Author's Note:
So it's been a long time since I last posted. This story began in 2015, was edited by GaiusPetronius through the first half or more, and recently, I finished it and have self-edited the last bit. Hopefully it still flows. Any errors are, of course, mine.
All characters engaged in sexual acts are, as always, over the age of 18.
Anything in this story that resembles real life in any way is coincidental or used as a product of my (weird) imagination. Except the movie reference. If you lived through the 2000s as a teenager, I'm sure you know what movie I'm referring to...
Enjoy!
Rex
Chapter 1 -- A First-Time Do-Over?
I remember how much stress -- and how much significance -- got placed on losing one's virginity. Whose idea was it to begin telling hormonal teenagers they needed to worry about having sex before they turned 18? Looking back, I wish someone had come along and slapped me in the face and told me, "Stop it. Just stop it!"
In the end, after all the hype and all the craziness over virginity, losing it felt more like a letdown -- exactly what happened with my first girlfriend. We were both young, and of course, we both thought we'd found that "forever love." Psssh, right. What we'd found was mutual masturbation partners. Heck, even that might have been more exciting than the rushed, awkward, and truly unsatisfying experience losing our virginity turned out to be.
After that first time together, well... we broke up. I guess we weren't exactly forever-bound by any means. I mean, it wasn't, like, next-day break-up or anything, but it may as well have been. We went on for a few months, less intense than we'd been before the sex, and found out that we had plenty of different ideas and dreams.
So, I made a personal declaration: I was going to be a virgin again -- figuratively speaking. Sure, I couldn't undo the past, but I had actually learned quite a bit from it. I learned not to rush (two-pump-chump, anyone?). I learned to take my time, be considerate and loving, and not so much to focus on the
task
at hand, but just to
enjoy
the experience. Sure, I was idealistic and naΓ―ve, but I knew what I wanted to do whenever the opportunity arose again.
Of course, whenever I told someone about my personal decision to become a virgin again, they laughed. I kept it to myself after the first two girlfriends broke up with me, thinking I was lying or manipulating them when I revealed my "reclaimed" virginity. I guess, in a way, they were right, since I worded it that I actually was a virgin, leaving out the small detail that I wasn't a true one, but only a self-declared one.
This was yet another proving point to my first theory that people place too much weight on virginity -- as if being a virgin was a toxic disease, the only cure being awkward teenage sex riddled with insecurities and regrets.
All of that brings me to the reason I'm telling this tale: I wish to pay homage to the woman who cherished my Virginity 2.0 -- a woman I am more than pleased to have given it to, a woman I wish I had given my true virginity to, and a woman I will always remember.
And it all started this one time, at band camp...
Chapter 2 -- This One Time, At Band Camp...
Yes, I know, that phrase is a cheesy, lame, and pathetic attempt at humor based on a raunchy movie that was somehow met with box-office success for its crude humor, lewdness, and unashamed tale of teens attempting to lose their virginity before their senior prom. I find it even more amusing that the very same direct and frank telling of teen romance woes (including gratuitous nudity) that was "pushing the envelope" at the time, is now common fare, seen in prime time on network TV. Young children are exposed regularly to this puerile innuendo (except maybe for the nudity... which still gets blurred or edited out, or somehow made passable by placing as much skin as possible on display without slipping in that shameful nipple or βhorror of horrors! -- a penis. But naked butts, both female and male, are free game nowadays?)
Seriously, however, I met the woman I shared my reclaimed virginity with at "band camp." Technically speaking, that's what you could call it. In reality, it was a grueling, exhausting experience aimed at weeding out the weak, out-of-shape, and pathetic marching band losers. Okay, that may have been a bit excessive, as I was, at one point in my life, one of the very same weak, out-of-shape, pathetic band geek losers.
But high school marching band and a major university's marching band are like comparing pee-wee football to professional football. In high school marching band (my high school was small, class 2A, so my experience may be a little lightweight compared to a 4A or even bigger school), we practiced once a day, during the scheduled period for band class, under one hour, with about ten minutes of it spent by the director/teacher trying to get the weak, out-of-shape, pathetic band geek losers to get in line and pay attention. It's nothing short of a miracle that the eighty of us somehow managed to make it to State Marching Band competitions every year I was in the band (although we never won, always placing second or lower, but that's beside the point).
So, my senior year, I'm thinking I'm pretty hot shit, marching trombone in a band of eighty members, only three of them qualifying as weak, out-of... (you get the idea), that placed second in Class 2A State competitions, beat out by a 3A team that just barely got bumped back to 2A standings, by 2 points out of 100.
Now, fast-forward to the month before I began my freshman year at a major Division I NCAA-accredited university -- where I got my first taste of "Band Camp Hell." Yep, that's what they called it, and they weren't kidding. The first week of drills had absolutely nothing to do with playing your instrument.
Oh no, the director (most likely one of Satan's most cherished spawn) thought it necessary to have everyone run twenty yard ladder sprints while carrying sixty-five pound drums... then "karaoke" agility runs, high-stepping runs, and a final one mile run. And that was only week one.
During this first week of Hell, I met her. She was a veteran, having been in the marching band already for two years, but this year, she was sitting out, convalescing from the extensive knee surgery she'd had that summer. She was still on crutches. And from a distance, when I first saw her, I assumed one of the band members had brought their kid along for practice. I learned later that she normally stands at a proud four feet ten inches, but that day, hunched over her crutches, she could maybe measure four and a half feet tops.
As I approached, though, I saw her standing next to a trombone (my instrument, too), and noticed she had quite attractive breasts, despite her diminutive stature. (Excursus: "Quite attractive" means different things for different people, so here goes: her breasts sat perfectly round upon her chest, proudly jutting out at just the right slope, just the right angle, and just the right size -- neither too big, nor too small. Judging from appearances, they were C cups, charmingly taut and toned. They looked like perfect handfuls. But beyond the physical desirability of them, they complemented her overall figure. From the side, she looked like a model, despite whatever she lacked in height. From the front, her shirt wrapped around them and snugly hugged her trim stomach. We now resume our original programming.)Her first words to me were:
"Hey, buddy, I may be down here, but my eyes are still up here."
Busted.
As she said this, she pointed to her eyes and used one of her crutches to whack the side of my leg.
"Ah, Midget, you can't fault him for looking," this coming from another trombone player, who came up behind her and rested his head on hers. "They are quite possibly your best assets."
"Fuck off, Donkey," she swung her crutch around, and, to my amazement, barely missed the one she called Donkey. (I'd learn later that the nicknames were sort of like an initiation into the trombone line, based upon their recipients' tendencies or other embarrassing behaviors, and were meant to be insulting or degrading or both, all given, of course, out of love and amiable affection.)
"Midget! Donkey! Knock it off! We don't need anyone else on crutches!"
I turned to see a short guy with wild blonde hair stroll up to us. "Ah, you're one of the new guys. Welcome to the Bruces."
"Bruces?" I raised my eyebrow at that.
"Hehe, yep. We're the Bruces. Make it through Hell and we'll tell you why we're the Bruces -- right, Bruce?" This, he said to the one called Donkey.
"Right, Bruce," he said back, in what sounded like an Australian or faux-British accent. The others, who had gathered around during this exchange, were chuckling.
"But, let me introduce you and the other two new guys to the rest of the Bruces. G'DAY, BRUCE!" he finished with a yell.
The speed at which everyone jumped into formation startled me. Within seconds, the trombone section was in line, at attention, and looked as if they belonged in a crack military unit, not broiling here in the July sun for a marching band camp.
"You'll learn everyone's nickname first, and, if they like you, they'll tell you their real name. I'm called Gas Bruce, and I'm section leader, along with Baby, the other section leader. Any questions, you come to us first," he said, as he gestured to a long, dark haired, and short-but-not-quite-as-short-as-Midget girl stood away from the line, next to him.