There are three types of girls I don't trust: girls who are horny yet don't have sex, girls who believe in pinky swears, and girls who say Snoop Dogg's "Ain't No Fun" is "their song." If a guy suggested that a single line in that song were true about them or ought to happen that night, that guy would be "such a dick." Sadly, in college these were the only girls I was able to attract, which equated to silliness, unfulfilled boners, and long nights of masturbating in the fraternity computer room. I discovered this poignant reality just before I started college.
I met Mary at a YMCA Youth and Government event in Sacramento in the middle of my senior year in high school when she approached me during a break in class. "Do you understand anything about this lecture?" she asked. The class wasn't even a lecture, it was a discussion. But this seventeen-year-old’s face was pure innocence. With her timid smile and puppy dog expression, the petite brunette reminded me of Katie Holmes from her Dawson’s Creek
days. That night she made me pinky swear that I'd call her. I should have known she was a virgin from the start.
I kept Mary’s phone number but didn't call her until the summer before college when we hooked up at her place in San Diego and then again a month later. Both times she made it clear that she was a virgin and proud of it. Agreeing to blowjobs was a big step and her skills were sorely lacking. When classes started, she visited my dorm a couple times, always wearing a skimpy skirt and always lying on my bed the moment she entered my room. She refused to kiss me because she "wasn't that kind of girl," so I ignored her and chatted on AIM. Twenty minutes later she'd beg me to come to bed and hook up with her. I should have thrown her out for attempted celibacy. I knew she’d dropped out of high school her senior year to get home-schooled because she got in a fight with her friends, but I never learned why they fought. My guess is that they probably called her a poser, and she called them sluts. Or maybe she got the same haircut or wore the same outfit to a party as a friend had, and thought no one would notice.
Mary accused me of being too aggressive during those dorm room visits and called me sleazy for "expecting things to happen." I called her dumb for thinking such a thing. We stopped calling each other after that.
Months passed. As spring rolled around, I found myself in need of a date to our fraternity formal dance in San Diego. For whatever reason, I decided to call Mary, now legal, first. Every guy secretly dreams about taking a girl's virginity. I guess I wanted to be "that guy" because it would have made me feel more masculine. Only later did I realize that a vagina's tightness did not determine the quality of the sex. These days, I'd almost rather fuck a fat chick's belly button than "take my time" with an inexperienced girl. I convinced her to come with the line, "Don't worry, I'm not expecting anything to happen." She ate it up. After getting her parents' permission, she agreed to go.
When I picked her up that Saturday afternoon, she was wearing a puffy, unattractive pink dress down to her ankles. With her hair, makeup, and nails all done up, she looked like an oversized Barbie doll. Her dad and milfy mom took pictures of us in her driveway. It dawned on me that since Mary was home-schooled and socially deprived, she had missed out on the most hedonistic night of her high school career: senior prom. This dance was her shot at redemption. I think her parents saw it that way too. They must have taken twenty pictures with six different poses. Sex was still a possibility.
The "formal" was held at the Hilton Hotel in downtown San Diego. For the most part, everyone doubled up on rooms to cut back on costs. Because I didn’t trust Mary’s ability to adapt to humans, I got us a cheaper room—no roommates—at another hotel a short cab ride away. After checking in, we grabbed a cab and headed to the Hilton. The night's agenda:
5:30-7:00- Get ready
7:00-8:30- Pre-party in rooms
9:32-12:00- Post-party in suite
After the dinner and "dance," all fifty couples—with the exception of six or seven sappy couples in love—headed up to the rooms to post party. One guy had a luxury suite on the top floor. During the two plus hours in his suite, I tried several times to pawn off Mary to other girls. Babysitting her all night was beginning to become a pain in the ass. Her hopelessness rendered my efforts useless. She insisted on sitting on a stool next to the entrance while everyone else partied on the balcony and in the living room. When I tried to introduce her to some of the other girls, she immediately put up a guard, maintaining she just wanted to be with me. I wanted to make fun of her with my friends, but every time I left her side, I would look back and see her staring at the ground in borderline depression.
She didn't want any beer, so I attempted to make her some drinks. Ignorant and inexperienced, I brought over a tequila-coke. She grimaced and handed it back to me. I took a sip. I grimaced and poured it out. I must have put in too much tequila. I made her the same drink with less tequila. She scowled and handed it back to me. When I took a sip, I agreed and then tried again with even less tequila. She shook her head and handed it back to me: "It's the same shit. What the fuck are you making me?" I took a sip and was honestly bewildered, "I don't know." I stopped mixing tequila after that. I call myself a math teacher, but on that night, my inductive reasoning skills were far from sharp. Tequila and Coke is impossible.
I schmoozed some apple Pucker off some chick to satisfy Mary for the remainder of the party. Halfway through her Pucker, she called me over, quiet yet giddy. "Hey, so you know what I was thinking?" she asked.
"I think we should go to a sex shop."
I tried to stay poised, but I immediately felt a mysterious growth in my pants. "Really? Do you know of any around here?"
"Yeah, there's one on F-Street. I've never been inside, but my friends used to tell me it's pretty good."
"Really? What do you want to get from there?" I took a large sip of my beer, absorbed with this unprecedented idea.
"I don't know. I was hoping you'd surprise me," she said. From the look in her eyes, and the unwavering tone in her voice, I could tell she had been planning this for a while. I was intrigued.
"OK, I'll get something good." She reacted by strategically changing the subject to a scene from the sitcom Friends
, which was on TV at the moment.
I excused myself; I had to tell someone since I needed some ideas. I found Tele; he was always full of ideas. "Dude, she wants to go to a sex shop," I said.
Tele began laughing hysterically, looking over my shoulder to see if she could see us. Out of sight, he began to speak freely and mentioned using a dildo, an idea that seemed brilliant. After all, she was a virgin. She obviously wanted to get fucked, just not by a real life penis, since she "wasn't like that."
I couldn’t resist telling a few other people before I took her by the hand and led her out of the room. We went down the elevator and into a cab, which took us to the corner of F-Street.
F-street was home to a slew of hoodlums, laughing at us in our Ken and Barbie outfits. Our flamboyancy stood out like skittles in a toilet. Drunks jeered us as they passed us on the sidewalk. Even a group of guys in a cab slowed down to laugh at us.
"That's fucked up!"
Following the "American Pie" wisecrack, I heard an eruption of laughter, followed by repeated chants of the movie that was ironically paralleling my night.
"Hahahaha. American Pie! American Pie! AMERICAN PIE!"
We remained quiet the entire walk to the store. She had remained poised through all the scoffing. It was me who was rattled. She had me go inside while she waited outside with the jugheads. Worried for her safety, I insisted she come in. She said that she felt more comfortable outside. Confused, I didn't argue with her; she could stick to her virginity.
I felt a wave of serenity wash over me as I entered the calm and resplendent shop. I’d been to a sex shop once before, but it was years ago, and it wasn’t nearly as big as this one, which was surprisingly packed with normal-looking people. I’d always imagined sex shops would be filled with scruffy dudes with skin problems. But this store actually had a higher ratio of women. Desperate for ideas, I spied on one attractive lady to see what she was buying. Disappointingly, she was checking out some sort of strap-on. There would be no strap-ons necessary for any sexual act I’d ever be a part of. I regained my composure and began my search.
First on my list: find a dildo. There was an entire aisle dedicated to dildos. Some dangled freely from a hook, while others were neatly packed in hard plastic as if they were action figures. They came in colors: brown, mocha, white, even purple. Some had bumps on them. Most were penis shaped, others looked like orange construction cones. I briefly considered buying her one of the big daddies but refrained because it cost over $50. Fuck that. Somewhere in my mind, I believed that I would eventually fuck this girl. If that was the case, then I had to buy her a dildo smaller than my dick. I settled on a vibrating metallic pink-purple bullet-shaped dildo five inches long with the circumference of a quarter. It cost me $9.99.
As I clutched the plastic-packaged dildo—which came with batteries—in my hand, my imagination suddenly drew a blank. I had no clue what else to get. I was like the indecisive guy at the restaurant with the giant menu who always needed "more time." Yet I felt a sense of urgency, worried about Mary being alone outside. What good would these toys be if she’d been kidnapped? Young, clueless, and in a hurry, I bought a couple packs of flavored sex lotion. One was strawberry, the other blueberry. I walked up to the counter expecting to be intricately assessed and judged by the store clerk. But the pierced gothic chick hardly spared me a glance. I paid in cash, clutched my brown paper bag, and exited.
I found Mary alone standing against the outside wall, calm as ever. Mary’s composure flabbergasted me; I’d assumed a virgin like her would be frantically asking me questions like, “So what’d you get!?” or “Can I see?” or “How many things did you buy?” Her behavior made no sense, which led me to believe she probably already knew what I’d bought. Angered by my predictability, I found a cab and we went back to the hotel.
Back in our room, Mary's eyes had a distinct flicker as she opened up the bag. She knew I’d buy her a dildo. It was obvious. She had probably always been too much of a wimp to do it herself and had manipulated me to perfection. She barely noticed the sex lotion. I clumsily opened the plastic packaging of the dildo, and we both got naked.
To tease her, I laid the dildo on the bed and poured the lotion on her pussy before I went down on her. In addition to tasting like strawberry syrup mixed with malaria medicine, the lotion looked grossly similar to blood. Disgusted, I stopped: the lotion had a stinging side effect on her labia. Mary started laughing, then her eyes welled up and she begged me to lick it off. I did so fruitlessly.
To save my sexual opportunity, I grabbed the dildo and started sticking it in and out. I felt awkward, like I was jerking off another guy. When I politely asked her to do it, she refused: "No, it's too weird." I continued, but the action went from cool-and-new, to boring-and-lame, to frustrating-and-irritating when my hand started to cramp. She reacted sporadically with pain and then pleasure as the dildo slowly loosened up her confused vagina. The vibrating option was a huge disappointment. There were three levels: slow, medium, and full blast. Since I wanted her to get going, I had immediately started on the full blast level. But it was pathetic, perhaps the level of a vibrating cell phone.
After maybe fifteen minutes, she finally had enough. She grabbed my wrist and guided my dildo-pumping hand away from her. She wasn’t panting; she wasn’t flustered; and she definitely hadn’t reached an orgasm. Accepting Mary’s doomed chance at climaxing, I laid on my back and awaited my turn. Mary had told me a few times before that she “hated penises.” She claimed that the big vein down the middle reminded her of a monster. With her tainted mindset she brought out my cock and wouldn't even wrap her lips around it. Her skills had actually devolved since I first knew her. I didn’t know that was possible. She just licked it like a blow pop.
Using all my imagination, I was able to come. She made me promise that I would warn her beforehand, but I didn't. The first squirt went up her left nostril. She half-sneezed-half-burped and then yelled, "Dave! What the fuck!? I told you to tell me!" As I rolled onto my side I murmured, “Sorry.”
She ran to the bathroom to wash up. Through the closed bathroom door I could hear the running sink, some mild splashing, and several spits. Then a blow dryer started blaring. When she came out of the bathroom, yelling began. “I can’t believe you did that!” she screamed. “You know I hate cum!”
“Sorry. I guess I got lost in the moment,” I said, lying naked on top of the covers, one leg on the bed, the other hanging over the side.
“Bullshit. You’re an asshole.” Naked, she started rummaging through her pink suitcase, and grabbed something fluffy—a robe probably—and returned to the bathroom with a noisy slam.
The next day began with her apologizing for yelling at me. To make her feel better, I said it was my fault for failing to warn her before blasting. Suddenly cheery, she asked about my plans for the upcoming weekends. I made up some crap about studying for exams and suggested we make plans after finals were over. Satisfied, we finished packing, hopped in the car and left. We drove in silence.
After that weekend, I never called her again. I was over trying for something that probably sucked anyway. And she was probably done with me as well. For one, blowing my load in her mouth probably “violated her trust.” Two, I was terrible with the dildo, yielding minimal moans.
A week later, she called and began asking lame questions: how my classes were going, how was my week. Dumb. Then came the purpose of the phone call:
"Dave, this dildo is all fucked up. How do you put it on full blast again?"
I explained to her how to twist the bottom and solved her problem. She asked me some follow-up inquiries about summer plans and shit, but they were all obvious cover-up questions. She probably fucked that poor dildo silly for the next couple weeks, or months, or years.
I hope she's had sex by now. She'd probably be a lot cooler.
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