Don't Recall Losing My Virginity

When I was still in college, I immediately fell in with a hard drinking crowd who had access to older siblings who would buy alcohol for them. We had a lot of parties in basements and out in the bush, and I got drunk a lot (I was an easy drunk--even a little alcohol had enormous effects on me...). I was relatively naive at the time, at least about what boys could be like when they're drunk and in packs.

One night, not one that was particularly different than any that had come before it, we were at a house party and there was a set of boys from a local community college there that none of us really knew, but since a couple were really cute I started to flirt with them. They had brought their own alcohol, some hard liquor mixed in such a way that it tasted like punch, and they kept feeding it to me until I was so drunk i don't remember anything I did.

Later, I heard from one of my girlfriends that I started to dance with a couple of the boys in a slutty way, like a stripper would, and eventually I went outside with them. Later on, one of the guys in my class who had a bit of a crush on me, and felt angry and jealous that I had been messing around with these college kids, got worried enough that he went looking for me. He said he followed the sounds of laughing and after searching a bit found me surrounded by about six of these college kids.

I was passed out and lying on top of a picnic table with my skirt pulled up around my waist and my legs spread. He said that one of them had just stepped back from me and was putting his cock back into his pants and zipping his fly, and it was obvious that he had just finished fucking me. One of the other guys was shouting that he was next, and the guy who had just fucked me was saying that he wasn't even getting "sloppy seconds" but "sloppy thirds"--which pissed my friend off. He says he ran up and started yelling and asking them what the fuck they thought they were doing.

They laughed at him and two of them held him while the rest of them took their turns raping me. They told him that i was a slut and I had asked them to fuck me and had begged for it, so they were just giving me what I wanted. He says he was stupid and scared at that time, and maybe angry at me for having been so slutty with them earlier, and so a part of him believed their story and it kept him from trying to stop them. But since he told me all this almost two years later, I think he was feeling guilty about not trying harder to stop them, since it was clear to him later that they had raped me.

I don't blame him, since he probably couldn't have done much even if he had tried. There were six of them, and a couple of them were athletes and much bigger than him, so he wasn't much of a threat to stop them anyway. After they were finished with me (he said each of them had sex with me twice), he said he sat with me and held my hand until I woke up a couple hours later, and then helped me get home.

I don't remember any of it, and the first thing I do remember is waking up the next morning still in the clothes I had worn the night before, except I wasn't wearing any underwear and my whole crotch was sore and sticky. I was horrified and knew that I had lost my virginity, but since I had no idea how it had happened, I just spent the next week in my room ashamed and terrified that I was pregnant. When I finally had the courage to go to school, it didn't seem that anybody knew what had happened to me after I left the party, and since my "friend" didn't say anything until months later, I was just left wondering and scared at what might have happened.

I was lucky that I didn't get pregnant or contract any STDs, but I've always been ashamed that I wasn't even conscious of when I lost my virginity, and after I finally discovered what had happened, I was really fucked up about sex for awhile. I think I've overcome it, and in some ways my coming to own my own sexuality has a lot to do with the fact that the events of that night were utterly lost to me, as if I had not even the control of being able to reimagine the meaning of my memories.

I chalk whatever happened that night to what can happen when you drink too much and allow evil people to use you. I eventually discovered on my own, and while sober, that young horny men can be animals, but I've also learned to control and channel their lust for my own pleasure and purpose, and my memory (or more accurately my lack of a memory) of that night of being used by those men without even an iota of pleasure being given to me, has become a symbol of what I never want to happen again when I have sex.

As to alcohol, I never drank to excess ever again after that night, and I learned how to drink in moderation and when I should just stop altogether or begin to nurse a drink for the rest of an evening. I only get drunk when I'm with someone I trust completely, and then I will let loose, but always in a safe environment.

Perhaps because I have no recollection of that night, and because I didn't have the fear or trauma of a rape victim who remembers the experience, I have also strangely been able to sexualize the thought of being fucked by multiple men. I've turned being gang raped from a horrible experience (one that I can only imagine even though it actually happened to me), into something that I can have complete control over through fantasy.

I have quite a few rape fantasies, and although they vary in detail, they strike me as being one of the ways that I have reinvented being gang raped against my will into something that I let happen, or chose to happen for my own pleasure. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I think that I chose to be raped that night, just that in my life now my sexual experiences, including bondage, submission, and even pain and violence, are part of a fantasy life that is mine and not the invention of horny young selfish men.

I know how to use the horniness of young men, and can manipulate them like the easy pathetic testosterone driven puppets they are (and believe me, I have since used more than my share of young college frat boys...). The funny thing is, I never found my underwear, and I'm not sure whether one of the college kids still has it as a souvenir, or the boy who stayed with me kept it because he had a crush on me. He finally told me the truth of what had happened that night, I think, out of a combination of feeling guilty at not stopping them, and also because he was still in love with me and he thought that somehow I might love him more after he had told me what had happened to me.

I'm not quite sure, even after taking plenty of psychology courses, what possessed him to think that I would be grateful to him--I was pretty pissed off at him for a long time, but eventually I forgave him and even felt some bit of gratitude to him for having helped me get home that night, even though the gratitude was all in abstract because I actually don't remember the help he gave me. But I could never even feel the remotest attraction to him sexually after that...