I was deflowered in an upstairs bedroom of an elegant country house reliving the revolution at the hands of a ravaging horde of drunken youths who delighted in pissing in the well-appointed corner trees of the living room. We drove though the late fall rain listening to Radiohead on cassette. I touched my hair, which curled in ringlets from the humidity. We were all stoned, and had been since the afternoon when we smoked out of bong a friend’s house.
Everyone laughed because I put my mouth around, rather than inside, the green acrylic tubing which was just the right girth to make for such a joke. We passed around a handle of bourbon as we drove. I was 13. My underwear were white with lace edging and I may have vomited before going up the stairs but I don’t remember how exactly it happened or his name.
Let’s call him A, because A is the first letter of the alphabet, and A begins adulthood, which is what awaited Alice after falling down the rabbit-hole. I already had a reputation for being easy. Though I was still a virgin, it was only a matter of drinks or drugs or a warm floor. SEX would bring orgasms, a boyfriend, put a stop to endless blow-jobs in parks and cemeteries which left me confused as to the utility of the male sexual organ. Sex would somehow justify the feelings of heartbreak and longing. Sex would somehow make it all serious and real and not just an adolescent fantasy.
Everything adult revolved around sex, the sideways glances of older men in mustangs and the busty turquise-bodiced heroines of grocery store novels and the Sunday supplement filled with youthfully maternal lasses advertising sensible bras. Who mattered less than what: from what I had seen they were all terrible and cruel and all they wanted was sex but none would deign to fuck me because it would have been a social suicide, a chance at jail, and besides, everyone knows that smart girls are terrible in bed.
A had been kicked out of school the year before. We lay down on the floor, and he pressed an antique dresser against the door. We had just been introduced; he had shaggy hair and lazy brown eyes and long bony fingers. He entered me before I really knew what was happening or was very aroused and he was surprised that I did not fall into orgasmic paroxysms in the first 30 seconds. “Oh it feels so good, so tight.” The first blueish shadows of dawn gave angles to the hastily removed clothing, the misplaced furniture. “How does it feel?” “Um, is it supposed to hurt…” I trailed off “You’re a virgin? How can that be? Everyone says you go with…. I mean are you bleeding? Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin…” “Would it have changed anything? I mean, I’m not a virgin anymore.” A didn’t really know what to do with such a serious responsibility. He heaved himself off me with all the muscle of a stoned video game addict, rolled over, and said “But can’t you at least finish me off? I mean like, give me head or something?”