This is the piece I read last night:
When people ask me how old I was when I lost my virginity, I tell them nineteen years old. Deep down, I feel like a liar. Technically, I lost my virginity when I was sixteen. It all depends on how you define the word: virginity. I’ve always been fascinated with sex. I drew my first naked picture of a woman when I was six years old. I remember scrawling out a mutant like figure with a pencil and made sure to scribble a bushy triangle between her legs. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking at, but I knew that’s what I wanted to see.
I fondly remember my grandfather’s ritual of speeding up over railroad tracks. We would soar through the air like Bo and Luke Duke in the General Lee. The quick up and down motion made my “privates” feel funny. My grandfather was a half-Sicilian, Fred Flintstone-like character who served as a sergeant in the Marines in WWII. He would stomp on the accelerator and launch his 1975 Ford Fairmont over it. Once we landed on the other side, he would scream out, “Wham bam, thank you, ma’am! I bet that tickled your little willy.” Indeed it did. I always pondered those words. “Wham bam, thank you, ma’am!” That sounded wonderful.
I masturbated for the first time when I was seven. Daisy Duke was the first woman bestowed the honor of my sexual desires. I’d stare at my Dukes of Hazzard lunch box and my Dukes of Hazzard bed sheets. Then I would go out back, climb the metal pole supporting the porch roof and repeatedly slid up and down it. Eventually, I learned the best technique was to climb to the top and dry hump the bar. I never came. At least, I don’t think I did, but I do remember feeling guilty when my mother asked me what I was doing out there. I lied and told her I was practicing to be a fireman. She would say, “You will make a great fireman,” and I would then say, “Thanks.” Technically, I wasn’t lying. I was just practicing to be a volunteer fireman in Hazzard County that would someday rip off Catherine Bach’s Daisy Dukes and fuck her in a mound of hay in Uncle Jesse’s barn.
Not to brag, but when I was fourteen I had the opportunity to have sex with a buxom bar maid at The Thirsty Dragon tavern, but the Dungeon Master instructed me that I had to roll my saving throw versus disease to see if I would get infected with Consumption which was ravaging the countryside. Since I was playing a half-elven bard, I decided it wouldn’t have been a wise decision. Now if I was playing a dwarf, I would have definitely fucked her. Everyone knows dwarves have a higher resistance against diseases. Well not everyone, just other virgins who play Dungeons and Dragons. So even in the fantasy world created by fellow sex-deprived dorks, I still was a virgin because I was afraid of a fairy-tale form of AIDS.
Then my sweet sixteen came upon me. This was the year I theoretically lost my virginity. I was six foot two and weighed 120 lbs. I wore turtlenecks and tuxedo shirts with vests and a rhinestone bolo tie. I also exclusively wore slacks that I tucked into my black, pirate boots that were decorated with buckles. I was the epitome of virgins. It was cruel joke when the school administrators mandated every student to attend an annual AIDS Awareness class. I apologize to all taxpayers who had to waste their money on me. At the time, I couldn’t have gotten laid in a fallout shelter in Tahiti during a nuclear holocaust with a pocketful of Ecstasy. I spent the summer with my cousin Marty in Daytona Beach, Florida. We both worked as bag boys at Albertson’s grocery store. Marty was the exact opposite of me: son of a coach, linebacker, weight lifter, beer drinker, sexually experienced, steroid-user and extremely aggressive. I on the other hand was the Thespian treasurer, member of the chess club, emcee for the dances, competed in poetry, interned as a juggling clown, did the announcements, tutored algebra, played Prince Dauntless in the musical Once Upon a Mattress, and was Christopher Robin in Winnie the Pooh.
After working the three to eleven nightshift at the grocery store, Marty and I drove across the street to Burger King to get something to eat. 1989 was a pathetic year to be a teenager: post-metal and pre-grunge, a purgatory of no identity. Marty hated going home early so he decided to drive around. I suggested, “Why don’t we just go home and play Tecmo Bowl or MegaMan on your Sega?” Marty snarled back, “You’re such a fag! Don’t you ever want to get laid?” This seemed like a rhetorical question and I was going to call him on it, but I refrained because I thought if I would have asked him, “Is that a rhetorical question?” that kind of language would confirm my “fagginess” by Daytona Beach standards. So I said, “No, I’m not gay and yes of course I want to have sex at some point in my life.” “Sure you do,” he said doubtfully and then said, “We gotta figure somethin’ out, this sucks.” Then he jerked the wheel of his mom’s 87’ Chrysler LeBaron to the right and sped down a back road. “I got an idea!” he proclaimed. “Do you want to get you dick sucked?” he asked. “What?!” I replied. “Do… you… want… to… get… your… dick… sucked… tonight?” he said slowly as if I was mentally challenged with a hearing impairment. “By who? You? I told me I’m not gay!” I said confused. “What? No, dick nose! Not by me! A girl!” he answered. We took a left on Ridgewood Avenue and headed north. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Just shut up and trust me. If it wasn’t for me you’d be a virgin for the rest of your life.” I pondered that last statement. “A virgin for the rest of my life”. Those words lanced through my heart. Would I be a virgin for the rest of my life? I nervously stared out the window. How was he going to get my dick sucked? Were we going to Julie’s house? The poor girl with no self-esteem, who sought everyone’s approval by blowing the entire football team. No thanks. We took a left on Second Avenue. This was my first time on Second Avenue. We’ve been warned our entire lives never to go near Second Avenue. It leads to Cracktown and it’s filled with whores and drug dealers. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Just shut up, I told you I was going to get your dick sucked. You don’t believe me? You think I’m a liar?” he barked back. I locked the doors and answered, “No, I don’t think you’re a liar. I just don’t understand why we are driving down Second Ave at midnight.” He rolled down my window using the automatic control lever with his left hand and pulled up to a corner occupied by a prostitute. “What are you doing? I’m not go—” “You’re such a pussy,” he said under his breath and then called out to the street walker, “Hey, baby. Are you a cop?” “No, baby, are you two cops?” she said, the standard salutations of people about to engage in criminal activity. I stared straight ahead as my heart pounded against my chest, it felt like a rat trapped in a sealed Tupperware container. “How much would it cost to give my cousin a good time?” he asked. She touched my chin and said, “You’re really cute. I’ll only charge you $10. How old are you, sweetie?” “Nineteen,” I lied. I don’t know why I lied. There isn’t a legal age to use the service of a prostitute, but that was the age that popped into my head. She laughed and said, “Sure, you are baby.” She got in the back of the car and we drove to a discreet location away from the main traffic. Marty got out of the car and sat on the hood to make sure no one would come up on us. She moved up to the driver’s seat and gave me the lowdown, “I’ll suck your dick for 7 minutes or until you blow your load, which ever comes first.” Nauseously and awkwardly, I said, “Oh…okay…alright, let’s do this.” The time limit didn’t bother me and ten bucks seemed like a reasonable rate. I was more nervous that I would explode the moment she made contact and be ridiculed by Marty the rest of my life. Marty peered into the windshield with a sinister-looking frat guy grin and made the universal hand gesture of palming a head up and down on his crotch. I shooed him to look away for privacy and took note of the time.12:03AM. My entire upbringing told me that this was wrong but the warmth of her mouth negated my guilt. Being a blowjob-receiving neophyte, I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Marty turned around and pantomimed me to slap her ass. Being a gentleman, I decided to rub her back. The misogynist on the hood was disgusted by my sensitivity and turned around. At 12:07AM, only four minutes later she stopped and said it would cost another $10 for her to finish. I only made $3.35 an hour as a bag boy and only had $10 left. We argued for three more minutes, then she hopped out of the car and we drove away from Second Avenue forever.
From now on, when people ask me when I lost my virginity. I’m not going to lie anymore. I’m going to give it to them straight, “I officially lost my virginity at nineteen, but when I was sixteen I lost my dignity.”
Click here for a very sexy review by Flora (although her initial assessment starts off a little rocky, I’m pleased with her conclusion).
Here’s an excerpt:
“Next up, reader number 4 and the first male reader for the evening, Dan Allen. A tall, skinny comedian and blogger. Not a guy I would immediately be attracted to….but then there’s the f*ckability factor.”
Click here to read the rest of the review
Click here for photos of the reading
Click here for Brian Van’s photos
Click here for Gillian’s photos
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