Losing My Virginity - emphasis on losing

I lost my virginity June of 2005 in the passenger seat of my ’92 Toyota Tercel.  It was exactly as traumatic and romantic as it sounds.  Her name was Andreah.  I won’t tell you her last name because…I’m a gentleman?  Don’t worry, I’ll tell you everything else.

She was mixed, black and Mexican, or Puerto Rican, or Dominican, or I don’t remember.  It’s not an integral part of the story.  I was fresh out of high school, seventeen years old.  She might have been a year younger.  Not a virgin, this girl.  I don’t know how far removed she was from it, but I know she was more advanced than me, at the time. 

Pretty girl.  Big, dangerous lips for kissing.  Tight clothes, too tight for her shape sometimes.  She wasn’t fat.  She wasn’t, I swear.  If there was a fire and I had to carry her down two flights of stairs, it would be a struggle – but she wasn’t fat.  I was a skinny seventeen year old, maybe a hundred and forty pounds.  She was a curvy sixteen year-old.    

Lots of curly hair.  That’s how I know she was mixed.  Her hair smelled like something spicy, something Latin.  It didn’t smell like a black girl’s hair.  Not saying black girl hair smells bad, I’m just saying this was a different aroma. 

Andreah chewed gum aggressively.  She probably made bubbles and snapped them at people too, I don’t fully remember.

We’d made out a time or two before the big day.  Abrasive dry humping, probably on someone’s mom’s living room sofa.  I wasn’t saving myself for marriage.  She was encouraging.  The hormones were building up like pressure in a kinked garden hose.

One day, I made the call.  I was ready.  We talked about it.  Awkward and naively erotic, I was going to give her my virginity.  That was the big plan.  In my head it was like I’d be releasing a dove and we’d both watch it flap its way into the sunset.  I’d heard all the stories from my friends.  They’d all survived the transition. 

I told Andreah I’d pick her up.  I wasn’t comfortable bringing her to my house.  Too many variables there, parents, dogs, spy planes, warships.  We, or I, decided it would be best to make use of the perfectly good Toyota Tercel.

It stalled on a dark street in my neighborhood, so I pretended I wanted to park there.  An overgrown hedge on the passenger side made it intimate.  All I had to do was keep an eye out for cars.

I don’t remember the set up.  Kissing, I assume.  Then I was on top of her.  Not in the back seat, but in the front, passenger seat.  Real classy stuff.  I was nervous.  That dove of purity was fluttering in my loins, waiting to be set free.

My hands were shaking.  I remember that.  I also remember her telling me to tone down my fast pace kissing barrage.  That made me more nervous.

Then there was squirming and our pants were down.  Not completely naked, just two kids in the front seat of a Tercel with their pants at their ankles.  No big deal.  My hand was on her hair.  There was some adjusting.  I put a condom on, inside out, for sure.  Someone moaned.  To this day, I don’t know if it was me or her. 

She was orchestrating the dynamics of everything.  I just applied forward hip pressure.  Then it was happening.  One complete stroke.  The cage that had been holding my virginity swung open.  By the second stroke, the dove was emerging, but there was something obviously wrong.  Three-four-oh-shit…the dove had a broken wing and it was batting its way through the car, desperately trying to find an open window. 

And that’s how it ended.  Abruptly. 

I pushed myself away and held the tingling region like a bullet wound.  She looked up at me with concerned eyes, gently chewing her gum.  I think my mind erased the following few minutes in an attempt to dilute the overwhelming embarrassment.

I got out on the passenger side, adjusted myself, threw the latex keepsake into the hedge, and drove her home.

To top it off, I never had the guts to hang out with Andreah after that day.  She did add me on Facebook a while back though.