My virginity loss in three stupid parts

By Heather Leigh

When I was ten, a copy of Cosmopolitan somehow found its way onto the back of the family toilet. It remained there for six months and every time I took a shit, I would read the same trashy sex story about the prom queen losing her virginity. The only phrase I still remember is “the sudden surge of hot liquid from his body into mine.” Okay, WHAT? I decided to never have sex because I didn’t want ANYONE peeing in me.

Before the Internet, adolescent knowledge about sex often came in such cryptic, confusing tidbits as this. They were culled from chance glimpses of pornography, telltale condom wrappers whispering mysterious phrases like “ribbed for her pleasure”, and as many schoolyard urban legends as one could count. By the age of ten I had gathered the following: sex was “two naked people rubbing their butts together in the shower” (my Uncle Tom), and the term for said naked people was “bastards” (my cousin Emily; thanks for getting me in trouble at age seven for talking about making the transition from baths to showers). Combined with the understanding that men actually urinated into woman’s vaginas, I thought I knew all there was to know. Although cut-and-paste information gathered from various other sources also told me I was supposed to start having “feelings”, that my body would be “changing” and I might experience certain “sensations” and “pubes”, I wasn’t sure what all that really meant. Regardless, I anxiously awaited these signs that I was approaching adulthood, because since adults didn’t get zits, I would be fine no matter WHAT other weird things happened.

My early “sexual” fantasies occurred around this time, and were totally fucking bizarre. The first one, which I would use to lull me to sleep every night, still makes me wonder whether my then drug-addled father was lacing our family dinner vats of Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese with hits of the bad shit. I’d imagine lying on a beach as hundreds of loin-clothed Fabio look-alikes ran towards me in slow motion. Everything, of course, was in black and white. As they came closer, my excitement mounted, and I held my arms out to them. Then they’d lift me up over their heads and sprint down the beach holding me aloft. And that was it. No climax, no sex acts, just a longhaired man-chariot carrying me on a deserted island in some strange mash-up of soap opera dream sequences, romance novel covers and that one Chris Isaak video.

Fantasy #2 was of my first intense crush, a professional wrestler named Marty Jannetty (please DON’T GOOGLE HIM). It involved me finding tickets to Wrestlemania in a cereal box, and then meeting him while wearing a white lace Madge-meets-Kelly-Bundy 80s slut dress. While Doris Troy’s “Just One Look” inexplicably played, he looked at me and decided to become my companion of some vague, unconsummated sort. Unfortunately, though this never played out in real life, the contest was real, so who knows how many family breakfasts I secretly defiled with my pre-pubescent, vagina-moistened fist.

None of my fantasies actually made me horny in that desperate, sopping-wet way, although I tingled the day away and constantly messed with my bits as if exploring some forbidden, smelly cave. But for years, that “hot liquid” from Cosmo made me obsessed with losing my very own virginity. Unfortunately, the onslaught of puberty had left me with a mustache that rivaled Burt Reynolds’, belly fat deemed unsightly even by my own family members, and the constant aura of hormonal stench. No one was interested in even holding hands with me, much less plowing me senseless. By the time I entered high school, I had become the female equivalent of a slovenly comic store creep, sitting in my dark room masturbating to excerpts of my mom’s shitty paperbacks, staring at my huge lonely boobs in the mirror while cursing the God that would let them go to waste, and fantasizing about faceless men doing “it” to me in fantastical locations.

I sent out “offers” via gossip to boys from all walks of teenage life (brainers, skaters, rappers, even jocks), but over and over I was turned down. Some super cute punk dude once got wasted enough to sloppily finger me in a hot tub, but even then, refused to kiss me, and was too ashamed to ever acknowledge me at school again. My lowest point, though, was talking to one of the dorkiest girls in school, who I was SURE was way below me socially. I think we were bonding over some fucking vile sausage and egg breakfast sandwich that was sold at the cafeteria. “I’m glad I found someone who loves that thing as much as I do,” I gushed. “It’s better than anything. Better than…sex,” I lied.

She just stared at me as her face reddened, before a slight smile crossed her lips. “No, it’s not.”

Damn. If even she could get laid, I was beginning to think it was a lost cause. Or rather, that I was. I continued to use my cheap vibrator, “Judas”, until he finally exploded, along with my dreams of EVER being desired by a human being. That is, until Brandon came along.

He was the first straight dude to take an interest in me. I was seventeen when my best friend Carolina told me that her older brother’s cute, skater friend thought I was hot. That was all it took. My imagination was off and running. I must make plans to see him, I thought. He was going to see these titties, fall in love, and give it to me good. But time was of the essence, as he was liable to come to his senses (like all the other people I had propositioned) at any moment.

My loins turned into Niagara Falls nightly as I anticipated seeing him again. I planned to pretty much spread ‘em upon “hello” the next time we met. I made arrangements for it in the form of giddy “Let’s call Brandon!!”s every time I spent the night at Carolina’s.

Finally, he took the bait and came over. After a few minutes of awkward chatting, he took me to the garage. I remember feeling disturbed as he selected the Cirque du Soleil soundtrack for our “makeout music” (?) and visions of freaky ghost-people on trapezes flooded my mind. Along with the odd choice of jams, my complete indifference toward Brandon as a person halted my vaginal secretions faster than I could say, “I’ve never done this before”. But he knew. After he desperately crammed his half-mast weiner into my weird dry vadge while wearing only athletic socks, we both figured we should stop. The socks, the music, and the air of defeat are literally ALL I remember about the experience, as well as buying a hula hoop the next day for some reason and hula hooping frantically in the full-length mirror while mouthing “you had sex. You had sex. YOU HAD SEX”.

Truthfully, I didn’t feel any different. But that was because no one ever told me that sex was more than just having a penis inside you and waiting for a timer to go off. I didn’t get the idea of multiple thrusting, of speed, of repetition…of fucking. So as soon as Brandon had wedged into me, I called it a day’s work, and was off hula hooping in the mirror congratulating myself for being a common whore and getting ready to take a pregnancy test. Word among my friends spread quickly that I had given it up. Too bad I hadn’t learned a thing from the experience, and by my definition today, was still a virgin.

During a raging punk party mere nights later, I hooked up with a snake-like dude with slicked-back hair and a giant puffy jacket of that children’s movie “ANTZ” that I hoped he hadn’t purchased himself. Mike, I had decided then and there with the help of God knows how many bottles of lukewarm Boones Farm, would be my Second. This guy was grotesque, I knew, but what was the big deal, considering I had already had sex? We found a closet in an empty room, where I dodged his insect-like kisses and directed him towards my crotch in hopes that this time I would get SOME pleasure out of it. But sadly, this, too, was not to be. Even after finding me dry as the Sahara, Mike couldn’t be deterred. “Stuff it in!” he demanded. I did so obediently, guiding his wormlike member towards my innards with the sensuality of packing a Nerf ball into a lunchbox, and with the enthusiasm and urgency of, well…a drunk teenage girl who, when all was said and done, didn’t really like having sex.

For months, I was confused about the fact that, though I had technically had two penises inside me, I felt absolutely nothing towards the men that possessed them, and had never felt even remotely aroused during the acts. Was I a lesbian? Subsequent half-assed attempts at fingerblasting girls seemed to indicate “no”. Was I asexual? No, I felt quite interested in love, downright obsessed with sex, and brought myself to mind-bending orgasms nightly (often instead of going out).

Eventually, I learned that the absence of feelings toward the people I pointed my genitals at was responsible for that detached coldness. I was around nineteen, and had actually fallen for a much older male slut, Jason, who oozed charm and a faux Casanova-attitude that rendered his odd style of Coke bottle glasses, football jerseys, and too-tight jeans tolerable, even appealing. He also played music and collected records that I liked, so it was on. Jason totally seduced me. He was also routinely seducing many of my close girl friends and pretty much any female rock’n’roller in the entire Bay Area. I knew he was terrible news, but I kept going back for more. I thought he was funny and cute and interesting. I LIKED him. And when we did it, it went on and on, and I was wet, and it fucking hurt.

I guess the way I acted, and the rivers of blood that poured forth the first time Jason had sex with me me, tipped him off. “Was Heather a virgin before me?” he asked a friend of mine, whom he was also sleeping with. I was mortified. Of COURSE I wasn’t, I scoffed when she told me. I’ve been fuckin’ for years. I’m an old pro. Brandon? Mike? Ask THOSE two lucky sons of bitches who the virgin is. “Really?” Jason said. “Because when I fucked her, her pussy looked like a shark attack”.

Whoa. “Did he really say that?” I asked, my voice shaking, trying desperately to conjure up some of the bravado I had had about sex before. “Yeah”, she said. “And after he said that, he told me I had the hottest body he had ever seen, and that I should be a stripper, that I’d make tons of money at it. But he probably used the same lines on you, huh?”

“Actually, no,” I replied quietly. “He didn’t say any of that to me.”

And with that, I knew that I had finally lost my virginity.

Rubbing naked butts with a bastard who also peed in me had never sounded so appealing.