When I was in high school, I wasn't really the type of person that partied all the time. Sure, I had some experimental phases with booze and drugs, but for the most part, I was a fairly straight-laced teenager. This is because I realized something about myself during said experimental phases: weird shit happens to me when I'm any form of inebriated, as I've illustrated before (see "The Blackout Story" and "The Shower Door Story" for proof).
One of the earliest examples I can think of this took place early in the summer between my sophomore and junior years. I'd recently become friends with a guy that lived down the street from me named Joseph, and was invited to a "small get-together" he was holding at his house while his parents were away for the weekend.
Aside #1: Cliches exist for a reason, as it turns out.
Naturally, I accepted his invitation and walked over to his house just as the sun was setting the night of the party. Upon arriving, I realized just how small this get-together was. The so-called party consisted of me, him, his girlfriend, his sister, his sister's boyfriend, and his girlfriend's best friend, Melissa. To his surprise, I told him that I was completely okay with hanging out with this small group as opposed to a larger one. I've never done well in crowds, and this wasn't even close to the capacity of some of the smaller parties I'd previously attended.
Shortly after I arrived, we all began drinking mixed drinks at a relaxed pace while sitting around, listening to music and talking about nothing in particular. About an hour into this, Joseph's sister and her boyfriend became bored and disappeared into her room, presumably to have ridiculous amounts of sex. Seeing this as a chance to kick the festivities into high-gear without wasting too much of the alchohol we had on, we began taking shots of the high-end vodka Joseph had somehow had managed to get his hands on.
Aside #2: Nothing says "inexperienced" like getting plastered at 8 PM.
After we'd all had our share for the time being, we began to talk about past relationships we'd been in, and why they failed. When you're generally a depressed drunk like myself, this is one of the worst topics of conversation you can possibly be involved in. For me, it's mostly because I end up (sometimes rightfully) blaming myself for the generally premature demise of every good thing that has come my way.
If the specificity of the above paragraph wasn't a strong enough indicator, that night was a shining example of just how self-deprecating I can be. If that weren't shameful enough, a certain song came on the "party shuffle" Joseph's computer had put together, smack in the middle of my tirade about how badly I'd treated the few girlfriends I'd had in the past.
That song, dear reader, was a sorrowful track titled "Tiny Vessels" by former indie-cred band Death Cab For Cutie.
Aside #3: If you've never heard the song here it is:
Listen to at least 30 seconds of it so you know what I'm talking about for the next few paragraphs. Even better, listen to it as you read the next few paragraphs.
The instant this song came on, my eyes inadvertently began to water and I couldn't figure out why. I didn't have an attachment to this song, nor did I find it to be particularly depressing. Yet there I sat, pontificating about my faults and blinking profusely to prevent tears from running down my cheeks as I did so.
Noticing this before the two females in the room did, Joseph reached over to change it, using the excuse that it "didn't belong on party shuffle," trying to help me save face before I was in danger of being considered the third female in the room.
But being a glutton for punishment, I stopped him from doing so. By this time, everyone in the room was fully aware that I was crying, and soon Melissa was by my side, holding my hand and telling me that everything would be okay.
Less than five minutes later, she kissed me. Ten minutes after that, we found ourselves in Joseph's parents' bed (at his reccommendation), removing our clothes frantically.
Now, I'd known Melissa for around a year at this point, and had always harbored a sort of I'll-never-get-her-but-I-can-still-admire-her-from-afar-type crush on her. After all, she was blonde, had gorgeous blue eyes, and (at the risk of sounding like a complete douche) had fantastic boobs that any self-respecting guy at my school would have gladly paid any amount of money to see. I never would have guessed that a few uninhibited, drunken tears shed during a self-thrown pity party would have been the correct route to land her in the sack, but I guess it was. For some reason, I didn't find this odd at all.
Despite the fact that she was out of my league, and despite the fact that this should have been one of the most memorable nights of my four years in high school, this is precisely where things start to get fuzzy as I think back. I can blame it on the fact that we did it in the dark, or I can blame it on the vodka, but when I think back to the actual sex itself, I don't remember much besides the fact that it took a little while to get started, was good while it lasted, and that we both enjoyed ourselves and passed out immediately afterwards.
Aside #4: Oh, and I also remember Joseph coming in pre-penis-insertion and handing me a condom as we both laid in his parents' bed, naked. That was pretty cool of him.
The next morning, we both woke up at the same time. Despite the fact that my breath smelled awful, my head was pounding, and I felt like I could throw up at any given moment, I did what every guy does after a one night stand and decided to try to attain the "morning after lay." But I didn't get a single taste of the coveted pre-breakfast poon.
Aside #5: If I ever become ridiculously famous, and future historians speak of my contributions to literature and additions to the general lexicon, I hope one of them mentions that I coined the phrase "pre-breakfast poon," assuming I just did so.
Graciously and politely turning me down before getting out of bed and redressing herself, she left me laid out naked on a bed owned and slept in by people I'd never met, feeling cheated out of a prize I didn't know I had to win. After all, I had assumed that our experiences the previous night would inevitably lead to a relationship, or at least consideration of one, but her disinterest in me that morning lead me to believe otherwise. I felt like she had used me for something, and I didn't know why.
Lo and behold, I was right. A week later, I was talking to Joseph about what had happened, when he told me something that would forever change my opinion of women.
He explained that Melissa had been waiting for the right moment and guy to lose her virginity to for weeks, and I just so happened to fit the bill in both cases. He then told me that it was because she'd had her eye on a "sexually experienced" guy, and didn't want him knowing that she'd had no previous experience herself.
Aside #6: I've never, ever met a guy that would turn down a virgin who is all-too willing to have sex. This guy had some whack priorities.
I didn't know exactly how to feel. One side of me considered the fact that she'd seen me as the "right" guy to lose her virginity to as vaguely flattering, but the other side of me was disappointed that she'd known all along that our relationship would never extend past that night.
After plenty of time spent wondering how I should handle the situation, I realized that I was approaching it like a scorned woman would. I was hurt because someone had used me for sex, for their own selfish reasons. It then dawned on me that most men would kill to be in my position, scoring a no-strings attached one night stand with an attractive female virgin. I felt like an idiot for behaving the way I did.
So it was on that day, during the summer directly in the middle of my high school years, that I decreed that I would never again be the bitch in any situation I found myself in. And I haven't looked back since.
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