I lost my virginity at the age of 16 to my first “real boyfriend.” You know the kind–you’re just getting into boys, have maybe 10 things in common with him, and think “Yes, you are here at the right time and place…perfect for the role.”
I wasn’t a delicate flower, and I worked a little backwards in terms of womanhood introductions. My sister had been begging me to use a tampon for years, saying things like, “You have no *idea* how comfortable they are.” I refused until I was fingered for the first time and realized I could shove things in me without repercussions. Before that, my vagina was a mysterious cavity in between my legs. Sometimes, I looked at it in a hand mirror as I wondered about the secrets within.
Then Dan came along, and metaphorical and literal barriers were broken.
Cut to my deflowering: My parents are away. It’s daylight. I’m straddling Dan, and I put Ludacris’ “Splash Waterfalls” on repeat in my boombox. Romantic poetry like, “Know how to mack a broad, she’s on your sack and balls, You call her Jabberjaws, what? (fuck, me!)” is floating from the speakers. I suck Dan’s big Jewish dick, using my handy Urban Decay edible marshmallow body powder on his balls. He lets out little chuckles and tells me the leopard-print powder puff is tickling him. I lick up the overpriced, sparkly dust.