I Lost my Virginity to the N.W.A.
To be more precise, it was to the songs: “She Swallowed it” and “I’d Rather Fuck You”. Now, if you look at the track listing the whole thing couldn’t have lasted for more than 7.7 minutes and the title of the songs alone should bring you up to speed: it wasn’t exactly what every little girl dreams of.
Don’t ask me why, but the summer I was fifteen, two of my friends and I made a bet on who would lose their virginity first. I can’t even remember what we had put on the line, if anything. I don’t think the bet had anything to do with me going ahead and having sex, it certainly wasn’t what I was thinking about at the time. The bet was just one of those stupid things you say when your still a kid and your hanging out with friends. One thing was clear though, I wanted to lose my virginity and I wanted to lose it bad.
That’s exactly what I set out to do and that’s exactly what I got.
That summer was when I started to exteriorize my sexuality. I had been masturbating since I was five and I had a vivid interior fantasy life, but it had never occurred to me before that moment that any of it was possible with other people. I suddenly realized I was cute, and quite capable of attracting the opposite sex.
There were two guys in particular at that time that made me weak in the knees. B. and S. (if any of you have ever watched My So-Called Life, B. was my Jordan Catalano). Little did I know that these two stellar gentlemen had made a bet of their own, which consisted of “who would be the first to pop my cherry”.
S. won, but not through any effort on his part.
My Mom was working nights at the time, from 7pm to 7am, and I pretty much had the run of the house. I had invited a couple of people over to my place and just like every other night we drank and got high. At one point I started to feel a little dizzy and I went to take a shower to steady myself a little. When I got out of the shower, S. and B. were going for a car ride and I decided to go along with them. I was sitting in the back seat listening to them talk as we drove around town. They pulled into the driveway of a small yellow house to see if anyone was home, apparently the person who lived there was one of their many conquests. I don’t remember what I said, but what ever it is that I asked them at that exact moment warranted the answer: “Pussy don’t have a face.”
That sentence would stick with me later, but at the time it did nothing to change the course of my actions. B. drove us back to my house and left. Had he stayed who knows what would have happened, but he left, which left me alone with S. Everyone had crashed by this point, every available sleeping surface was taken, S. had taken residence in my brother’s single bed and that’s where I decided to go.
I am nothing if not direct and to the point, I walked into the room, got into bed with him and took off my pants and bra. I kept on my black vintage t-shirt to cover my practically non-existent breasts, but he got the point. We fiddled with the condom wrapper, lost it behind my brother’s bed for a moment, but he still managed to get it on despite his paranoia that someone would find the lost wrapper. Soon enough, I was no longer a virgin.
It wasn’t exactly pleasurable, but not necessarily unpleasant either. The pain wasn’t like I had expected it to be and the best way I’ve found to describe it is that it is very similar to the feeling you get when someone puts both their hands on your forearm and twists them in opposite directions. It burnt like skin being stretched in a direction it wasn’t used to.
When it was over, he asked me if I was ok and he got me a glass of water and some Tylenol, mostly I think that gave him something to do besides stay with me. He slept on the couch, because he didn’t want anyone to find us together in the morning, most probably because he was older than me, knew my family and oh ya, had a girlfriend.
Despite any of this, I was excited, I thought I was in love with him and it had finally happened. I’d had sex and I couldn’t believe it. The next day, I told my friend A. about what happened and we gossiped about it like two little school girls, which is exactly what we were. It was the same old drill you hear form everybody, I felt different, but didn’t look it, and the only proof I had that anything had happened at all was the fact that the next day it felt like I had inserted an over-sized tampon inside myself and that it wasn’t quite sitting right in my vagina.
Get this. S. had the balls to start a rumor about me after his girlfriend found out that we slept together (F.Y.I. he had told me they had an open relationship). We lived in a really small town and EVERYONE found out about it and EVERYONE heard the rumor except me. For months, people kept making jokes at my expense that just didn’t make sense to me. Little comments regarding what he had said kept popping up all over the place and I had no idea what was happening. I even had one guy write some nasty shit on my locker.
I think it was a year later that my friends A. and T. finally told me what the hell was going on. This was ages ago and still I don’t like talking about it, because no matter what I’m going to say next for one second you’re are going to wonder if it’s true. I don’t blame you, it’s the nature of a rumor.
Now there are many reasons why he did this. Sure, he was an asshole pure and simple and when his girlfriend found out about us he had to say something that would make her feel better, but what I haven’t mentioned before is that I was weird kid, he was native and I was white. There’s a lot of racism in my home town, and for a native guy to cheat on his native girlfriend with a weird white chick was simply not kosher. Hence there had to be something wrong with me. God forbid he actually enjoyed fucking me.
This rumor really fucked with my head. Thirteen years later and it’s still an insecurity of mine. It’s taken me a thousand and some words to work up to saying it right here, right now: the rumor that plagued me all through high school is that I had a smelly pussy. God, I literally just cringed writing that. I mean this shit was pervasive. People would ask my best friend T. if it was true (not that he would know since he was gay and we never had sex), but wait, he did know, because the rumor was so wide spread that even he wanted to know if it was true and one day when I was in the bathroom he picked up a pair of dirty underwear from my hamper and he smelt them.
I mean, come on, I was fifteen and I’d had sex with only one person and already the whole town was questioning the smell of my cunt. The thing that really gets me is that S. would have had sex with me again at the drop of a hat and trust me he tried. Why the hell would he want to fuck me again if I had such a dirty smelly pussy? The kicker is that I DID sleep with him again, about a year later. It was a complete act of self-destruction that resulted in the exact same situation, not that that should come as a surprise.
I wish I wasn’t still insecure about it, but I can’t even begin to describe how all those things felt like in high school. The fact of the matter is that I do still think about it, I think about it every time someone goes down on me. I religiously smell and taste myself to see what the hell is going on down there and it has expressed itself in things that I want and crave. Is it too much to ask someone one to worship my pussy? I don’t think so.
I love my cunt. I love its practical uses and I love the pleasure it gives me.