26
Aug
10

and while i’m on the topic, “shit i never got over, volume iii: sometimes i still hate my friends, or the 2nd time i didn’t lose my virginity…”

I wanna talk about the second time I didn’t lose my virginity.

When historians are charged with the task of assessing the most poignant developments of the new millennium’s initial years, a significant contingent of my generation will find it owes a rather large sexual debt to the creators of AIM.

Not me.

I will belong to that other segment of the “Thank you, AIM,” populous: The 70 typed words per minute group.

Be that as it may, the fact remains, AIM was responsible for a solid 83% percent of the sex happening on my college campus.

It was technology’s most marvelous gift.

I’ll never forget the moment I realized that this thing—this mythical mechanized contraption of social wonderment—would hold the key to my sexual revolution.

There I was, but a young girl of 18, sitting in my bedroom in my all girls dormitory, when I heard its glorious ring from my Thinkpad in the middle of the night:

SeeminglyMysteriousUpperClassmanOnWhomIHadTHEBiggestCrush: “What are you doing?”

Me: *squeal into pillow* “Nothing. Watching TV.”

SeeminglyMysteriousUpperClassmanOnWhomIHadTHEBiggestCrush: “Come dance with me.”

Me: *squeal into pillow, uncontrollably, roll off bed, squeal into pillow some more and scissor kick the air with my sock-clad feet*: “Now?”

SeeminglyMysteriousUpperClassmanOnWhomIHadTHEBiggestCrush: “Now.”

So, as you can see, it was entirely reasonable that I should vest my rather high hopes for sexual advancement, and by that same token, hymen-al demolition, in the tech-savvy grasp of AIM.

But……….a year rolled by.

And then another.

NOTHING.

I was saddled on either side by men who were way into my virginity—perverts—or men who wanted no parts of it—whores.

My junior year in college brought several new romantic developments in my life. An off campus interest that had great potential, and an on campus interest, “Tate,” who didn’t give a damn whether I lived or died.

Tate was everything I’d ever dreamed of in a crush. He was smart, funny, all muscle-y brawn and sinew, and completely and totally disinterested in me. He’d made it clear that his type of woman was more quiet than brassy, more athletic than soft, and little concerned with the superficial trappings of this world. The anti-me.

Yet, somehow, I’d managed to hold some measure of his attention. AIM was slowly redeeming itself in my eyes as it took me higher and higher in Tate’s estimation. I was still little more than an afterthought—of this I was certain—but I was a thought, nonetheless. I wasn’t at all practiced in the art of girl-boy wooing, but I was artful enough to know that a bitch needed to at least get her foot in the door. My quippy, snarky chat-titude was a doorstop on my journey to the Kingdom of Fuck.

Now, around this point in time I was living in a house on the north side of campus, and I had 9 roommates. I had a rather large single in the westernmost corner of the house, and the other inhabitants were all my closest friends.

We were a rowdy group of women to say the least. The majority of us made good on every tangible college experience, both legal and illegal, alike, and frankly, thought ourselves the better for it.

There I was, on a random Thursday night, all ready to partake in our normal seasoned fuckery when the familiar singsong of AIM beckoned from my Thinkpad. Looking at my watch I noted that it was 9:45 pm. Awfully close to the witching(read as dicking) hour.

And it was him.

Tate.

At long last, asking the question that I’d so desperately been waiting for after dishing out weeks of my best late-nite chat schtick:

Tate: “Wassup?” (He was a man of few words.)

Me: “Nothing. ‘Sup?”

Tate: “Not shit. What’s poppin’ off at the (house where I lived)House, tonight?”

Me: *I looked around my room at the gaggle of girls under the influence of one or more illicit substances laughing heartily at some thing or other* “Nothing. I think everyone’s about gone to bed.”

Tate: “Kinda early, isn’t it? I’m gonna come through.”

Me: “All right. See you in a bit.”

I looked at my friends merrily chatting away. “Y’all bitches gotta get out.”

Their alcohol-addled minds seemed to not process my words quick enough for my rapid fire movements. I began to usher them out. “Y’all bitches gotta go. Go! I’m going to bed.”

The lot of them seemed confused, but they obliged me, running off into the furthest recesses of the house.

And I started getting ready.

I would only have about 20 minutes before Tate arrived so I’d have to work fast. At long last, tonight was going to be the night. And what a fucking catch! I was gonna lose my v-card to the sexiest dude I could think of. I straightened up my room, shoving dirty clothes in closets. I ran to the bathroom and showered, affecting the most thorough cleansing of my nether regions ever. And I slipped on a silk nightie and matching robe.

I like to think that, despite my most attentive of ministrations, I still managed to look nonchalant. In retrospect, I looked like a jackass.

When 10:15 rolled around and Tate cruised into my room, it was all I could do not to straddle him. He sat down in a chair near my bed, and virtually overflowed from it on account of his body mass. I sat on my bed, still unsure of what to do.

He looked at me intensely, half smirk playing at his lips. “You going to bed, huh?”

Be cool, bitch. Be cool. You can do this. “It is late. Sleep is what one does when it gets late.”

He wasn’t budging. “Right. And that’s what you usually sleep in? A……..robe?”

FUCK. He’s on to me. I knew this silk didn’t look casual. “What do you sleep in, Tate?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes shorts. Sometimes nothing.” Though the phrasing wasn’t available to me at the time, had this same scenario happened to me, today, and these same words been said to me, today, I’m fairly certain the expression I’d mentally reach for would be “FOR THE MOTHERFUCKING WIN!!!!!”

Fuck it. I’m goin’ in. I exhaled then, arching my back, casually, so that my shoulders were touching the wall behind me, the beginnings of my robe parted slightly. “So, what’s—“

*the door of my room burst open*

My two friends, one of whom would, shortly thereafter, become my linesister, “Tee,” and one of whom would, a year later still, become my neophyte, “Emm,” came barging into my room, drunk as the proverbial skunks.

“What chu doin’ what chu doin’?!?!!?” shouted Tee.

“FOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEERRRRR!!!!!” shouted Emm.

As I live and breathe these bitches came rushing in and proceeded to laugh and giggle, indiscriminately, at NOTHING, uninterrupted for a solid two minutes before even noticing I had company.

“OH!” cried Emm.

“TATE!!!” cried Tee.

Tee arched an eyebrow at me. “What cha’ll doin in here?” she slurred.

“Girl, they got the door closed,” chimed Emm.”

“Door closed!!! Ayooooooo!!!” shouted Tee.

And the two of them went tumbling to the floor.

Where they languished.

And giggled.

I sat there, horrified, not knowing what to do.

Emm and Tee were too preoccupied in their own drunkenness to notice. They talked to each other in intermittent loud spells, broken up only by more remote, hushed whispers of seeming baby talk.

After another two minutes had passed, with neither one of them seeming to realize the gravity of their cockblockage, I said, firmly, “Y’all?!”

Both of them, almost in perfect harmony, sat upright, just then. But neither made an attempt to move. Rather, Tee folded her legs Indian-style, and Emm followed suit. Looking  up at me in earnest, with her almond-shaped eyes, Emm tried her damnedest to affect sobriety. “So, what do ya’ll wanna do?”

Tate had had enough.

He stood up and inched past the girls parked in the middle of my floor. “I’m gonna go ahead and go. I’ll get at you guys later.”

Tee, was the first to sound. “Awww…Tate’s leaving. Awww….”

Followed by Emm. “Awww…Tate’s leaving. Awww. Bye, Tate.”

“Bye, Tate,” echoed Tee in a singsong voice.

As I watched his 6’1 frame depart my doorway I swore I could feel my hymen cementing itself permanently between my thighs.

After I was certain Tate had cleared the front door, I looked at the drunken haters sprawled on my floor.

“Foolerrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!” cried Tee. “ So what do you wanna do now?”

*****

AIM ended up not being the gateway to my ultimate chastity ceasefire.

But, like I said.

I sure can type fast.

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5 Responses to “and while i’m on the topic, “shit i never got over, volume iii: sometimes i still hate my friends, or the 2nd time i didn’t lose my virginity…””


  1. 1 INTENSEfied pink
    August 26, 2010 at 11:42 pm

    Wow!!! I surely can attest to AIM being a typing skill builder…if nothing else,!!!!! (Lol)

  2. August 26, 2010 at 11:42 pm

    I thought for sure that I’d cracked the code on this little tale, but one fact didn’t quite add up with my prediction. Still… you’re too funny. Fight law for the money, write books for the fun (and the money).

  3. 3 sourpatchkid
    August 28, 2010 at 1:33 pm

    lmao. aaaahhh, drunk cockblocking friends. a college classic! great series, fooler. for selfish reasons, i hope you had a couple more failed attempts at the hymen-breaking, because this series is fantastic.

  4. 4 gannsberg
    September 3, 2010 at 11:44 pm

    Would you believe the same thing happened to me–albeit the woman wasn’t exactly the object of deep seated desire for me, and I had lost the age of innocence back in high school. However, I was in my dorm room in Dastardly Drew Hall–the freshman dorm of ill repute at Howard university–and it was a miracle that I was able to coax this young lady back to the room. We had gotten down to our undergarments when in came my roommate and our other best friend! By default, he was my third roommate because he was always in our room! FYI as an aside he’s a big fan of yours and responds to your posts all the time.

    These two fools were in the band and had just come back from practice on a friday night. My roommate was a serviceable trumpet player, and our other friend was–of all things–a tuba player. Despite our protestations to the contrary, these fools insisted on remaining in the room and “serenading” us. Now I don’t think you can fully grasp how awful an arrangement of trumpet and tuba sound playing “you got me going in circles” accompanied by two fools singing in two different keys on a bed a mere five feet away from where you are trying to proverbially “git er done.”

    The saddest part of it all was unlike your sorors, these two meddling fools were stone cold sober….

    I was so infuriated that night what with my affliction of noassfoyou syndrome (well I can’t officially call this a syndrome cause I exactly knew the cause!!!!!) However, looking back on it now has me cracking a smile……


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a history of my meanderings….

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