Losing Virginity (9 page)

Alex
nodded sagely, thinking his metaphor was the height of Zen thought.

I
wasn't sure I really wanted to get 'stuffed'. I would just like a gentle a roll
in the hay.

"So,
I do want the impossible I guess, and that is why I've been a virgin for so
long," I said, a bit deflated from the idea that I needed to be stuffed
like a pillow to get this over with. "Women need a reason to have sex, men
just need a place."

Alex
and Veronica looked at each other and laughed.

"That
was Billy Crystal that said that," Veronica said through laughing fits.
"How about Sophia Loren for a bit of inspiration: Sex appeal is 50-percent
of what you've got and 50-percent of what people think you've got."

I
absorbed that.

Maybe
Alex and Veronica were both right. Their initial advice was always to put out,
but when they gave more thoughtful advice it always was to be more confident. I
know that everyone gives that advice, but they gave it in a way that made me
listen to it. Why is it so damn hard to find the right guy? And why couldn’t my
brain stop thinking about sex? Is this want men feel like?

………

After
work I walked to class through the cooling fall air.

If
sex was so natural, why was there so much discussion about it? Why was there so
much advice to be given about it? Shouldn't it just happen and be the most
instinctual natural thing in the world?

I
was on my way to Anthropology class and my mind started shifting towards
Professor Tunde's view on the subject.

Professor
Tunde thought about sex through the lens of an anthropologist. It was there to
propagate the species and the tribe, to create a line of successors for the
transference of cultural norms and mores. It was also a very sacred thing to
him, more like the worship of a fertility cult or secret goddess religion. That
was a little bit more of a responsibility than I was willing to take on.

His
talks on sexual relations were not the standard Biblical Adam and Eve sort of
talks. They were like business deals or alternate arrangements that would solve
some kind of problem.

When
I got into class, it looked like we were going to be learning about courting
rituals around the world. This was going to be scary and a bit on the
depressing side.

"Alright
class, settle down," Tunde bellowed in a way that felt like a wave of
molasses washed over you. "You might think that I started these classes in
the wrong order, but I decided to hold courtship after sexual practices because
it is a more complex form of sex, when you look at it. Courtship is the delayed
promise of sex and procreation. Courtship is the careful selection through
rituals established intergenerational for the right DNA to pass down the family
tree."

The right DNA?
I had hardly
thought of this during my research for a possible suitor. Yes, DNA would be
swapping, to a certain degree.
Ewww
.
Sounded gross that way.

"Courtship
is an elaborate dance that has always held very culturally significant rules
and has informed anthropologists and social scientists throughout the ages on
the values held dear within a society," he continued.

"When
we have the practice of 'bundling' through Europe and colonial America, where
young couples in love would be allowed by their parents to sleep together in
the same bed, as long as they were wrapped in separate blankets and often with
a board called a 'bundling board' placed between them," Tunde held up what
looked like a long head piece to an older style bed. "This board allowed
the couple to be close, to talk in private, to sleep together and to be
intimate, but it did not permit sex."

One
of the freshmen behind me commented that his 'bundling board' could break
through that flimsy piece of wood and play 'hide the butter churner'.

I
laughed out loud. It wasn't a bad one.

Tunde
looked straight at me.

"Is
this material too prudish for you, Ms. Spurgeon?" He raised his eyebrows
and a tiny smirk rose to his face.

"No
sir, I imagine that young couples throughout the ages have found ways to
circumvent their parent’s rules," I said, turning red, again.

Tunde
smiled. "An imagination is a powerful thing," he said and continued
with his lesson.

Did
I just flirt with Professor Tunde right there? Jesus Penus. I was becoming a
mess…

Suddenly
a ball of paper hit the side of my head.

Jess
was sitting two desks to my left, miraculously in class, wide eyed and mouthing
the words "you should sleep with him". Then she moved her hand back
and forth to her mouth as she pressed her tongue against her inside cheek and
then let off. I shook my head, smiled and turned back to my lesson. No way was
I going to be one of those girls who would sleep with her Professor or even a
blow job. I’d do the right thing and drop out school first or wait until I
graduated.

Back
to the lesson, Olivia, I told myself.

Victorian
women had a complex system of sending courtship signals with their fans. If she
was available, she would fan quicker, and if she was taken she would fan
slower. If her fan rested on her left cheek, then she was not that into you. If
it was on her right cheek then you were in. Whoever got rid of the fan thing?
That sounded great to me! I've been borrowing my courtship rituals from
Victorian England and sending the slightest, tiniest, most miniscule signals to
guys that I was interested. I was assuming that boys could understand a complex
system of unspoken language. It wasn’t me after all. It was them!

I
needed to be more obvious about my
signals,
it was as
simple as that.

In
Finland, girls who were ready to marry would wear an empty sheath around their
waists. When a guy wanted to date the girl, he would either make or buy a knife
and put it in her sheath.

Tell
me it doesn't get any more obvious than that. Maybe I should just walk up to
the next boy I want wearing a sheath. Would he get it then? Somehow I doubted
it.

If
the woman wasn't interested in the man, she would give the knife back, but if
she wanted to marry him she would keep it. Women in those cooler climates
always carried knives around.

I
resolved that I was going to drop the fan and go for the knife. It's time I
made a sheath.

-----------Chapter
8-----------

After
my personal revelation in
Anthro
class that evening,
I walked around with somewhat of a strut. I wasn't going to titter and stammer
around boys anymore, I was going to be cool, confident Olivia.

Jess
was nowhere to be found when I got to my room. This might be a good time to get
some 'me time' in… And not that kind of me time. What was I good at? What made
me feel confident? Where could I go to show off my skill?

I
decided to take the school shuttle to the supermarket and pick up some
groceries. One of the girls at the Houston House, a group-living situation on
campus, had offered the use of their oven for any baking projects some of the
girls might have. I could guess they were probably getting a little tired of
the same, old ‘special brownies’. I’ve got just the thing. Yes. A couple
Caramel Apple Pies. Who could resist my delicious homemade pies? No one, that’s
who
.

I
could make goodies but not Subway sandwiches. I was an artist… At making
homemade pies… I could use my hands, just not with foot longs…
Sex, Sex, Sex.
I decided to ditch me time and hoped cooking
pies could get sex off my mind.
Pies.

I
called up Hector and we took a ride with a few other freshmen who hadn't yet
brought their cars to campus and we all went to the local supermarket. None of
them were worth a second glance. Plus, their grocery lists were a bit on the
depressing side. Ramen noodles. Two liter bottles of stuff called ‘Red Pop’.
Crackers.

I
looked like a real pro next to this group of rookies. All-purpose flower,
butter, eggs, sugar, cream, red wine, vanilla bean, lemon, a cinnamon stick and
last but not least, four Granny Smith apples and four Gala.

I
brought it all down to the Houston House and a girl named Karen opened the
door. She was in boy's boxers, a sports bra and opened the door with a joint in
her hand. I guess they might not have been tired of ‘special brownies’.

“Hey,
girl, long time no see.” She raised her hand for friendly high five.

“
Hola
, Karen. Mind if I do a little domestic work in your
kitchen?” I hoisted up my grocery bags filled with supplies.

“No
problemo
. C’mon in.
Whatcha
gonna
make?”

I
smiled slyly. They loved the idea of Caramel Apple pie, so I picked up three
very stoned helpers pretty quickly.

Throughout
the prepping and combining processes we talked about everything but sex and
relationships, which was exactly what I needed.

Karen,
who was a chemistry major and a prodigy at that from what I've heard, was
trying to make her own bathtub gin in the house's second bathroom. Apparently
it was going well and would be ready for a party by the end of the month.

“You
gotta bring some of this pie, Olivia, for our Roaring Twenties party.
Bathtub gin?
Get it? Come over for the early party, make a
couple of these, stay for the main event, and then just chill with us at the
after party. Kay?”

“Of course.”

Sasha,
who was in my British Lit course was combining the flour and salt, cutting in
chunks of cold butter with a fork. She was also holding the joint in the corner
of her mouth and talking about the uprisings in Iran that her parents had fled
from. I saw ashes fall near the dough and rather than criticize my staff I
plucked it from her mouth and passed it on to Jessica who was peeling apples
with a paring knife.

Sarah
was a silent type, but she always looked you in the face when you were speaking
and nodded at the right parts. She was a great listener and when I started
talking about troubles at work, she nodded her head empathetically. I met her
at the liquor store. I had made it all the way out there only to realize I
forgot my fake ID. She was kind enough to take my basket and add it with hers.
Disaster averted and she became a good friend.

"So
how are you and Greg, Sarah?" I said, wondering about her long distance
relationship with her boyfriend.

The
girls laughed and I was confused.

“Well,
we sort of broke up but he still comes to stay here a few times a month and I
still see him when I go home every once in a while.” Jessica said as if she
were explaining a delicate surgical procedure.

"So
you guys are just friends with benefits?" I asked.

"No,
they are still together," Sasha said, gesturing with the joint and adding
more ashes to next to the dough.

“We
aren’t together.” Sarah insisted.

“She’s
just saying that to relieve her conscience from any guilt that she might have
for sleeping with her Creative Writing professor.” Sasha was giggling
hysterically.

Sarah,
sort of proud, shifted from one foot to the other,

“You
guys are just jealous. Let me just say it is very unattractive of all of you.”

Her
mock seriousness cracked everyone up. She continued her explanation.

"Did
you have a car in your hometown, Ol?"

“Yeah.”

"Did
you buy it?"

“Yes,
I did buy it.”

"Have
you ever leased, rented or test drove a car?" she said and Karen laughed
so hard the caramel sauce spilled a little into the flames and leapt up.

"Well,
no. But I don't think the comparison is a good one. People aren't exactly like
cars," I said, feeling like I might be out of my league.

"No,
the comparison is a different one," Sasha started. "Some people
believe that to drive a car, you should own it. However, they also think to
drive a human, a.k.a. sleep with them, that you should own them. This is a
boyfriend and girlfriend mentality that leads into marriage."

"Plenty
of people screw without owning the car," I said, tilting my head like a
dog that hears a high pitched whistle.

"Yes,
those people either test drive with a one night stand, or rent for a
week," Sasha said. "Karen is a serial renter and her credit score
must be great."

Karen
pretended to look shocked.

I
wasn't sure I got that metaphor, but I was starting to get the general idea. At
least I thought I was. Everyone around me seemed to understand it perfectly.
But they had also been smoking pot for the past eight hours.

"So
you're saying that I'm a serial monogamist," I said.

“She
just said monogamist.” Sasha said doubling over with laughter.
“MO-NOG-A-MIST.”
She was laughing so hard now that nothing
was coming out.