I was inexperienced, naïve, scared, and totally grossed out with the thought of exchanging bodily fluids of any kind. He was tall, blonde, ripped, and more than willing to usher me into what would hopefully be a joyous celebration of my sexuality. I remember him fondly…a man who took his time…and promised to tell his fraternity brothers the next morning that he fell asleep in the car, instead of stuck to the wet spot of my 100 count cottons.
It seems to be a fad of late to revisit our 16-year-old pubescent selves, and with the benefit of hindsight offer up words of wisdom to reassure that gangly brownie-baking geek that everything will be okay. Lighten up…love yourself…live for the moment…resist cosmetic surgery, but most of all, keep your sense of humor. One day you may take a job at a mattress warehouse store and find yourself doing the street corner boogie to commuter traffic in a Sealy Posturepedic sandwich board. For that you’ll need to draw laughs from every funny bone in your body…or take stronger drugs.
With this in mind, I have begun to pen my explosive new memoir called DEAR ME: A LETTER TO MY DEFLOWERED SELF.
Let me start by saying, I was a late bloomer. While most girls were swapping their training bras for full-fledged cups and experimenting with their sexuality, I was spending exhausting hours stuffing my sunken chest with bobby socks.
And when I wasn’t padding that trainer, I was squeezing the hell out of my Mark Eden Bust Developer. That spring loaded pink-clam got a real workout…enhancing my triceps beautifully, but not a buxom inch of cleavage to show for it.
Puberty was a cruel master. All my friends seemed to be finding the perfect asshole to pop their cherries. I was instructed in proper blowjob etiquette and technique well before I’d ever laid eyes on a penis. “Look up at him with your best Bambi-doe-eyed vamp glance and proceed to work that thing like it owes you money.” They recounted smells, swells, and that rare occasion when the dingy actually slipped effortlessly into the marina. And as all this activity probed and penetrated my innocence, there I was…home alone in my toxic bright yellow single bed, reading the Nancy Drew series from cover to cover while picking corn kernels out of my braces.
In doing research for my deflowerment novel, I have decided that it would be unfair to give just one version of how the seal was broken. Instead, I decided it was only right that I contact my first lover in order to give full recognition to the man who stripped me of my clothes, my dignity, and from the look of the sheets, a fair share of my type A-negative.
With these glorious memories in mind, I began my hunt for “first boink.” Searching online, scouring phonebooks, writing personal ads, hiring investigators, tapping phone lines, hacking computers…I even resorted to conducting a surveillance stakeout. I went to these great lengths wanting him to understand his role in my life. Somehow I was certain he felt the same.
Upon securing his number, you can imagine the butterflies I felt dialing those digits 40 years later.
Me: Dale?
Boink: Who’s asking?
Me: This is Annie.
Boink: Who?
Me: Annie.
Boink: Sorry, I’m drawing a blank.
Me: Remember? We met in a bar. You were with some drunk friends…I drove the whole bunch of you home in my Volkswagon.
Boink: Tall? Brunette?
Me: No, sort of average height with blond hair.
Boink: “Sugar Hips”… That you?
Me: Ah, no. Not “Sugar Hips.”
Boink: Give me another clue.
Me: OMG, this is awkward. Okay, I knew you in college.
Boink: There were 40,000 students. You need to narrow the playing field.
Me: We were friends for a couple months in 1977. GOOD Friends.
Boink: Good friends?
Me: With benefits…
Boink: If this is some sort of paternity suit, just keep dialing cuz’ I’m not your man. Besides, that kid would be going through his first midlife crisis by now.
Me: I didn’t call for money…or about a baby. I am calling because you took my virginity.
Boink: Oh shit…a vengeful woman.
Me: No, actually I’m writing a book about my first time.
Boink: You’re kidding, right?
Me: No, I’m not. I’m writing about my first sexual experience…with you. The man who opened the door to what has now become a completely fulfilling exploration of sexual delight. Before you, they used to call me the Ice Queen…so I guess I just wanted to say…thanks for planting your flag in my polar cap.
Boink: Wow…you’re welcome. Women have always told me I have an uncanny talent for breaking the ice.
Needless to say, I am reassessing the book. Forty years later I guess I was looking to embellish the significance of that moment, and make it more than it really was. An attempt at revisionist history, with the hopes and dreams that he would provide the emotional depth and detail it so deserved.
Oh hell, who am I kidding? The expectation of sharing that sentimental touchy, feely, warm and fuzzy stuff is SO over-rated. Maybe this is all I needed. After all, I can’t remember much about that night either.