I lost my virginity when I was seventeen, and if you read the first third of this sentence, you can already guess that it wasn’t what I’d hoped it would be.
However, if you’d asked me before the age of seventeen if I was a virgin, I would be quick to point out that I wasn’t. I would list a veritable menagerie of women who had decided, against better, completely fictionalized judgment, that sleeping with a young Daniel was the best thing that they could be doing at the time. I had a ton of stories, usually involving the out of control circumstances that would bring me and a hot lady together into a union of amazing sex. So, if I knew you at fifteen, and I told you about all the great things that I had performed on vaginas, I’m sorry. I was a liar.
Before I get into the actual story, let me preface it with my appearance at the time. Below, I’ve inserted two pictures of myself, both from my high school’s ID card, just to illustrate how improbable it was that I would be getting any action. If my junk had had a mind of its own at the time, I’m sure even it would’ve wanted to just “stay friends” with me. I’m not saying that I was hideous, but if you scan through the list of things that biologically attract women, “skinny goblin rat” isn’t on there. And if it is, it’s probably closer to the bottom, somewhere between “trash bag” and “Daniel, the year earlier.”
As you’ve read earlier, my idea of sex for a long time was very askew. Sure, I watched my fair share of porn, but watching a lot of porn and thinking that it will make you good at sex is like watching The Food Network today in preparation for suddenly opening a restaurant tomorrow. I was woefully under-prepared for any sort of sexual encounter. I knew that a lot of my classmates were already taking this exam, but had I brought my #2 pencil? No. But I knew a shit ton about Batman!
I’ll refer to the girl as “Alicia” and I don’t remember how I met her, only that she seemed insane at the time, and not in the calls-thirty-times-a-day sense of being insane but in the calls-three-hundred-times-a-day sense. I had no idea why she was so interested in me then, and I still don’t. But for some reason, she latched onto me for what would become the most tremendous two weeks of my life at that point.
Sometimes I’d pick up the phone when she called, but for the most part, I let it go unanswered. I did this mainly because I was secretly terrified of her. She was pretty, with olive skin and dark black hair, but when she spoke to me, it felt like she was trying to shove a knife into my eyeballs, and the only way she could think to do it was by summoning the weapon out of thin air with her words. She was abominably serious. I was at an age where I made “jokes” about a hundred times a minute, because if I couldn’t become the funny guy naturally, I would make my peers understand. I, like most chimpanzees batting away at a computer, hoping to eventually type Shakespeare, would get a gem every once in a while, but for someone who seemed to be so intently trying to pull both of us off a cliff to our deaths, she was not amused by anything.
I was very fond of doing an Arnold Schwarzeneggar impression, so fond that I did it like the solution to every situation was impersonating a racist trying to mock a country that hasn’t even been invented yet. One time, after doing it for what probably felt like fucking forever to the average person, she asked me what I thought I was doing.
“An Arnold Schwarzeneggar impression. An impression.”
“Why would you do that? Why would you do that to your voice?”
“Don’t do that to your voice. It’s not funny. It’s not even funny.”
She was extremely blunt, the best example of this coming when she asked me to have sex with her on top of a mountain, phrasing it subtly as “We should go have sex on top of this mountain.” I’m sure the part of me that would tell stories about it later was very excited, but having not discovered time travel yet, I was all nerves. Should I say no? What if I never got the chance to get laid again, for the rest of my life? These are questions that one must take into consideration when the closest you’ve gotten to women is seeing Hitch. My response managed to hide my feelings and yet explode them all over the receiver of the phone at the same time. “ON A MOUNTAIN?!?”
She explained to me that it would be okay, and that no one would be up there, and it would be a safe, quiet spot, and everything would go okay. Part of me wanted to ask her “Why me?” She had seen me a few times before (all weird meetings, that usually ended with that kind of mutual silence that lets the waiter know that it’s safe to bring the bill,) and I’m sure that I was wearing an over-sized Hawaiian or polo shirt that I thought looked completely rad all of those times. If sex was a person, he would’ve been flushing the toilet while Confidence and Self-Respect held my head in the bowl.
Nevertheless, I accepted the terms and agreements to our contract, and we met up one hot Friday afternoon in the summer of 2006. She drove a loud, massive truck, and as I stepped inside, she asked the worst possible question that you can ask someone who’s never had sex before, who you’re about to have sex with. “Are you excited?” My response to this was nothing at all, and I was quiet the whole ride to the foot of the mountain, off the road, in a place that I’m wasn’t even sure was real. It was hidden in the shadows of trees, in a part of the Appalachian Mountains that I was entirely unfamiliar with. This was a hidden blessing, because it let me know that if the whole sex thing went awry, I could take solace in the fact that I was about to be murdered too.
We walked up the long, winding trail and didn’t say anything to each other, except once, when we stopped for a break and she told me that I needed to drink some water. When we finally got to the top, she said “This is it!” and then pointed to a ridge about a hundred yards away. I half expected her to follow that up with “No sex. Haha. Jump.”
Instead she walked over to the edge, and I noticed that she was now standing on a ramp of some kind, a ramp that I’d later learn was used for hang gliders, doing the same thing that I was doing at that moment: Testing God. I walked over to her and I asked her about how sturdy it was. I gingerly put a foot on it, as if I was feeling the temperature of a pool that I was about to plummet to my death into, and she informed that the structural stability of the ramp was “Totally.” She then told me that I needed to lay down on the ramp so that we could start, effectively turning it from my first time to an alien abduction. I lay down on the ramp, and folded my arms across my chest like a grumpy corpse. She straddled me, and it began.
I’m not going to get disgusting with the little intricacies of what happened next, but I will fill you in on the necessary details. There was one position, and I didn’t do anything. You know when you’re getting a shot, and you look away so that you don’t have to watch a tube of metal slip under the skin? I did that, tilting my head backwards like I was attempting to break my own neck. The ramp creaked and, like the previous few hours, we barely said a word to each other, save for this exchange, which I’ve painstakingly transcribed for you below:
Her: Does that feel good?
Also, she screamed. I know that “being a screamer” is kind of a romanticized aspect of sex, because it’s supposed to mean that you’re doing very well, but I highly doubt that what was happening on top of that mountain was anything close to the definition of “doing well.” She screamed constantly, in my face, as if, during sex, she’d discovered an army of invisible bats. I know that it sounds ridiculous to say that she didn’t stop screaming until everything was done and she walked away from the ramp asking “Was that your first time?”, but she did. It consisted less of what I learned in my ninth grade Life Skills class, and more of a quick perspective on the human condition when literally zero percent of the day is going right.
When we got back down the mountain, for some reason, I immediately began talking to her, very quickly and very excitably. I didn’t say anything about the sex, instead I just babbled on about my interests at the time, like I was trying to work some last minute character development into the script of my life. At the time, I imagined that I was trying to form some deeper connection with the girl that I had just “made love” to, but in retrospect, all that shows up when I remember this is Sally Hardesty, laughing psychotically in the back of a pick-up truck, while Leatherface swung his chainsaw in the background, doing some mad dance of death.
I only talked to Alicia once more after that day, and it was when she texted me the next evening, telling me Hey. I don’t think we should see each other again. Sweet dreams. I felt slightly jaded, as if I was being duped out of a long, fulfilling companionship, but that notion soon went away. Time heals all wounds, and when your wound mostly consists of the awful night you had with a girl who couldn’t comprehend the humor of your celebrated Terminator impression, you come around pretty fast.