When it comes to sex, I am no angel.
I lost my virginity when I was seventeen. I had no freaking clue what I was doing or how I should be doin’ it. The fact that I have blocked 99.9% of the details from that experience speaks for itself. My next few years were spent at college where the Erica Jong rules of doin’ it were so prominent, one could believe that every incoming freshman female was given a copy. Erica’s “free love, embrace your orgasm, enjoy your sexuality mantra” flowed freely around the campus causing many of us to lose our angel wings.
Sex was the thing you did. You had sex with the frat boys. You had sex with that guy from the bar. You had sex with the guy, who afterward, told you he was a virgin and you immediately screamed “Fuck!” and told him to leave. (I am not proud of that.) Sex and the City had taken hold of my generation and women were following its lead. As Carrie and the girls matured and began finding themselves, so did I. One night stands began making me feel more like a piece of shit than they did satisfied. I wanted a boyfriend instead of just “that guy” from the bar. I craved an orgasm. I longed to be with someone who knew what I liked and what I didn’t, someone who knew how to make me laugh. And most importantly, I wanted to be with someone who fucking loved me.
What I found out was Disney forgot to let us in on a little secret: Prince Charming and happily ever after don’t just magically appear on a white horse. They failed to mention that more than a few frogs and toads would have to be discarded on the editing room floor before the fairy tale ending made their grand entrance.
Years came and went. Then, I met him. Staying true to myself, I was a total bitch the first time we spoke. My friends were skeptical. He wasn’t my type, whatever the hell that even meant. My type had been the frat guy wooing me while David Allen Coe blasted in the background or that guy in the bar that I called when it was midnight and no other opportunities had risen. In contrast, he was my type. A guy that made me laugh, smile and orgasm over and over and over again. (It is possible girls. You just need to find the right guy …)
One night, about a year later, I was out with the girls. One was on the prowl for a Ryan Gosling look alike, another was bitching about her fiancé, the third was pissed at the entire male population and I was on a sex high, having had a quickie by the front door right as I was leaving.
“We don’t have sex very much anymore”, my engaged friend was lamenting. Everyone was chiming in with their agreements when it became my turn.
”I just had sex against my front door,” I declared.
“Shut the hell up! No you didn’t! You’ve been together longer than we have been. No one has sex against the front door after a year of being together.”