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True Stories: The Most Suburban Way to Lose Your Virginity
Driving out of town to buy condoms? Check. Getting mocked by the pharmacist? Check...
by Chris Gethard
Fact: any nerd you meet spends his childhood being completely sex-obsessed. It doesn’t matter whether he’s a comic-book nerd or a Dungeons and Dragons nerd or a fantasy baseball nerd or some terribly pitiful combination of all the different kinds of nerd-dom. A nerd is a nerd and he will have thought about sex for hours each day starting at the age of thirteen. Why? Because there’s no visible light at the end of the tunnel assuring a nerd that one day he actually will have sex.
Like all humans, nerds want what they can’t have. And they are obsessive people by nature. So my recommendation to any ladies, if you wind up dating a nerd virgin as my high-school girlfriend Veronica once did, is to let the first time sweep over both of you spontaneously. Allow it to be of the moment, to be a surprise.
Certainly don’t pull your boyfriend aside and whisper “I’ve decided I want to lose my virginity to you. Let’s do it in a week.”
Because then you will have just made sure that nerd is going to have the worst week of his life.
You will have sentenced him to spend the next seven days — the next 168 hours — obsessing over the idea that it’s finally going to happen.
As a result, he is also going to spend those seven days reading up on cunnilingus and sex positions and ejaculation etiquette. About how he’s going to… maybe get a girl pregnant. He is going to research every STD over and over again, because he’s a nerd, and that means he loves gathering information and minutia, even if it’s about the many different types of warts that can grow on the underside of a penis head.
That is how I spent my last week as a virgin. Nervous, skittish, obsessed. Wondering and worrying about how it was going to go.
In the middle of that week, I decided it was time to face the reality of the situation and that I needed to get prepared.
I need to buy condoms.
I borrowed my mom’s car and drove around town. Every time I got to a pharmacy, I pulled into the parking lot and convinced myself that I absolutely could not buy condoms there. Some of my justifications were very rational.
“This is Veronica’s neighborhood,” I thought to myself. “What if her dad sees me buying condoms?”
The first time I met Veronica’s father, he explained to me that he had served in World War II. He then went on to tell me he worked at a VCR company.
“I find it funny,” he said, combining the two thoughts. “I used to kill those people. Now I work for them.”
When your girlfriend’s father has taken human life, I contend it’s okay to avoid purchasing condoms in his neighborhood. Unfortunately, some of my other reasons for dodging the transaction weren’t so logical.
“Mom went to high school with the ex-husband of a lady who lives on the other side of that mountain there,” I remember thinking while sitting in my car behind the CVS drugstore on Eagle Rock Avenue. “If she sees me, reunites with her ex-husband after seven years of divorce, and he randomly contacts my mother for the first time in twenty-eight years, I’m so dead!”
My only option, as I saw it, was to buy my condoms far from where any family, friends, or associates could find me. I knew of a Pathmark located in the basement of an old converted train station in a nearby town. I figured that Pathmark would have a pharmacy and that the odds were good no one I had ever met in my entire life would have a reason to be hanging out inside a faraway subterranean Pathmark.
I got out of my car and headed to the entrance, only to turn around and walk right back to my car. I sat down in the driver’s seat.
“No,” I said to myself, out loud. “You have got to do this.”
Despite my best efforts to mentally overcome my embarrassment, my body did not respond to my words. I remained sitting.
“If you can’t do this,” I said, “then you can’t do it.”
Begrudgingly, my body finally cooperated and I walked back toward the front entrance. This time I made it inside, and headed straight to the pharmacy.
Then, I panicked. I walked around the border of the pharmacy, orbiting the condoms, for ten full minutes. I didn’t look at any other items, and only managed to examine the condoms by turning my head and reading the packages as I speed-walked past them. Otherwise, I kept my head down and continued my loop around the edge of the pharmacy.
The workers behind the counter, two heavyset black women, were eyeing me, confused. They must have thought that I was out of my mind, or that I found supermarket pharmacies a great place to run laps.
After I tired out, and not coincidentally after every other customer had left the pharmacy, I buckled down and made my way back toward the condoms. The choice was overwhelming, but I’d done my research and came knowing what I wanted: regular condoms with one simple frill, spermicidal lubricant. Without thinking about what I was doing, I saw my hand reach for them. I picked them up, nervously walked to the checkout, and looked at the ground as the woman behind the counter rang up my purchase.