By: L.T. Dellinger

The trumpets sounded, the subtle ocean waves corroded the sand underneath my back and a flock of doves soared off into the midnight sky. Our satiated bodies sunk deeper into the shore with each penetration and I thought to myself, yea right Linds. The truth is, I was lying on an old water bed, 16-years-old, a bit frightened and potentially late for work. The ocean waves were completely inaudible considering we were in my boyfriend's upstairs bedroom in Lenexa, Kansas. Even if we were in a beach house by the Pacific, the calming sound of the water would have been drowned out by the very cheesy, very sappy mix tape I had created for my boyfriend after one of our “breakups.”

It was the beginning of summer and, conveniently, the day before my boyfriend's seventeenth birthday. Happy Birthday baby! You're probably wondering if that's the reason I was succumbing to the penis, surrendering my chastity. In all honesty, it wasn't. It just happened to be the day we both decided to “go there.” We had been as together as two can be together since the age of twelve. Off and on, of course, which explains the sentimental mix tape.

“Are you sure?” I recall him asking me after applying the condom to his erect organ. Oh how sweet, I thought to myself as he nervously hovered over my naked body, he's so caring. “Of course I'm ready,” I whispered. My pants were off, my goodies were exposed and I was about as horny as one can be before losing her virginity which we all know is about a two, maybe a three or four if your lucky, on a  scale of 1-10, where ten is the horniest.

“Do I ever cross your mind, anytime,” Brian McKnight crooned from the boom box, “Do you ever wake up reaching out for me?” Aaaawww, I have to remember this song, my mind wandered. This is the song I'm losing my innocence to, this is the song that will forever remind me of that stormy afternoon when my cherry was popped, I went on. Anything to divert my mind from what was about to occur. I continued, Oh my gosh! I'm gonna be late for work, we gotta rush this thing! I've got to go! What will I tell my boss?!

His parent's house was on my way to my work and it was summer break, so I had to take advantage of all that necking time, as my mother liked to call it. I worked in a retirement home as a waitress for about a year at that time, and my coworkers were used to me showing up with “bed head,” all giddy and full of juicy details of what my boyfriend had kissed or touched that day. I could only imagine what my excuse would have been had I arrived to work half an hour to forty-five minutes late, “I'm sorry. I was experiencing a very important moment in a teenager's life that will never happen again as there is no such thing as born-again virgins. Again, so sorry for my lateness.” Um, yeah.

“Won't you come back to me,” Brian McKnight continued and had my boyfriend known all the thoughts that were going on through my head, he might have been the one singing that. So, I was a huge fan of soap operas since the tender age of four and if you've every watched All My Children or Days of Our Lives, then you know how simple the sex goes for them. I mean, the thing just slid right in! There was no fumbling and manual labor was fairly nonexistent. After a few tries of this sophisticated telenovela-like intercourse, I had to grab his penis and direct him toward the entrance of my holy grounds. I immediately thought, Shit! How do they do that?

The thunder rumbled outside as the clouds rolled in, the water bed waved beneath our birthday suits, perspiration arranged itself neatly upon my boyfriend's brow, Brian McKnight persisted, “I miss you, I miss you” and I lost my virginity. Ouch...ugh...okay. Enough. Lightning flashed or was that a sign from God that happened during one's loss of purity that none of my non-virgin girlfriends had cared to warn me of? One that reminded you of the sin you had just committed?

We decided that that was enough sex for the day. Perhaps, we'd try that again another time or perhaps, we'd just stick to other ways of arousing each other. I quickly clothed myself, kissed my boyfriend goodbye and told him to call me. Brian McKnight was no longer droning from the stereo as I rushed away with barely enough time to make it to work. On the short drive to the retirement home, I recall this intense female urge to speak to my best friend because, after all, that is what girls do! We talk and we spill - and boy, did I have something to spill that day!

When I arrived at work, my hair was in its usual shambles and my makeup had that smear effect after one has been rubbing cheek against bare skin or face against sheets. Thankfully, I had a couple of minutes to spare and I could avoid having the “late talk” with the boss. In between serving the elderly filet of sole and fresh baked quiche, I managed to quietly release all of the afternoon's epic events, in detail, to my best girlfriend who, in turn, was excited for me. “Well, what are you going to do for his birthday tomorrow,” She asked. I informed her that he had already made plans with his parents.

The evening of my boyfriend's birthday, I was lounging in my bedroom after another long, summer day at the retirement home, listening to Alicia Keys' Songs in A Minor album on repeat. All I could think about was how I hadn't received a single phone call from my boyfriend since this colossal milestone in both of our lives and I was a bit concerned with his lack of sensitivity. “I keep on fallin' in and out of love...” Alicia Keys read my mind. The phone rang. “Hello,” I hastily answered, hoping to hear his voice on the other end. “Do you know where your boyfriend is at?” My girlfriend's rigid tone gave way to my ardent curiosity. “Well, he was supposedly spending the day with his family. Where is he,” I asked. She pressed on, “He is at Hooters with my boyfriend and...” She continued listing a long line of names in which would have been familiar to me had my elated emotions not drowned out her high pitched, earnest voice.

After giving the situation careful thought, her and I concluded we would drive to Hooters and spy on them. Now, today, it is easy for me to see how this was probably not the brightest idea in the book, but I also recognize that when you're a sixteen-year-old girl who, less that forty-eight hours earlier, just allowed her seventeen-year-old boyfriend to stick his junk inside of her, this was the only idea. I mean, after all, he should have known better. Being deflowered came with grand consequences and in high school, that apparently meant giving up your adolescent need to drool over large, mostly fake breasts while stuffing your face with a basket of piping hot, glazed chicken wings.

My girlfriend and I began to panic as I drove my four door white Saturn into the Hooters parking lot because, you see, we had an idea but we hadn't devised a plan behind this impulsive concept. What would we say? Were we going to go inside? Look through the windows? Our anxiety heightened as we realized birthday dinner was over and the boys were exiting the restaurant. Squeals and shrills came from my car and my foot pressed hard on the gas pedal. I drove as fast away as a ten-year-old four cylinder vehicle with 100+ thousand miles on it could.

Later that night, during our usual telephone conversation that commonly consisted of less conversing and more listening to each other breathe, I hesitantly interrogated my boyfriend, “So, what'd you do tonight?” He cautiously answered, “Some of the guys took me to a restaurant.” His use of the word restaurant instead of Hooters was blatantly coy and I was not amused. I coerced him into enlightening me on his whereabouts while adding that he was supposed to be spending the day with his family. To his defense, his friends “kidnapped” him. Of course! I was supposed to believe that a bunch of teenage boys put a 180 pound football player up against his will and forced him to celebrate his seventeenth in a so-called family restaurant full of scantily clad females. Oh, and all because the chicken wings are so damned amazing. Right.

After his unsuccessful attempt to comfort me by insisting that he didn't even enjoy himself, my independent woman instincts took authority over my emotional need to retreat. I made certain, for the umpteenth time that my boyfriend was aware that losing our virginity to one another was in no way a birthday gift and shouldn't be taken lightly. This uncomfortable exchange abruptly ended and was followed by what seemed like hours of steady breathing. “I love you,” he redeemed himself. I sighed. “I love you, too.” With a sly grin, I thought, he'll get laid again.