Once upon a time I had zero interest in sex. Despite all the movie theatre blow jobs I doled out in my hometown IMAX theatre, I arrived to college a proud ‘virgin’. Well, at least what the stuffy WASPs I grew up around would consider a virgin.
I was raised in a conservative suburban town where Christmas celebrations were part of the curriculum and learning about evolution was optional. Even with the influence of my anomalous liberal parents and latent queerness, my definition of sex was still shaped by the heteronormative models of intimacy that dominated my surroundings. Sex was a penis penetrating a vagina. No matter the number of ballpoint pens I stuck inside myself at the request of some Myspace rando I was sexting or how many mall rats I 69’d with, I still thought of myself as never having ‘gone all the way’ and tried to delay the experience for as long as possible.
My aversion was admittedly puzzling given how eager I was to cover all the other bases. Even with the one ex I trusted enough to administer some entry-level impact play (a few swats on the ass and one memorable slap across the face that I practically begged for), I still recoiled whenever he suggested sticking his dick in. “Make me regret forgetting to bring the barbecue chips downstairs like an absent-minded little whore,” I’d whine, guiding his palm up towards my cheek, strategically dodging the initial proposition.
I imagine this hesitation was partially thanks to my politically regressive public school district that took an abstinence-only approach to sex-ed and pumped our young malleable minds with anti-condom propaganda. I distinctly recall my NutriGrain bar-addicted health teacher Mrs Mellencamp trying to dissuade us from getting off by way of a highly inaccurate doodle depicting a tiny sperm swimming through the tip of a gigantic rubber.
“Now listen up, guys and gals! Yinz think you can just lube up and go to town so long as one of you’s is wearin’ a latex jacket. Well, I’m here to tell you that’s a load of rubbish!” she would scream, granola crumbs flying from her lips. “Ejaculate can escape through the microscopic holes of a condom, and swim straight up the vaginal walls like a gold medal Olympian!"
Even with the limited amount of information I retained in my biology class, this all sounded fishy. But pregnancy was my worst nightmare at the time and I didn't want to take any chances in case whichever poser in a PacSun beanie I threw myself at was packing millions of microscopic Michael Phelps inside his skinny jeans. College was the one exit I had from my toxic home life and I couldn’t afford to have a 7lbs 11oz curveball thwart my escape plan.
Sure enough, within days of being away from the puritan sensibilities of suburban Pennsylvania, my attitude towards losing my v-card did a complete 180. After spending my first week of college sprawled out on the residential quad listening to hot girls with feather tattoos rave about the wonders of birth-control, I was ready to be filled up like an eclair. But I wasn’t looking for just any liberal arts edge-lord to tear my hymen and then spend his refractory period reading me poems about why women aren’t evolutionarily disposed to drink coffee. I wanted someone especially unremarkable. Someone I knew I would have absolutely zero attachment to before and after he slid in and out.
This way if the sex was bad or if he was rude to me afterwards, I wouldn’t wind up associating sex with taxing feelings like disappointment… or worse, love.
My quest to find the mediocre fuck of my dreams was surprisingly short lived. About a month into college, my friend group (all the oddballs of my otherwise tame residence hall) decided to branch out and mingle with the weirdos from the next dorm over. What started as an innocent game of Apples to Apples quickly turned into a Gatorade-and-vodka-infused bender and I felt relaxed enough to scope out a potential mate. I didn’t want to sleep with anyone from my own hall, lest things go south and I had to worry about an awkward encounter in the common area, which was the only safe space I could scurry off to and binge-eat my roommate’s leftover pizza. Someone who lived a mere 30-second walk-of-shame away from my own dorm was ideal.
As I was surveying the neighboring lounge area for some mild-mannered econ major to sexually disappoint me, a friend informed me that some of them were sneaking off to the woods to smoke pot, if I was interested in joining. Desperate to fit in even if it meant conspicuously traipsing through private property just for a few hits off a poorly rolled joint, I eagerly agreed and off we went. The group consisted of my three dorm mates and two guys from the residence hall we were visiting. One was tall and gangly with tortoiseshell glasses that were almost certainly fake. (Imagine Gumby, but with side swept bangs and less charisma.) The other was around my height with bright red hair and an Aquaman t-shirt. Given all the other liberal arts students’ desperate attempts to appear avant-garde, I found his unapologetic dweeb aesthetic quite refreshing.
The more we talked in between puffs of the flimsy spliff my friend assembled out of rolling papers and loose American Spirit tobacco some art bro left on her end table, the more I was intrigued by Aquaman McGee. I wasn’t particularly physically attracted to him, but I was transfixed by how few fucks he seemed to give about conforming to the pretentious misfit identity everyone else was performing. I don’t know if it was his nonchalance or the bumpy log we were sitting on, but my panties started matching the theme of his t-shirt. Either way I had a gut feeling that this was the low-stakes sex romp I was searching for.
To be continued…