This summer, while the rest of us were slaving away in our resume-padding but ultimately mind-numbing hell-cells of fluorescence, my best friend lost her virginity.
It had been a long time coming. Morgan is 21, otherwise sexually active and blessed with breasts the stuff of many an awkward classroom daydream — but she’s also picky as fuck. We went to Target a few nights ago to pick out sheets, and all she did for two hours was chew on her Blackberry case and look constipated.
(Seriously, though, Morgan’s breasts. She let me pat one for luck before I started writing this column, and it was like finding Jesus. If you’ll pardon the douche: she Benzedrine, I Jack Kerouac. Hello, muse.)
But this is not about losing one’s virginity. For one thing, there’s the whole bullshit aspect of penetrative sex being the only sex that “counts,” but that’s a soapbox for another day. Really though, it’s because, frankly, other people’s virginity-loss stories are, by and large, pretty boring. There’s the “we were together forever and took the first trembling step over the genitalia threshold into manhood” version, which makes me throw up in my mouth; there’s the “I decided to get high with my best friend and demand that he deflower me for science” route; and, near and dear to us all, the “I woke up in bed at Sigma Chi with the strange taste of regurgitated Jagerbombs and sperm lurking behind my molars.” There are the occasional variations, but honestly, just add “awkward” to any random sex story and you have Sherlock Holmes and the Tale of the Missing V-card.
Except for Morgan. Since she was one of the last unicorns in my circle of friends, I was kind of betting on Morgan being a “Surprise! No sex until marriage!” type. But a few days before the semester started, I received a series of texts that went something like this:
“a bisexual couple just asked me to have a 3some. thinking of you.”
“they have two dollar stellas here!”
“dude. bros are EVERYWHERE.”
And then, much later:
“so…I had sex.”
“lol”
As a major proponent of the “sex lol” text myself, I was shocked, but also very pleased. Could our dear Morgan, famous for performing many a dick-dine-and-dash have finally found her one and only?
Well, no. As she explained to me much later, Morgan had simply picked up a charming-looking stranger and allowed him to pluck her maidenly hymen-bouquet. Then, when the deed was done, she gathered up her panties and skipped merrily on her way.
It wasn’t because she hadn’t liked the guy, she explained to me. It was that she had. Unlike the normal one-night-stand protocol of escaping the bedroom due to a vague sense of horror, Morgan wanted to preserve the image of her first sword-wielding rapscallion as the chivalrous squire he was.
“He’d get annoying later,” she told me. “I wanted to remember him that night for how he was then, not how he became eventually.”
Similarly, in this introductory column, I’m going to commit a bit of a sex columnist snafu and not tell you my life story. In fact, I’m going to try to keep the personally-specific stories to a minimum — no promises, though. I’d rather you not know who I am: not because I’m worried people will only try to sleep with me to get into the column (please, I would count that as a plus), but because I want to be your ideal sex columnist.
Think of me as straight, think of me as gay, think of me as Greek, Roman, or Neil Patrick Harris. I’m guessing you’ll be able to glean some important information (hint: I would bump glittery uglies with Adam Lambert in a hot second), but I don’t want you to see me dunking my face in margaritas at Viva on a Tuesday and think “Damn, that chick is so not the person I’d fantasized about when I came home drunk the other night and the Sun was the only thing within spunky hand’s reach.” If that makes me some kind of sexy robo-centaur in your brain, then so be it. I can whinny with the best of them.
Comments are appreciated. Constructive criticism is appreciated. Fan-erotica about Morgan and me is so appreciated (I’ve been trying to get into her pants for three years now; it’s the great tragedy of my young life). All in all, though, think of me as your perfect one-night-stand: I’m clean, I’m cute and I’ll be up for anything every other Thursday in the Sun. No strings attached.