The Time Your Daddy Accidentally Lost His Virginity

Adults often say that teenagers feel "invincible" or "immortal." But when I was a teenager, I felt just the opposite. I felt extra vincible, extra mortal. I was scared of everything. Maybe not everything, but certainly everything new. And as a teenager, the two newest things I had to be scared of were driving and sex. 

I was sure that if I ever drove over the speed limit, I'd find myself crawling, legless, away from the burning wreckage at the bottom of a ravine. I knew for certain that if I ever had sex, the condom would break, and I would impregnate the girl and contract AIDS. We would be teenage parents of AIDS babies, and both of our lives would be ruined.

These fears were not my fault. These fears were taught to my generation by adults who intentionally over-corrected, because they didn't expect us to take them seriously. Parents and teachers, ministers and coaches, they didn't think they could teach us the virtues of moderation and good judgement. They didn't think we would listen to that. They didn't think we would listen to anything. So instead, they continually beat us over the head with worst-case scenarios and flashed closeup photos of infected genitalia in PowerPoint presentations. They figured if the message was loud enough and disgusting enough, maybe they could scare at least one kid straight.

Your dad was that kid.

I obsessively obeyed every traffic law until I was 18, I never tasted alcohol until after I was 21, and I was a college dropout before I had my first proper sexual experience with a girl--a girl who just happened to be my best friend.

[Bonus Lesson: If you ever become really good friends with a girl, all your friends will warn you against doing anything sexual with her, because it will "ruin your friendship." This is bullshit. With all the amazing things humans are capable of, it's not inconceivable that two friends could touch genitals and continue being friends. If the friendship is based on some deeper connection, then sex is not going to ruin it. However! As I will demonstrate in a moment, a strangely abrupt, shame-inducing rejection of sex may seriously wound it.]

One night, in my bedroom at my parents house, my friend and I were kissing and doing hand-stuff to each other. I was mostly okay with this. I was a little worried about kissing and the transmission of herpes, but I was pretty sure masturbation didn't make AIDS babies, so I was as comfortable as I could be, given the lingering horror of my public school sex education. The discomfort began when my best friend slid her pants off, straddled me, and proceeded to have sex on me.

We hadn't talked about it before hand. We'd never really discussed it, at least not with words. Up to this point, everything was feeling, no talking. But the instant I felt her, the fear swirled to the front of my mind. Pictures of disease and car crashes, and teenage pregnancy statistics flashed overhead. Just seconds into my first time, I grabbed my beautiful, loyal, perfect friend by her hips, and threw her the fuck off of me.

Ashamed of how physical and unloving my response was, I immediately started fabricating excuses. I did everything but tell her I just wasn't ready. I blamed it on my parents being home. Said I was afraid they'd come in without knocking--a fear I'd made no mention of during our foreplay. She saw through that excuse immediately, so I constructed a new narrative; one where we could never be more than friends; one where I just didn't find her attractive. I fabricated an emotional rejection to go with the physical rejection. And that's the excuse that stuck.

When you have sex for the first time, I hope it's deliberate. I hope you mean for it to happen. But if you don't, if it starts too soon or moves too fast for you, I want you to know it's okay to stop. You can't help how you react in the moment, and you have every right to be as abrupt and awkward as you need to be. But you don't have to react as poorly as I did. Rather than physically remove her from myself, I could've simply told her I wasn't ready. I could have spoken to her. She would have listened. Some people won't listen, but she would have. I knew that much about her. I could have told her that I did want to do it--because in retrospect, I think I actually did--but I was freaking out because we weren't using a condom. Whatever my initial reaction, if I'd been more open and honest with her afterwards, maybe my first time wouldn't make for such a disappointing memory.