By Suzanne Wright

I lost my virginity while my boyfriend was in the hospital, laid up from an accident that nearly killed him, while the ICU nurses guarded our privacy to get it on.

But I’m getting ahead of the story.

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I envied Diane. She had three things I wanted: a seemingly endless wardrobe of sundresses (perfect for Florida), a thick head of glossy chestnut hair (never frizzy, with just enough wave), and Kelly.

Throughout my sophomore year (need I mention I was an outsider?) I watched Kelly, a senior, escort Diane, a junior, to every class. He carried her books (!) while she flounced in the room wearing cotton eyelet (regardless of season), draped over him like a silk scarf. She purred at him, he petted her. Sometimes they squabbled, with eye-rolling (on her part) and scowling (on his). They tongue-kissed with the kind of ferocity I hadn’t seen outside of a movie theater.

Though I felt a little pervy watching, I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

Kelly was fined-boned, maybe five foot seven, with a shock of dark straight hair that fell into his deep brown eyes. He wore a leather jacket every day (regardless of season). And though he had an air of danger to him, it was benign, not menacing.

I memorized every detail of that boy, from the scattering of fine freckles across the bridge of his nose to the scuffed-up work boots he wore. A few times, when he caught me staring at their romantic interplay, he nodded. Once, he smiled. Once, he said, “hi,” and asked me what my name was. I was too stunned to answer. Diane dismissed me with a wave of her perfectly tanned, toned arm.

But Kelly’s notice of me was enough encouragement to ignite a smoldering ember into a full-blown flame.

I wanted him.

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Having a popular, cute, rich friend with a car meant I was admitted into—and then largely ignored—at some of the school’s best parties. This one was a keg party, with a lethal concoction of Everclear and Kool-Aid mixed in one of those massive city-issued trash containers. Though the stuff was vile, I scooped a generous cupful and sucked it down.

I needed that liquid courage, because across the room I spied Kelly—sans Diane. I made an alcohol-fueled beeline for him. In rat-a-tat-tat fashion, I blurted out my name, his name, how I knew him. I extended my hand. It’s amazing he didn’t bolt.

Instead he smiled, said he recognized me (!) and went to refill our cups. I was thrilled to be talking to my crush. Turns out he and Diane had broken up.

Queue the quirky girl.

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That summer—between my junior and senior years—played out like a sappy transformational teen flick. I grew into my looks, blossoming in the attention of a boy I loved who loved me back.

Kelly had cool parents: a mom who made themed Chinese dinners and served them in costume with Chablis(!) and a dad who called me “Princess” and gave me an appreciation for “coon-ass bass,” which he filleted, battered and fried in the backyard. He had two cool brothers that didn’t mind me hanging around. I was introduced to Penthouse and vibrators in a house that celebrated sexuality in a very healthy way.

I hung out at the gas station, where Kelly worked, for hours on end. I felt very smug any time one of my classmates drove up. We borrowed his parent’s car, a beater BMW, and necked every night in the sticky heat, wearing out The Eagles The Long Run on tape—twice.

I was determined to have sex with Kelly, but I was equally determined not to get pregnant. So together, we went to the military hospital (dad was a Navy man). I was poised; I had done my research. We held hands during the appointment. The medic handed me several packets of pills and promised not to log my visit (my folks were decidedly not cool).

Armed with birth control, I went to the mall and bought some white lacy lingerie—Vidal Sassoon, I think—for the big night. I was 17 and I was ready to go all the way with my first love.

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I awoke to my mom vigorously shaking me. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and asked what time it was. Her face was drained of color. She flicked on the light.

“Get dressed. You have to go to the hospital. There’s been an accident and Kelly is asking for you.”

I readied myself in a haze, in middle-of-the-night darkness. We drove to Sacred Heart Hospital in silence. Kelly’s mother, father, and brothers met me at the ER; their faces were grim.

I was ushered into Kelly’s room. The sight of my beautiful boyfriend was terrifying, jolting me awake: his jaw was crushed, laying on his chest; his cheekbones bloodied; his forehead bruised; his head shaved; a leg broken in three places; a collapsed lung. Tubes helped him breathe; tubes fed him; monitors glowered at both sides of his bed.

Twin thoughts jockeyed for attention: would he live? Would he be able to have sex?

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I spent the last weeks of summer and two months of the new school year visiting my boyfriend. Instead of Kelly walking me to class, I carted books to his hospital room. I laid next to him, trying to snuggle a leg in a cast, an arm threaded with tubing. He was often so doped up he couldn’t converse.

He had survived, but he was too weak to go home. He lost weight –probably 50 pounds—and had daily physical therapy to regain the use of his legs. Though his lustrous hair had grown back and he had a winning, toothy smile, he was a young man, cut down, literally—he lost two inches off one leg, resulting in a lifelong limp that necessitated a built-up shoe. He was frustrated, angry, restless, horny. So was I.

We both needed some sexual healing.

Perhaps it was because he was young and handsome and (mostly) charming that the nurses were game. When I suggested some time alone with Kelly, they nodded. One procured some balloons. Another poured milkshake into two cups. Yet another found a cassette player. I asked for 30 minutes and I locked the door. I popped in The Long Run, hit play and heard Don Henley’s familiar vocals. I peeled off my shirt and jeans, revealing my lacy bra and panties.

For a moment we were back in that BMW. I handed Kelly a cup and we toasted.

And then I straddled my boyfriend in a hospital bed under unflattering fluorescent light. I moved gingerly, fearful I would hurt him. No, the sex was not what I had imagined, but it was tender and sweet. He stroked my hair and said he loved me. We both laughed, we both shed tears. He came; to this day, I can’t remember if I did.

I tidied up, unlocked and opened the door, and resumed studying. A nurse came to take his blood pressure. I swear she winked at me.

It was a hell of a way to lose my virginity. But it was definitely the right guy to lose it with.