Female • 18 • Basement
Six months before I lost my virginity, I had my heart broken by my first love, a self-proclaimed man-slut. We had spent the summer in blissful high-school ignorance of mistrust and conflicting futures, and I had never been happier — in an intense, can't get enough of you, holding your hand gives me butterflies kind of way. Then, a week after we left for separate boarding schools, he left me for a new girlfriend.
I nursed my broken heart much of my first semester; while most were getting hammered in their dorm rooms and sneaking out to hang out with boys, I was writing corny love poems and imagining all the terrible things I'd say to him if I ever got the chance again. That was until I met Daymon, on a train, on my way home for spring break.
The train left at ten p.m. and wouldn't get in until three. Most of the long trips home I had taken previously, I passed the time with music in my ears, slowly drifting in and out of consciousness, forehead pressed against the cool glass, staring into nothing — enjoying my solitude and usually feeling sorry for my brokenhearted self. But this trip was different. On this particular trip, the conductor decided to follow through with seating assignments, and subsequently, Daymon was stuck with me. He walked up in the poorly lit corridor in baggy pants, iPod blaring and hoodie up. His face was in total shadow. My first reaction, honestly? I would rather have sat with the woman talking to herself in the back than next to the body without a face.
After he took his seat, we spent an hour in silence, not even bothering to glance at one another, until he pulled his hoodie down. "What kind of music you like?" he asked me. I turned towards him, shocked he could speak (not well, but I didn't have many standards at eighteen), and realized that not only was he cute, but he was about my age. Over the next few hours we talked candidly about our families, our schools, and what we were doing on a train at two in the morning, and we realized we had more in common than I ever would've thought.
As I slowly un-plastered myself from the window, I started to wonder whether he could possibly be into me. I was a generally shy and awkward high schooler whose only sexual encounters had consisted of some heavy petting and makeout sessions. That he might think I was cute seemed unlikely. I was quickly proven wrong however, as our conversation faded away and he slowly moved his hand up my thigh, leaning towards my lips. The anticipation felt like small shocks in my leg, and as he finally touched my lips my heart beat a little faster. We spent the last ten minutes of the train ride in one of the most charged kisses of my life, slowly tracing each others lips with the slightest bit of tongue. It was perfect. We left each other at the train stop breathless and sleepy, after exchanging numbers. I honestly thought I would never see him again.
After graduation about three months later, I felt both like an adult and like a virginal loser. Even my extremely religious "wait until marriage" best friend had found the courage to give up the goods, and I was all alone. So on a hot June night I decided that it was time to grow up. After I had shaved, showered, lotioned, and stolen a beer from my dad to take the edge off, I called Daymon.
We hadn't talked since the night on the train, but I thought about the kiss and figured he'd be good as anyone to get the deed done. Thirty minutes later, he was in my basement playroom, with my parents asleep right upstairs, and I was taking his pants off. As he took off my special skanky underwear — which he completely failed to appreciate — my heart beat a mile a minute. He slid on the condom like a champ; this was definitely not his first time. Then he pushed me gently back in a large overstuffed armchair. I kept my dress and the lights on, not really sure what kind of "mood" I was supposed to set, and helped him guide himself in.
The initial shock of pain was amazing, and to this day, I relish that sensation whenever I'm with someone new. We picked up a rhythm and it felt like it lasted forever. When we finished it was much like a business transaction. I really felt nothing except pride that I'd gotten what I wanted. My cleanup was methodical: I kissed him goodbye and kicked him out, scrubbed the ottoman where he had lost control of himself on pulling out, and tiptoed upstairs quietly. Moments later, I was lying in my bed, heart hammering, coming to grips with what had just happened and wondering whether if my parents woke up and came into my room, they'd smell the sex on me. The next day, we exchanged texts confirming that we both knew it was just sex, nothing more. My life went on as usual, and I never talked to Daymon again.
A week later, the boy who'd broken my heart the summer before was home and trying to love me again. After multiple apologies, and claims that he regretted every minute of being away from me (yeah, right), he convinced me our story wasn't over and I took him back. I didn't tell him about my big step since he'd left; I felt secretly vindicated, like he might have stolen and stomped on my heart but someone else got my vagina.
The truth always comes out, though. He was at my house, in the basement, when a friend told him the chair was sitting in was probably the last place he wanted to sit. He quickly understood, and things were never the same. Once I had cut him out of my life, I came to regret my decision to sleep with someone else. At eighteen, I had no idea that he was going to be my first love, and after four years of hurt on both ends, it should've been him; it was always supposed to be him. Things probably wouldn't have changed, but there's a part of me that'll always believe that it would've been different — more like lovemaking, less like a transaction with a stranger.