On That Day Lost

On September 10, 2001 I was a virgin. (I am not intending to use that date as an emotional trigger, rather as a significant date in my life – at the time more of a stumbling, late morning saunter through the leering eyes of womanhood – inasmuch as a precursory date to a much greater historical date for the world and myself. Indeed, many people on this Earth can recall when and where they discovered the horrific events of the following day. I do not intend to detail and compile yet another personal account of that day, it just so occurred that that day also held meaning as the day I lost my virginity; a personal event that many people do recall with significance. Or insignificance, if, like me it was a moment that desired to be forgotten. Some believe that moment to be the beginning of their womanhood or manhood; the break-switch release of the barreling train ride through the dark, unknown tunnel toward the rest of one’s life. I am merely wanting to explain that moment of the day, how the greater event played a role, and the man that took from me that which I had been saving — so willingly saving! – for the right man and the right time to burst and unbound within me – in an exciting, blissful moment of true love and sweat-soaked passion – the padlocks of will power and allowing me to accept the freedom of being unburdened. I digress, it was merely sex.)

The morning of September 11, I lay in bed with him. His name was Clint. He was homecoming court tall with a soft face, framed deceptively serious by sharp red eyebrows. He was a mild ginger – on a scale of 1 to 5, he was a 2.2 – and freckled from head to foot. He kept himself trim with intramural soccer and daily gym visits. I loved following him around the bar. I would pat his fit little butt for fun; often held tight behind J. Crew slacks. He dressed prep-school chic. I was into it. (My personal style was what I called college-girl casual or nap anywhere functional.)  He was B-School confident; never hesitating to tell me of his future as an I-banker. He put all of my drinks on his tab. Invest away ginger babe.

We blew off morning classes. I had a dizzying, dry mouth hangover from a previous night of having nearly every alcohol that came near me. Except whiskey, of course. Fall semester had begun and the campus was fresh with parties. The collective cheer of ‘here’s to another year!’ overwhelmed me. I barely knew my schedule.

He leased a top floor apartment in a new building in the middle of town. Though the apartment building merely nine stories tall, to me it resonated a feeling of a big city high-rise; that upon leaving the building, I’d step into to a lively scene of city-life chaos; with aromas of coffee cafes and the rush of the subway underfoot as I raise a designer-shawl draped yoga-toned arm in the air to hail a cab. Upon graduation, I dreamed of a job in New York or San Francisco or Chicago. (I would’ve settled for any city with a cosmopolitan feel. I ended up in Cleveland.)

As we lay in his bed, a monstrous pillow-top California Queen, set upon the floor with an IKEA frame, we groped and cuddled and I could feel his erection poking into my butt and thigh like a blind, hungry turtle.

“Come over here,” He said as he kissed the back of my neck and earlobes. (I do not like ear-touching. It makes me shudder and dry-heave. But I let him have his attempt at a sexiness. Despite the silent cringing I did.) He ran his hand down the length of my arm and toward my stomach. I then vaguely remembered pushing him away from me the night before, as he poked his dick around my vagina. Thankfully, without my guiding hand, he could not have done it himself. I let him go down on me for a time and I’m pretty sure I passed out while he was in the middle of the alphabet.

“I’m so hungover,” I said to him as he moved his hand under the waist of my cotton underwear that was in need of a change. “What all did we drink again?”

He laughed and got out of bed. Amid the sound of his forceful urinating, I heard the sound of a woman crying hysterically in the hallway. He sat down on the edge of the bed and drank from a glass of orange juice.

“Can I have some?” I asked. Nearly finishing the glass, he handed me the leftovers, backwashed and pulpy. I drank it with false gratitude. Fucker, I thought. He turned on the plasma television. I was transfixed. (These events need no description from me. I am neither capable nor apt to do so.)

My Nokia’s battery had died and I felt isolated and afraid. I was in a vaguely familiar setting with only him to talk to. He wasn’t much for conversation. I could have easily gone home, yet I was paralyzed by fear. And when he took my face in his hands and said, “The world is coming to an end baby, what you want to do?” I relented. If the next plane or bomb or whatever may occur in the next few minutes or days, it was not sensible to hang on to it. I kissed him as if I may never kiss another man in my life. I imagined some desperate love scene in a movie I may or may not have seen where the man and woman are trapped in a sinking cage, their death eminent, their love now desperately eternal. I was sloppy. One moment I was kissing his chest and sputtering out stringy red hairs, the next I was sucking on his neck, while he delved his fingers inside of me.

I can say, when it finally occurred, it wasn’t exciting. It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t much of anything. And then he climaxed in a matter of seconds. He rolled off of me in a huff. He laid on his back looking up to the ceiling, breathing heavily.

“I think I…,” he said still with a huff. “I think…,” as he pointed toward my crotch, “I came in there.”

On that day I lost more than my virginity.

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