Another year soon passed, another year untouched, but this was no ordinary birthday. I would soon turn thirty, about to start my fourth decade with my wall still up, my cave unexplored, a virgin still, through and through. And I was frustrated about that, let's not kid ourselves. I had been perpetually lascivious ever since my discovery of fingering at the age of four.
One would be driven to ask why I was still a virgin, fast approaching my thirtieth year. Was it because of principle? Religion? Was I prudish? How could I answer that when I asked myself the same question day after day?
I wasn't the blushing innocent the title of virgin dictates. My showerhead and I had had something strong going on for the better part of a decade. We had been considering inviting a beautiful marble blue waterproof vibrator to spice up our sexlesslife, but the thought of losing my virginity that way was such a disappointment, it caused me to put the package down and leave the store empty handed every time.
No, when I lost my virginity, I wanted it to be to a person. I do love my evening shower, and I do love myself, but when you're controlling the thing, you know what to expect. In my mind, that would take some of the zing out of the pleasure. I didn't want predictable movement and four speeds of vibrating tearing down my wall. I wanted something pulsing, something hot, something growing, and something I couldn't control.
When I explained this to my friend Eddie, she asked if I meant a rape fantasy. I shuddered and said no way in hell. Just another person. After all, I'm not the one holding him and leading him in and making every single movement. He is. He may shudder or jolt or suddenly pull out. He could throb when I least expect it. He would grow when I squeezed my walls around him. That's what I meant.
Eddie and I met every Friday morning for breakfast. She was the only one of my friends who knew my sad secret, because she was the only one with whom I talked about sex (or lack thereof). We met at a bar one evening while she was getting pissy about not being able to find a bedpartner, and I was trying to ward off the advances of a sleazy man three times my age. She walked up to me, kissed me full on the mouth, told the guy to quit scamming on her lady, and bought me about five drinks.
We talked...oh, about a lot of stuff that night, mostly about sex, since I was sauced. Not wanting her to think I was a complete and utter loser, I told her about some of my shower fantasies, trying to pass them off as my real life experiences. She was impressed, which is saying something for Eddie.
At the end of the night, thoroughly trashed, I fessed up that I was still a virgin and burst into tears. She thought that was adorable and decided to adopt me as her pet horny virgin.
And so, thus began our weekly breakfasts. Every Friday, I got up two hours earlier and rode the train all the way across town to her place, where we'd meet. I didn't so much mind the travel, even if I did have to go so far out of my way. Given the context of our conversation, I was more comfortable being away from places I lived and worked.
Eddie would encourage me to share my fantasies with her. She loved my fantasies, she said, because being a virgin gave my imagination freer reign. The reality of sex wasn't as colorful as my imagining of it. And let's not forget all the risks of the actual act, especially the way I imagined it. Unprotected, as many of my fantasies were spontaneous acts, often with strangers, often in public, sex was dangerous. There was pregnancy, STDs, AIDS, just filth in general. In my shower, my lovely clean shower, I was safe from the possible repercussions of sex.
When I told Eddie about my dissatisfaction with the impending milestone, she asked why I didn't just go down to a little place she knew of and pay for an hour or two. She also offered to hook me up with one of her past bed partners, but I declined. I wanted my first time to be something to remember, not just some desperate last resort.
The train was relatively empty as I stepped on, the sky dark and the passengers glassy-eyed, if even open-eyed. It was a long ride to the other side of the city. Some of the passengers I recognized as night workers returning home from the graveyard shift.
I yawned myself and slid into a seat, my legs almost collapsing underneath me. Determined to keep myself awake, I pulled out a collection of erotica and flipped to a random story. It was sort of fun to read these bawdy stories in public, especially right before meeting with Eddie. It made me feel daring, the way Eddie made me feel, as close to my shower fantasy persona as I ever felt I could become.
By the time the train arrived at my stop, the combination of the stories and the friction of the train's wheels on the tracks had made me breathless and weak. I knew that my face appeared a little flushed, and I smiled inwardly as I slipped my book into my purse and exited the train, amazed that I hadn't left a small puddle. I wondered if the back of my skirt was damp. I decided I would let my imagination answer for me.
As I headed for breakfast, I felt the morning air chill the wet spots on the inside of my thighs. This had happened a few times before and I knew that my panties would be sopping wet. As long as my body heat was warming the wetness in the fabric, they would be comfortable, but the moment I removed them to use the bathroom, the chill of the air would turn them cold and uncomfortable, leaving me with a disgusting feeling. On days like this, I removed my underwear.
After a quick detour to the bathroom, where I wiped the moister from my thighs, baby powdered the spots, ziplocked my panties, and stowed them in a secret pocket I'd sewn into my purse, I rushed to the restaurant to meet Eddie, knowing I'd be late.
As I'd expected, she was already seated at a table with a large glass of milk. I had checked in the bathroom mirror, and the flush in my face was very low by now, but I knew that she would notice it. And I was right. She took one look at my face and smirked.
"Have a fun train ride?"
"I was reading," I tell her, sliding into my seat. The back of my skirt still had a small damp spot and it sent goose-bumps up my spine.
"You know," she said matter-of-factly, "you should write down your fantasies. They're a hell of a lot better than some of the ones they publish in those anthologies."
"How about if I just write a book for you," I ask, "and you can be the one and only owner of the most fabulous erotica in the world."
Eddie seemed to consider that for a moment. "You know, that sounds tempting enough, I may just take you up on that offer."
"I'll get to work on it over lunch."
"So, you're only a week away from the big day," she reminded me, picking up her milk and taking a healthy sip (she had been trying to get me to drink more, swearing it would make my breasts bigger, but I said B was just fine with me, thanks).
"Yeah, don't remind me," I mumbled, perusing the menu. The waiter, who had been on his way to take our order, saw that and prepared to step away, giving us more time.
"Oh no you don't, hot pants," Eddie called over to him and waved him over. "If she takes her time, that just means I get more time to gawk."
Eddie wasn't usually so brash with the staff, but this being our usual breakfast place, and the waiter taking things all in stride, she let herself be a little more up front with him.
"Just as long as she doesn't take too long," he replied, taking a notepad and pen from his apron and flipping to a fresh page. "Remember, you do have to share."
"Just the way I like it," Eddie replied, winking up at him. Then, half to me, half to him, she said, "Don't you sometimes wish the dining room would become one great big orgy?"
"You've been reading my private journal," I teasingly accused.
"Hey, how 'bout it? A breakfast orgy for your first time?"
"Shush!" I hissed, slapping my hand over her mouth and making a very audible smack. At a hesitant glance, I saw that the waiter was looking down at me, partially in disbelief.
"French toast," I said pointedly, "sausage links, a cup of fruit, and a large—"
"Milk!" Eddie called, ripping my hand off her face. There was a red mark all around her lips. "She wants milk, give the woman milk!"
"Chocolate," I added, scowling at her. "If it's milk I'm getting, make it chocolate. I may as well enjoy getting busty."
"That's my girl!" I felt a healthy slap on my behind and quickly plopped down into my seat again, the sharp sting reminding me that my seat was still damp from my wet-ride.
I clamped my lips shut as Eddie ordered her healthy-sized breakfast and slapped the waiter's butt on his way back to the kitchen to put in our order. Once he was out of earshot, I leaned forward in my seat.
"Did you have to go and tell him I'm a virgin?" I hissed.
"Oh come on," she laughed. "What's so bad about it?"
"I'm thirty! I'm thirty and I've never had sex!"
She waved it off. "So what. Let me tell you something, once you've had it, it's torture going without it."
"Like that means anything," I mumbled. "I've never had it and it's torture going without it."
"So? What're you gonna do about it?" She leaned her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. "You sure you don't want me to introduce you to one of my bed bugs?"
"I'm sure."
I watched a sly look overcome her face. "Or we could ask the waiter for a favor. I think he'd be up for it."
