Losing My V-Card (Virginity and Valentines) - Taboo Tuesday #5

As a child, Valentine's Day was my favorite holiday for three main reasons.

1) You got to make sweet-ass boxes.

Classic Sophia, gettin' all the D... 

...elicious snacks!

2) The candy.

3) The fact that I hopefully, desperately, secretly wished that one of my mega hot crushes would reveal that they had always thought I was a babe in my light-up tennies.

Nobody ever thought I was a babe in my light-up tennies.

In my thirteen years of school, only two of three boxes ever got checked, and SweetHearts can only tide your RealPatheticHeart over for so long.

Precisely six years.

Before the loneliness sets in.

I was one of those kids who always played it off like I was above pitiful human emotions.

But in reality I was--

I was a hopeless romantic in the worst way. 

All of second grade I washed my hair with "magic love potion" I had made out of bar soap, shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner. Studies proved it to be ultimately ineffective.

I was so crush-crazy that if I hadn't have been gifted with a debilitating lack of confidence, I would have been one of those girls who was pregnant at 6.

But I simply could never let those I like-liked know who they were for fear of the swift and painful rejection.

From elementary school to high school I worried about embarrassing anyone I liked by making my affections known -- my very worst fear was that I would tell a crush my feelings and then they would be publicly crucified.

"I swear I don't even like her back! She's talking about Jesus Mendoza in Mrs. Berg's class anyway!" 

This resulted in a lot of free time for activities, like developing a personality... and Fan Fiction.

Ruining your childhood one slash at a time.

By the time I was eighteen, I was remedial at best when it came to relationships. 

The average American loses her virginity on prom night.

But unfortunately I couldn't fit fellating a drunk teenager in a McDonald's bathroom into my schedule as my mother killed herself that year and I already had plans to cry myself to sleep.

So this meant that by the time I entered college, I was a virgin in every possible way: no first kiss, no sweaty hand holding, no sex -- even though I'd studied for years.

Needless to say, I was the coolest kid around -- especially because I assimilated so well into the general cool kid population.

What made it all the better was that I ended up going to a renowned party college. This afforded me the unique opportunity of sitting alone in my room on Saturday night while I listened to some sweet ragers going on outside.

Dat prime fanfic-ing time.

This will probably be saved for that future suicide post I keep tantalizing you with.

Mmm, suicide.

But essentially my freshman year of college consisted of a lot of depression, vending machine food, and thinking I was a man.

As you do.

The summer after freshman year, I was becoming more and more anxious -- so much so that I started having significant trouble leaving the house.

 So Todd set up an appointment with the German.

"Yo mama is so dead, you are vanting to fornicate wiss her."

The German was an action-based CBT therapist (if that means anything to you) who was treating me for anxiety and depression -- which basically meant that she didn't want to hear about my dreams, she expected me to do shit. Outside shit.

Essentially, to get over my fears, I had to face them. To do this, I had to build a triangle where my greatest fears were on top, and the lesser fears fell on the rows below. I was tasked to work my way up the pyramid gradually, until I reached the top -- then my therapy could be complete. 

I call this torture device--

The Fearamid.

This is kind of what my Fearamid looked like (though the real one had five rows and fifteen items)

And over the course of that summer, I went from the bottom row all the way up to the second to the top -- watching movies about suicide, dressing like a boy, taking a Second City class. I was slowly gaining back the confidence I had before my mother's death -- and more. I was becoming --

I was finally ready to date, and even--

... Hold hands!

I went back to school sophomore year sane, single, and ready to mingle.

I returned to USC with one mission, and one mission alone. I knew that should I complete it, I would break free of the last anxiety holding me back. I could become unstoppable.

I just needed to have sex.

Or at the very least touch somebody.

My mission was simple. Find the first willing human and taste the fruit of knowledge.

"No, dad, seriously. I didn't even like her back! Her hair always smelled like Dial."

My chance arrived in the coming months as I gradually built the courage to make my move. 

Within a few weeks I met a willing male.

The whole thing is a bit of a blur, but I remember reading roughly a million links online of "how to kiss" and "how to do sex", but none were very helpful.

I persisted anyway -- I was wooing a guy for the first time, and I sure as hell wasn't going to let it all go to waste. 

We went on a couple dates that were probably very confusing for him as I oscillated between trying to look like a normal human and trying not to urinate and run away.

Decisions, decisions...

After several months of bleaching all of my black clothes with sweat and wearing an extra big pad just in case, the male awkwardly took my hand as he was driving. Despite my heart beating fast enough to supply North Korea with a pretty sweet internet connection, I stayed firm. 

I didn't move my hand.

At all.

Progress!

Holding hands was good, but it wasn't enough. I had waited 20 years for someone to up and kiss me, and I was coming up short. Now it was my moment to act.

I went to some of my more experienced friends and asked them how to kiss someone. 

This question did not land as smoothly as I would have hoped. But I got vague answers, and, more importantly support.

Mostly in the form of ridicule.

After some studying, I went to his house, like I had done in the past... but instead of laying on his bed and not budging for hours -- I laid on his bed not budging for hours... then kissed him.

On. The. Mouth!

It was pretty much exactly like the above gif. Except for I had to wait until he was asleep. And it only lasted about a half a second. And I forgot to move my lips at all.

Like Plank at all.

Then, as soon as he woke up, I proceeded to tell him that I had an important business email to send and that I had to leave immediately. 

I did not consider that it was well past midnight and that my lie might not be perfectly air-tight.

I then drove straight to my friend and guru's house, Sarah, in order to celebrate/stop hyperventilating. She, this guy Keith, and I went to get Jack In The Box. I felt like the mutha-fucking king.

Then, I remembered, I still had to have sex.

*Sigh* God damn it. I give.

So I regrouped, went home, and prepared.

AKA dragged my roommate out to buy underwear that didn't have Disney princess on them.

Then I pretty much gave myself a week (while we practiced making out -- the male's sage advice was "move your mouth more") before I picked a day and determined that it would finally be one that I lost my big-scary-monster of a virginity.

Actual footage of my virginity circa late-2011.

Long story short, I went to a party with my soon to be sex-boyfriend, discovered what a thong felt like, and worried about the millions of ways I could accidentally kill him with my vagina.

Finally, he pulled me into his room, let the nice gentlemen doing lines of cocaine off of his bed finish up, then began the deed.

I soon discovered that I very much enjoyed being naked.

I also discovered that intercourse is not nearly so easy as the brilliant ingenudes of pornography would have you to believe.

The words "brickwall" and "impossible" were used that night.

When all else failed, I attempted that fellating thing I had heard so much about.

Now, unfortunately, my sex-boyfriend did immediately fall asleep -- mid-fellate -- which felt like a minor failure on my part.

And then I had to decide if it was rape if I kept going... or what was the point... or if I'd killed him.

Ultimately I decided to awkwardly just fall asleep and never mention it again.

The next morning I woke with a horrible feeling. The one where you remember that that you failed to mention your latex allergy. 

(Didn't want to ruin the mood.)

I was being considerate.

It was months until I did mention it -- after my nethers had swollen shut and my urine turned to lightening -- and I finally realized that sex didn't have to feel like fire.

"No, no, I love it a lot! Keep going!"

Who knew.

The most important thing though, was that I had finally lost my virginity. After twenty very long years, I joined the elite group of sex-havers that ruled the world.

Fact: All these people have had sex.

Coincidence?

And funnily enough, it did fix a lot of my problems. I'm not saying that it's a cure-all or nothing (trust me, that oil ain't from snakes, no matter what it looks like), but being naked in front of another human  actually gave me the confidence I needed.

I finally realized that men will have sex with anything in a thong.

Hrmphg. So sexy.

And I like that.

Thanks sex!

It's crazy when you think about it. In a period of less than one month, I went from having a virgin-hand to having potential pregnancy.

I can't have been pregnant on account of my diseased, disgusting ovaries!

But I didn't know about those yet, and they'll have to wait for another exciting blog! Tune in next week when maybe I'll talk about how cysty and gross my reproductive system is!

Did I cover everything? I think I covered most things. But if I forgot something, feel free to ask me questions either in the comments here, on Facebook, or on Twitter!

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