I will forever associate my virginity with toads. No, this is no allusion to fairy tales, no delusions of princess-like grandeur. To my grave disappointment, at no point during my epic virginity-losing did the pimply faced amphibian straddling me morph into a dashing prince. The reason I associate my deflowering with toads is because instead of a Bon Jovi ballad or a sweet Sarah McLachlan serenade, I lost my virginity to the unlikely ribbits of toads.Namely those in that famous Budweiser commercial â€“ you know, BUD. WEIS. ER.
Romance, bitches, is not dead. My boyfriend at the time, letâ€™s call him Earl (why not?) had proudly told me about a month into our courtship that he had lost his virginity at thirteen. You know those New York City kids, always five steps ahead of the curve. He also made sure to point out that he didnâ€™t sleep with anyone he wasnâ€™t in love with.
Lo and behold, two weeks later, I was the light of his life, the fire of his loins. Yup, homeboy claimed to be in L-O-V-E.
Part of me knew he just wanted a piece and part of me didnâ€™t care. I had Sideshow Bob-esque curly red hair, freckles and some outdated John Lennon glasses â€“ suffice it to say, no one had ever really â€œwanted a piece.â€
So one Sunday afternoon, Earl and I settled into our trusted routine of watching NBA basketball and making out during halftime. I was wearing a black lace thong in anticipation of the deed. Sure enough, just as Marv Albert announced that the Knicks were down by ten, Earl went in for the lay (up). It began as I imagine any other virginity losing would â€“ I was tense (stiff as a board, might be a better expression), and he wore the shocked expression of a teenage boy getting laid. Youâ€™ve seen it â€“ eyes wide, mouth agape, shocked that even with a major case of backne they convinced some hapless loser to participate in this. It was missionary all the way and it felt mediocre at best. Which, quite frankly, was better than I thought it would be.
But suddenly, Earl had moves I had never seen. About three and a half minutes in, he uttered the words â€œdoggy styleâ€ and before I knew it, I was being flipped over like a pancake at IHOP. Doggy style! I wasnâ€™t ready for styles! I was a virgin! I tried to stay calm and just go with the flow. But the thing about being a virgin (or a non-virgin for all of four minutes) is that you have no flow. You are like Celine Dion trying her hand at rapping â€“ flow-less. Moreover, I was confused about the mechanics â€“ how was he supposed to get it in there when I was on my hands and knees? As I pondered yet another one of lifeâ€™s great mysteries, Earl made a totally unexpected move â€“ he wasnâ€™t worried about getting it â€œin there”; he just and stuck in my butt instead. Yes, thatâ€™s right, he went for the anus.
Let that sink in for a minute.
Sure, it was only one thrust â€“ but I â€“ unaware that this was even something people did, skyrocketed off the bed like a shuttle leaving NASA. I landed on the floor with a thud. I was in major pain. I looked up at him â€“ shocked â€“ I felt like a land war in Asia, being penetrated from all sides.
â€œWhat?â€ he shrugged, â€œI thought you wanted it. You kept backing up like that.â€
â€œIâ€™m a virgin!â€ was the only response I could muster.
The rest of the game was spent in stony silence until somewhere around the fourth quarter Earl turned to me and said, â€œI love you.â€
I told him to go get a bag of frozen pees for me to sit on.
Oh, and by the way, the Knicks won.