mattress that seemed more narrow than a regular twin bed. While he continued sleeping, I went to the bathroom and ate some pretzels I‘d stashed in my purse to offset any morning munchies. The pretzels certainly couldn’t help my pounding head, however. I laid back down, hoping to pass back out, until I couldn’t take it anymore. I prodded him awake to whine about my sore head. He mocked me, but dragged himself out of bed anyway, and took me downstairs to retrieve Advil. I felt silly since I wore only my undies, my little titties bare in his parents’ house. On the way back up, he turned and looked at me, stating, “I have access to a better bed.” “Where?” I asked. “My sister’s,” he replied.

His sister's!? I thought. Can I fool around on his sister’s bed?! I gaped at him in a hungover stupor, trying to make a decision in my mind. What it came to was that his bed was not suitable for any sort of comfortable sexual play, so after trying to ensure that she would never find out and if she did, she wouldn’t be too upset, which clearly she would be and did it really matter at this point?, I acquiesced. His sister’s room was decorated in complete contrast to his--frilly white, mirror on the door, white, so much white, like the white car. Mirror on the closet door across from the bed, which I sank into. So soft, so much better.

He came at me, picking up precisely where we left off hours earlier. I orgasmed without penetration. Being a man, he immediately wanted his, so he knelt in front of me, placing his penis directly in front of my mouth. I ignored it. He knelt there. I began caressing his nipple and sucked and yanked at his penis. The angle wore me out. He left. He came back a long time later. We fooled around some more, but he still wasn‘t satisfied. Abruptly, he sat up, pulled out a green condom and opened it. I feebly protested, but I needed to get it over with, and it would have looked ridiculous if I had said no. When he put it in, I didn’t feel any pulling or tearing like I thought I would. I kept thinking about my hymen, wondering if was already broken. I think it had, because no blood stained his sister’s pristine, white bed.

He felt awkward inside of me; I was overly aware of him; he felt like an intruder until I asked him to slow down and repositioned myself. As soon as he could tell I relaxed, he pummeled me. I loved it when the bed shook and creaked, like being in our own little roller coaster. Things went more smoothly after he moved me on top, which felt much better, even though it was still odd at first because he kept slipping out of me. After I found my the groove, I started bouncing up and down joyfully, and I started to forget he was in me. When he finally got his, I felt proud. I had finally accomplished something that almost everyone on the planet had experienced.

Afterward, he fell asleep for an hour or so, but I tossed and turned, at times leaning on my side and looking into the mirror, feeling thrilled at being naked in a stranger’s bed. I stared at my protruding belly and chubby cheeks. I didn’t look like women who pose like that in men’s magazines or for painters, but I still felt satisfied and it showed on my face.

Later that afternoon, he drove me all the way home, again in his sister’s car. As The Cure's Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me blared from the car’s speakers, I wondered whether or not he knew my status before our encounter. I doubted that he did, because he was not a very intuitive person. It didn’t mattered either way, because at twenty-nine years old, I could finally say I wasn’t a virgin anymore.