It's an art really

Having a blank canvas strung out in front of you

All of your supplies at your side

But where to start? 

Sometimes I start by cutting away the edges,

I'll have the central sculpture to work on, but often this leaves a mess

Other times I terminate the small tormented details first

Carving away intensifies my trip, but could leave me too strung out to finish

Or perhaps I could just do the big picture and get done more quickly 

No mess or chance of not finishing, but no pleasure with my finished product

I guess I'll take my chances of not finishing

I begin carving

Right in the center

There's warmth and pounding right under my scalpel

Immediately the rush goes to my brain

My mouth hanging open

I feel my dilating eyes

My swaying body

Euphoria 

I never thought I’d lose my virginity to a flute player in band class, but here I was, in Savannah Clapacky’s living room with my dick out. An hour ago, we were in class, glancing at each other during the middle of  "Pomp and Circumstance"—B flat major. But now it was 3pm. After school. Monday. My black skinny jeans were on the rug and my high tops by the front door. I was naked despite my cut-off, denim Dead Kennedy’s vest, which was covered in nails and spikes that impaled the leather couch. On top of me, Savannah closed her eyes and held her hand over her mouth as I slid in. If the synthetic marijuana I had inhaled an hour ago didn’t make me feel like King of the Jungle, this certainly did.

The key entered the lock, but I’m not talking about penetration—penetration deserves a better metaphor.

It was a key entering the front door of Savannah’s house.

“My dad and brother” she screeched.

I had a pretty good reason to shove the nearby fire poker through my neck. I could fade from existence on her floor. But no way was I going to let this euphoric burst of sin and exploration stop without an erotic ending. This dude would have to kill me. The careful, wooing words I had to type via Facebook Chat to get Savannah to like me would not go unrewarded. Plus, I didn’t care about her dad seeing. She told me her dad hated muslims. And I didn’t like that—my muslim friend from science class was pretty cool.

But Savannah pushed herself off of me, putting her ankles into the leg sockets of her yoga pants.

"Through the Kitchen," she said grabbing my wrist. I looked at the gushing stain on the patch of couch between my legs. Rad. I whipped my black skinny jeans over my shoulder and scurried.

But there was a problem: my high tops were by the front door, staring back at me, wondering why I was abandoning them.

"What about my shoes?” I whispered.

“Get new ones,” she said, pushing me towards the glass slider door that lead to the back porch.

Get new ones? New ones? The audacity Savannah had to belittle my anarchy-symbol high tops! They had been my foot’s best friend for three years—I couldn’t just get new ones.

But then Mr. Clapacky and Savannah’s mountain-man brother opened the front door.

Savannah rushed into the living room to distract her dad. Which was a good idea until I realized the slider door was locked, and that I was too high to figure out how to open it.

“Dad, you’re home early.”

My fingers scrambled, twisting and pulling random parts of the door handle. I was baffled by elementary problem solving, tethered to the limitations of a drugged-up consciousness.

“Why are the lights off?” he replied.

Savannah kept talking, but I couldn’t hear her. I could only hear blurry voices swarming around the room. I couldn’t tell if my alarming heart beat was from the rush of teenage lust, or the fact that Savannah’s family was about to see my penis. I panicked. I needed out. How had Houdini escaped chains, and Frank Lee Morris escape Alcatraz, but I could not flick a lock to a goddamn glass door?

Wait. Flick. Yes.

I flicked a small white switch, feeling catharsis from it’s soft snap. If anything was going to make me cum that day, it was that flick. But I had no time to celebrate.

I pulled the slider door open. The sensor lights turn on, shining on my bare ass as I dashed across the splinter-infested porch. There were no stairs. She didn’t mention that there were no stairs. I would need to jump. I hesitate. But it was a matter of escaping or getting my balls put in the kitchen blender. I jump, saying a prayer as I fall through the air, that there will not be an angry German Shepard waiting below, ready to bark and reveal my presence. My presence, which is already likely to be detected after leaving the breadcrumbs of shoes and gush stains.

Mercifully, there was no dog…but there was a wheel barrow. 

My ankles crunched. I fell out of the wheel barrow and onto the grass, feeling the New England dew wet my hairy legs. 

But then I saw the glorious woods beyond the backyard.

Faster than Usain Bolt, I sprinted. I salivated over the pearly gates of heaven ahead, where centaurs were dancing and God was waiting to welcome me into His arms. My ankle bones felt broken, but I was too high to tell, and I had no time to check. Mr. Clapacky probably had his rifle loaded, aiming to shoot me right in the ass.

I dived into the darkness, tumbling over sharp sticks and dirty leaves. A jagged rock scraped across my ass, but I ignored the blood and put my jeans on. I had no compass, but my heart told me to run east. I knew if I ran far enough, I would soon reach the emergency helipad where my Toyota Corolla waited. I may have been dumb enough to have sex in a Savannah’s living room, but I was not dumb enough to park my car in front of her house.

I didn’t know if it had been minutes, hours, or six months before I navigated through those woods to my precious vehicle—losing my virginity on drugs really fucked with my head.

In my car I shoved the aux cable from my stereo into the glory hole that is my iPod socket. Blaring “Holiday in Cambodia,” I peel out onto the street, shooting nitrous out of my imaginary chrome pipes.

Savannah’s dad will never forget the day he almost caught Jack Sparrow.

I laughed. I shouted the F word out the window. I lit a cigarette and drove faster than I had in my entire life. But the thrill stopped when I noticed my bare feet on the gas pedal. The texture felt unfamiliar. I didn’t just lose my virginity, I lost my favorite shoes.

And to think I didn’t even cum.