Lonely
It had been four years since the last one, since the last time anyone’s face had been over mine-a hand in my hair and one on the small of my back-on the fourth of July with fireworks blasting in the way that just-graduated-from-high-school guys try to be romantic, but with bad breath and chapped lips, and friends not too far away, and me faking every moment of breathlessness (for 8 seconds, I counted)…
But four years is a long time, especially when everyone around you is well past the “making out” stage of their life. This kind of thing can get to a girl. It can make her think that no one wants her. It can make her foresee a future of excessive cats and cheap romance novels. It can make her stay up at night with tears in her eyes: clenching a pillow between her arms. But, most of all, it can make her feel lonely, unattractive, and worthless: the ingredients for a young man’s perfect night.
So, I got asked out. It’s not as if this hadn’t happened in the past four years. It’s not like no one ever said “…coffee? Movies?” but I never had the time or the patience. I had wanted to focus on my classes and boys could wait.
But now it had been four years, and sometimes I just felt so lonely.
I decided to go this time. He was an old friend from high school so I didn’t have to be nervous. Dinner, movies, and even some sort of indoor golfing was expected. I wore my best jeans and cutest top. I put on eyeliner and eye shadow (this was serious business). I even wore my hair down, letting it fall to my waist. I thought I looked pretty good.
He picked me up like a gentleman, opened my door for me, paid for dinner, and even paid for our movie tickets. I had never been treated this well on a date. Not once (in the long, boring movie) did he try anything. This guy, I thought, is pretty nice.
He asked me if I wanted to see his new house which he lived in, alone. I’ll go, I told myself, because he’s been so nice, and he’s proud of this house. But I went because, well, I was so lonely.
There was no furniture inside yet, just a mattress that he had to plug into the wall to inflate. I watched him do it. I didn’t stop him to ask why. I didn’t walk out of the room to see the others or pretend someone was calling me or feign illness or…I was just so lonely
The room was cold. The floor had been stripped of its carpet and needed sweeping. There were spots of paint around the border. The velvety-blue mattress filled in 60 seconds, just like he told me it would. The trees outside shook past the window and cast a creepy shadow in the room. It looked like it would rain again. My hair was still wet from running through it earlier.
He sat on it first and I followed suit. It made a funny noise as it moved along the floor. I took off my muddy shoes and held my needs at my chest. I tried to think of things to say but nothing was coming to mind and he wasn’t trying to start any conversations. Awkward pauses abounded but I usually found something, some mindless noise to utter, some banal contribution to proceedings. All it did was put off the inevitable.
Hands, legs, hair, lips everywhere. I wasn’t enjoying it. I wasn’t attracted to him. I faked breathlessness and passion. I went through all the proper motions that one would expect, but still I felt nothing. I shut my eyes tightly and tried to picture other guys…mostly Australians (though heaven only knows why). He pulled me on top of him, I slid off and apologized. He waited only seconds for me to get my breath and we were at it again. My hair kept getting in the way.
I promised myself that nothing would happen below the neck, this being a first date and all, but it wasn’t long until I let him. I was so lonely.
He was rough, and for hours afterwards I still felt his presence on my left side: pulling, biting, pinching, in a college-guy-who-has-watched-too-many-dirty-movies kind of way. He could only get to “lefty” since my right side was blocked ironically by my brown scapular, and I would have had to move it and then explain it. It would have been a great way to kill the mood and get out of there, but still I continued. I was really lonely.
He grabbed at my thighs and stroked upwards but I’d block his path. My hair kept getting in the way. He put his hands on my stomach and slid them downwards but I’d stop him. He even pulled his own down and put my hand on it. I giggled incessantly, but I wasn’t going to let him have me. In this cold, dirty room the last thing this guy was going to be was my first.
You would have thought that I didn’t have the willpower and, to be honest, you’d be right. But some angel was with me that day--I had “started” in the morning-and no amount of amorousness was going to get past the layers of pads I had on. It was this blessing alone that got me out of there with my pants still buttoned.
We finally stopped after I basically passed out in his arms. Oh, yes, he kept trying--kissing, rubbing, stroking-but it was all for naught. My hair kept getting in the way. I moved slowly towards him in a fetal-like position. I rested my head on his arm and put my forehead under his chin. Still, he would not hold me. I turned away from him, and curled up again. He put his hands down my back and around my stomach. I grabbed them and wrapped them around me but he pulled away. Still, he would not hold me. I was lonely.
We chatted for a while. He drove me home. He talked about how normal it all was, and how he didn’t think he’d even get that far, how he knew I was a virgin, and how it was almost as if I was paying him back for dinner and the movies (thank you pads for preventing such inexpensive full-blown prostitution).
Not once did he say that he enjoyed it, that I was attractive, or that he wanted to go out again. I felt really lonely.
We got to my house and he stayed a while, chatting with my family as if, less than an hour ago, his lips weren’t places they shouldn’t have been. I felt isolated from them as they talked. I had a difficult time trying to understand what had just happened. Most of all, I still felt lonely.
Finally, when it was becoming too hard to avoid looking him in the face, he left. I forced myself to kiss him goodbye for good measure and I ran to my room to have a bit of a cry.
I went to my laptop to write to my friends and whine to them about my ordeal. I wanted some support and some compassion. In less than a minute I got it, in the form of a funny yet ironically accurate tweet from a friend on the other side of the continent.
I laughed about her comment, and that is when it hit me. I wasn’t alone! I didn’t need to be sad or desperate. My friends would love this story! They would love to hear how their last virgin friend had actually touched a willy and giggled and made out with a guy in an empty house and let him abuse her breast and then basically call her a prostitute. They would laugh when I told them I was on my period but I hadn’t told him. They would think it was hilarious that he actually blew up a mattress. They would laugh with me and say things like “good for you” and wink at me. But, most of all, they would hug me and tell me how wonderful they thought I was.
Yes, I told them, and after all the giggles and squeals and hopping-up-and-down ended, my friends went to bed, and I was by myself again. But I was not lonely.
But four years is a long time, especially when everyone around you is well past the “making out” stage of their life. This kind of thing can get to a girl. It can make her think that no one wants her. It can make her foresee a future of excessive cats and cheap romance novels. It can make her stay up at night with tears in her eyes: clenching a pillow between her arms. But, most of all, it can make her feel lonely, unattractive, and worthless: the ingredients for a young man’s perfect night.
So, I got asked out. It’s not as if this hadn’t happened in the past four years. It’s not like no one ever said “…coffee? Movies?” but I never had the time or the patience. I had wanted to focus on my classes and boys could wait.
But now it had been four years, and sometimes I just felt so lonely.
I decided to go this time. He was an old friend from high school so I didn’t have to be nervous. Dinner, movies, and even some sort of indoor golfing was expected. I wore my best jeans and cutest top. I put on eyeliner and eye shadow (this was serious business). I even wore my hair down, letting it fall to my waist. I thought I looked pretty good.
He picked me up like a gentleman, opened my door for me, paid for dinner, and even paid for our movie tickets. I had never been treated this well on a date. Not once (in the long, boring movie) did he try anything. This guy, I thought, is pretty nice.
He asked me if I wanted to see his new house which he lived in, alone. I’ll go, I told myself, because he’s been so nice, and he’s proud of this house. But I went because, well, I was so lonely.
There was no furniture inside yet, just a mattress that he had to plug into the wall to inflate. I watched him do it. I didn’t stop him to ask why. I didn’t walk out of the room to see the others or pretend someone was calling me or feign illness or…I was just so lonely
The room was cold. The floor had been stripped of its carpet and needed sweeping. There were spots of paint around the border. The velvety-blue mattress filled in 60 seconds, just like he told me it would. The trees outside shook past the window and cast a creepy shadow in the room. It looked like it would rain again. My hair was still wet from running through it earlier.
He sat on it first and I followed suit. It made a funny noise as it moved along the floor. I took off my muddy shoes and held my needs at my chest. I tried to think of things to say but nothing was coming to mind and he wasn’t trying to start any conversations. Awkward pauses abounded but I usually found something, some mindless noise to utter, some banal contribution to proceedings. All it did was put off the inevitable.
Hands, legs, hair, lips everywhere. I wasn’t enjoying it. I wasn’t attracted to him. I faked breathlessness and passion. I went through all the proper motions that one would expect, but still I felt nothing. I shut my eyes tightly and tried to picture other guys…mostly Australians (though heaven only knows why). He pulled me on top of him, I slid off and apologized. He waited only seconds for me to get my breath and we were at it again. My hair kept getting in the way.
I promised myself that nothing would happen below the neck, this being a first date and all, but it wasn’t long until I let him. I was so lonely.
He was rough, and for hours afterwards I still felt his presence on my left side: pulling, biting, pinching, in a college-guy-who-has-watched-too-many-dirty-movies kind of way. He could only get to “lefty” since my right side was blocked ironically by my brown scapular, and I would have had to move it and then explain it. It would have been a great way to kill the mood and get out of there, but still I continued. I was really lonely.
He grabbed at my thighs and stroked upwards but I’d block his path. My hair kept getting in the way. He put his hands on my stomach and slid them downwards but I’d stop him. He even pulled his own down and put my hand on it. I giggled incessantly, but I wasn’t going to let him have me. In this cold, dirty room the last thing this guy was going to be was my first.
You would have thought that I didn’t have the willpower and, to be honest, you’d be right. But some angel was with me that day--I had “started” in the morning-and no amount of amorousness was going to get past the layers of pads I had on. It was this blessing alone that got me out of there with my pants still buttoned.
We finally stopped after I basically passed out in his arms. Oh, yes, he kept trying--kissing, rubbing, stroking-but it was all for naught. My hair kept getting in the way. I moved slowly towards him in a fetal-like position. I rested my head on his arm and put my forehead under his chin. Still, he would not hold me. I turned away from him, and curled up again. He put his hands down my back and around my stomach. I grabbed them and wrapped them around me but he pulled away. Still, he would not hold me. I was lonely.
We chatted for a while. He drove me home. He talked about how normal it all was, and how he didn’t think he’d even get that far, how he knew I was a virgin, and how it was almost as if I was paying him back for dinner and the movies (thank you pads for preventing such inexpensive full-blown prostitution).
Not once did he say that he enjoyed it, that I was attractive, or that he wanted to go out again. I felt really lonely.
We got to my house and he stayed a while, chatting with my family as if, less than an hour ago, his lips weren’t places they shouldn’t have been. I felt isolated from them as they talked. I had a difficult time trying to understand what had just happened. Most of all, I still felt lonely.
Finally, when it was becoming too hard to avoid looking him in the face, he left. I forced myself to kiss him goodbye for good measure and I ran to my room to have a bit of a cry.
I went to my laptop to write to my friends and whine to them about my ordeal. I wanted some support and some compassion. In less than a minute I got it, in the form of a funny yet ironically accurate tweet from a friend on the other side of the continent.
I laughed about her comment, and that is when it hit me. I wasn’t alone! I didn’t need to be sad or desperate. My friends would love this story! They would love to hear how their last virgin friend had actually touched a willy and giggled and made out with a guy in an empty house and let him abuse her breast and then basically call her a prostitute. They would laugh when I told them I was on my period but I hadn’t told him. They would think it was hilarious that he actually blew up a mattress. They would laugh with me and say things like “good for you” and wink at me. But, most of all, they would hug me and tell me how wonderful they thought I was.
Yes, I told them, and after all the giggles and squeals and hopping-up-and-down ended, my friends went to bed, and I was by myself again. But I was not lonely.