Virgin

Was I ready?

I didn't know for sure. I was tired of carrying the label. Virgin.

It weighed me down, I felt unwanted. Still a virgin at 19. There must have been something wrong with me. I only had one boy friend, if you could call it that. We held hands, kissed once or maybe twice, watched a lot of movies. I still don't think it counts.

There had been no exciting make-out sessions in high school, no giggling behind the bleachers or holding hands down the halls. I was the quiet kid, just average enough for no one to pay attention to. I was there, but no one really noticed.

College was going to be better, I told myself, college was where I could be the "cool" kid. I could reinvent myself. I could be someone worth knowing.

Freshman year blew by, nothing notable happened.

Destined to be that average kid who was still a virgin. Every party I went to I was sure everyone could tell. It was as if I had a huge sign in glowing letters, "VIRGIN, VIRGIN, VIRGIN."

Virgin.

I didn't want to be that girl anymore. I didn't want to carry with weight anymore. So I started drinking.

Realised that drinking made me braver, more confident, more flirty.

I liked who I was when I was drunk. So that meant others would too.

Sophomore year came, still had the V label. But I was off campus, living in a house with my two best friends, who were far more experience than I, far prettier, cooler. If I was drunk enough, I could be fun enough, at least by drunken college frat boy standards. It made me feel wanted, when they touch my hands, held my waist and pulled me in close. I knew it was because they were drunk and horny, but I felt needed.

It hadn't been a plan. I hadn't purposely planned for it to happen. It just did.

I was drunk. We were all drunk. Twelve dollar jugs of wine and cheap vodka will get you pretty quick. I was wearing jeans, tight, neon sneakers, some kind of shirt, probably loose because I hated the way I looked.

The shoes were most important. They were Nikes. Boys made comments about them, made me feel cool, made me feel wanted. I wanted to be wanted. Wanted to be the center of attention for once, wanted to be that girl. The one who gets drunk and is the life of the party.

That night I was.

Two boys started calling me Nikes. I only remember one of their names; he’s married now, kid on the way. I liked the way his hands felt needy around my waist, how his lips moved close to mine, how his voice sounded, rough and low and wanting.

I liked feeling his hips grind into mine, liked how he was trying to keep the other boys away, liked the way his hands felt. I liked when he squeezed my ass and pulled me even closer.

There was a part of me resisting, some part of me was saying no, that this wasn’t how I wanted to lose the big sign over my head. So I drank some more, told that part of me to fuck off, and drank a little more. The room was blurry, my thoughts were slow and fuzzy, but the boy still wanted me.

People were leaving; the party was dying down, slowing. Girls and boys moving slowly, words slurred. The dingy smell of cigarettes and spilled beer and sweaty bodies and college youth and need filled the room.

I went to my room.

Recently moved in, boxes were everywhere, half the walls were painted, half filled paint cans and brushes scattered the floor. He followed me in.

Eased me down on the bed.

Drunken, smoked filled, vodka-tasting tongue pressed against mine. Hands fumbled with my jeans, stripped them off.

Was this what I wanted?

Should I say no?

No.

No?

I wasn’t sure. So I said nothing.

And it happened.

I felt nothing. No surge of becoming a woman, no special feeling that I had dropped the virgin title.

It was done and over with.

He left the next morning. Kissed my forehead.

I felt wanted.

I felt used and maybe a little dirty.

Should I have felt something else? Should I have felt elation or excitement? I’m not sure.

Should I have said no?

The sign crumbled and fell among the boxes that held my belongings. My life.

My illuminated VIRGIN sign was gone.