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Once my virginity was laid to rest, buried, and mourned, it was time for me to move on. I was determined to figure out what all the hype surrounding sex was all about. And not just for me, but for my vagina- after such a tragic loss, it was the least I could do. How does one set out on such a journey, you ask? It was time for a road trip, just me and my vagina, two pals looking for some penis. We didn’t have to look very far; hailing down a penis was a snap. My hand barely made it up over my head and already penises were lining up from all directions.
The next few sexual encounters were all the same—quick, painless, and more importantly, meaningless. They were like appointments: wham bam, thank you, and goodbye, ma'am. There was no feeling, no love, no intimacy. Couldn’t even tell you what they looked like; they didn’t even need a face, just a penis to go with the name, insignificant enough to even remember. I had failed my vagina, the sexual encounters marked off the to do list and moved to the what have I done list.
Before I could think of a way to make it up to my vagina, something more important came up. Cherry Poppins, “the love of my delusional life,” was in town and I had to see him. Apparently the first “fuck you” wasn’t enough, I needed a “fuck you sideways” in the asshole and without lubrication to learn my lesson (not literally). I mean, what could I possibly even see in him? The guy collected hymens for sport. My hymen may as well have been on a plaque hanging from his wall like a hunter's prized dead dear head. When he’d host dinner parties, he could brag to his guests about the time he caught that virginity. No one would ever know the deer practically delivered its dead self to his doorstep and rang the bell.
My brain was trying to point out the obvious, but I didn’t want to see it. I was still in la la land and I intended to stay there for as long as I could, before having to board the train back to reality. Worse case scenario, I would get my heart broken. It’s not like anyone ever died from a broken heart. The heart may be as loyal as a dog, but at the end of the day, it’s more like a cat—it’s got 9 lives. Already broke my hymen, what another heart amongst friends?
There was no point in thinking about things, I had already made up my mind. Anybody catch the importance of that? I basically made up my mind without thinking things through. I could argue that it was part of my personality, imbedded into my nature at its core and made me who I was. My parents would probably disagree and call it stupidity and lack of discipline on their part. Either way, it was something I did far too often before I learned my lesson.
A huge part of life is learning from your past mistakes, meaning you recognize the causative factor that has created the sensation of pain when sticking your finger through the hot flame of a burning candle per say. It is thereby noted and filed away in your memory under the "do not do list."
And in case your memory happens to fail you in the future, do not fear...the scar on your finger from that painful experience shall serve as your second line of defense. That being said, how is it that one manages to stick that same finger through a number of painstaking situations and even then, not yet realize maybe your finger is safer in your nose.
I hate pain, AND I have a perfect memory—photographic even. How is it that I’ve managed to make the same mistake over and over again?
Perhaps you’ve truly mastered the mistake once you're able to recognize it in all of its disguises regardless of the environmental and social circumstances under which it chooses to arise. Cherry Poppins wasn’t just Cherry Poppins, he was Professor Cherry Poppins. You’d think I’d get extra credit for sleeping with the professor? Bad joke!
There was no time to waste; Professor Poppins was only in town for a couple days before he would have to head back for school. I remember singing along to Ace of Base while trying on my entire closet. I ended up wearing what I tried on first and quickly threw on some makeup. I was getting one last look at myself in the mirror when he pulled up. I needed a few more minutes. I couldn’t put my finger on it but there was something I didn’t quite like about how I looked. What the hell could a few minutes give me? That wasn’t enough time to lose 20 pounds. Ah found it, that was what I didn’t quite like, being fat!
I grabbed my trusty security blanket (sweater) and wrapped it around my waist to conceal the child baring hips I could have done without. Thanks for the genes mom, I could bear elephants with these. I could just hear my mom now, “no you can’t, at this rate you’ll be lucky if you can bear anything at all, let’s talk freezers. Have you given any thought to freezing your eggs, or I am I such a bad mother that I don’t deserve grandchildren?” Excuse my mother, she’s Jewish.
“Jewish mother, or not, I’m a bad mother. Tell them. Go on, tell them how I was never there when you were growing up. I didn’t take you to Disneyland every other weekend. Didn’t take you on vacations twice a year or buy you the best clothes from the best stores. You didn’t go to a private school your whole life or have it easy. Me and your father never struggled to make sure you didn’t have to take out college loans. That must have been someone else’s parents. I’m a bad mother. Rita’s mom, she deserves three grandkids because she’s an alcoholic and a great mother. You should have had a mother like Rita, maybe then you would know what a bad mother is.”
Please excuse her, she doesn’t understand the concept of what "right time and right place" means, nor does she know what boundaries mean.
“I don’t know what boundaries are? I gave birth to you, shared an umbilical cord with you, and you're going to teach me about boundaries?
Around now, my father would probably interject with “Sweetheart, don’t aggravate your mother. We are getting old, so sometimes we can cross a boundary or two, we are only human, we...”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because my mother cuts him off “Old? Who’s old? And whose side are you on anyway? Boundaries, shmoundaries. We are your parents, we don’t have boundaries. Take your boundaries and shove them where the sun don’t shine. And from now on, call Rita’s mom; she’s your new mother. I'll be over here without my grandchildren, being a bad mother if you need me.”
Story of my life. This could probably continue for chapters; Cherry Poppins could have grandchildren of his own and my mother would still be going on and on, like the energizer bunny. Note to self, never use the “bear” word.
“Did I hear someone say grandchildren...?” No, mom, I was talking about grizzly bears. “Don’t talk to me, talk to Rita’s mom, remember I’m a bad mother.” Smacking myself in the face right about now. If only my magic security blanket/sweater could mute my mother. “I heard that.” I could look like Gilbert Grape, and with that magic sweater wrapped around my waist I felt like Kate Moss. A mute button isn’t all that far-fetched. So I didn’t get the memo that the sweater only made me look like a bigger Gilbert Grape, one who swallowed Kate Moss. What’s the big deal? Who needs memos when you have Cherry Poppins to deliver the message live and direct, right to your face. There’s nothing a girl wants to hear more than “You’re so beautiful, you would be perfect if you just lost 10 pounds.” Especially when she’s just about to get naked and have sex. I felt the heat rising to my face and for a moment pondered keeping the sweater around my waist, maybe he wouldn’t notice. Gotta give it to Professor Poppins, he really knew how to set the mood. I remember almost nothing about that night except for what he said about the ten pounds. On my way home I smoked a cigarette and still couldn’t understand what pleasure was obtained from either.
And how could I? I was so young and knew so little about anything. Anything I knew about love or sex was from watching it on TV and that wasn’t even real; it was an illusion. That’s what put me in this stupid mess in the first place, false advertising. I figured having sex with someone automatically bound two people together and fueled the sparks to create this beautiful love that bloomed like a flower and burned like a candle. Instead it stung like a bee...when you're allergic bees. I was missing all the things leading up to the sex that made it more than just an act. Maybe Cherry Poppins wasn’t really the love of my life after all, but he did turn out to be a good teacher.