I lost my virginity my senior year of high school. In my mind, it was to my cute little quarterback boyfriend after prom. It was awkward and sweet and funny and we went on to go to college together and get married and have kids. In my mind.
In reality I was about 180lbs, had probably 4 actual friends and a newly found obsession with the internet.
I never went to my prom. I didn’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t get married or go to college. I guess, this is where it all began.
Not to say I was a loser all of my high school career. I was pretty popular up until junior year. And then it just came all crashing down. Depression. Weight gain. Puberty hit me hard. I suppose in retrospect I was always very pretty. But there were two things I wasn’t. White and skinny. And those were the only two things I ever wanted to be. So in a sense, I spent most of my senior year hating myself, just for being myself. Twisted.
It wasn’t just being white and skinny. It was the whole lifestyle that went with it. The parents that had fun 4th of July bbq’s at our beach house. The golden retriever running to the door to meet me when I got home from school. Being able to saunter into homeroom wearing nothing but a soccer hoodie and some jeans, and look like I just stepped off of the cover of Vogue. Being white and skinny gave you this sense of just not giving a fuck. You were entitled to the greatest things life had to offer and you knew it. Since the day you were born you were told that this world was yours for the taking. So you walked around knowing there was a college fund set up for you. And you bitched how you didn’t want to go to college but instead go to LA to be an extra in the next Tom Cruise movie.
You pulled up in the school parking lot in a car your parents bought, and bitched about how it didn’t have a sunroof.
You were homecoming queen. And bitched the whole night that some freshman had the same dress as you.
You had all these normal teenage problems.
And I was invisible. Wearing a size 14. Short hair. Brown skin. DD bra that I had no idea what to do with.
I spent a lot of time thinking about sex. Talking about it. Writing about it. Reading about it.Like most teenagers I guess. Except, I looked at it as something I wasn’t really worthy of. Something I would never achieve. Because I didn’t look like anyone I saw having sex. There was no porn with fat people. (By the way, who would have known there’s actually a whole section devoted just to that. Age brings wisdom eh ? lol)
So I looked at my virginity as some mark. Something I just needed to get rid of. Something I just wanted over and done with.
And there was Maurice. He was old, fat, Italian and creepy. Even his name was gross. Everything about him screamed pedophile. There was not one attractive quality to him.
We chatted. He made me mixed tapes. I remember there was a lot of Beatles on it. Some John Mellancamp. Don Henley. Songs that when I hear them today, instantly make me want to vomit. I hate him not only for taking my virginity, but for making me hate Norwegian Wood. Such a damned good song.
I made up this elaborate lie to my parents that I was going to AC with a friend for the weekend, and her dad was coming to pick me up. And he arrived. All 386 pounds of him. Thick glasses. Thinning hair. And I got in the car and we went off to Atlantic City.
The rest of the weekend was a blur. I remember he have me a gold necklace I later pawned. I remember the comforter on the bed was super scratchy. He went down to gamble a lot, but I had to wait up in the room because I wasn’t 18 yet. I felt lonely. I felt bored. I remember the sound of the slot machines.
The actually “sex” I blacked out from my memory. I remember soaking in a tub afterwards though. In retrospect, a therapist could tell me how I was raped. I could spend hundreds of dollars to relive that night and try and uncover some forgotten memory. Some feeling. That could probably explain/excuse some of the mistakes with men I’d make later on in life. But I’ve never been big on excuses. I’ve always been a very intelligent girl. I knew what I was doing. I knew he was gross. I knew I was 17. I knew I was lying. And I knew I was a virgin. And in my small little mind, the ends justified the means.
I went to school that Monday and pretended nothing happened.
Nothing felt different.
The skinny white girls were preparing for a pep rally. That I wouldn’t attend.
They were having sex with their boyfriends. And although I know had “done it”, I still didn’t feel like them. I still didn’t feel anything close to what they felt.
I still walked the halls alone. Ate alone. Had a pretty shitty last few months actually.
And now, at 30, with a daughter of my own, I would slap the shit out of 17 year old me.
I would do anything in this life to take that year back. Send out my college applications, instead of signing up for chat rooms. Stop worrying about being popular, and study harder. Focus on my writing. Focus on my family. Focus on the life that was passing me by.
But,at 17, you know everything.
In reality I was about 180lbs, had probably 4 actual friends and a newly found obsession with the internet.
I never went to my prom. I didn’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t get married or go to college. I guess, this is where it all began.
Not to say I was a loser all of my high school career. I was pretty popular up until junior year. And then it just came all crashing down. Depression. Weight gain. Puberty hit me hard. I suppose in retrospect I was always very pretty. But there were two things I wasn’t. White and skinny. And those were the only two things I ever wanted to be. So in a sense, I spent most of my senior year hating myself, just for being myself. Twisted.
It wasn’t just being white and skinny. It was the whole lifestyle that went with it. The parents that had fun 4th of July bbq’s at our beach house. The golden retriever running to the door to meet me when I got home from school. Being able to saunter into homeroom wearing nothing but a soccer hoodie and some jeans, and look like I just stepped off of the cover of Vogue. Being white and skinny gave you this sense of just not giving a fuck. You were entitled to the greatest things life had to offer and you knew it. Since the day you were born you were told that this world was yours for the taking. So you walked around knowing there was a college fund set up for you. And you bitched how you didn’t want to go to college but instead go to LA to be an extra in the next Tom Cruise movie.
You pulled up in the school parking lot in a car your parents bought, and bitched about how it didn’t have a sunroof.
You were homecoming queen. And bitched the whole night that some freshman had the same dress as you.
You had all these normal teenage problems.
And I was invisible. Wearing a size 14. Short hair. Brown skin. DD bra that I had no idea what to do with.
I spent a lot of time thinking about sex. Talking about it. Writing about it. Reading about it.Like most teenagers I guess. Except, I looked at it as something I wasn’t really worthy of. Something I would never achieve. Because I didn’t look like anyone I saw having sex. There was no porn with fat people. (By the way, who would have known there’s actually a whole section devoted just to that. Age brings wisdom eh ? lol)
So I looked at my virginity as some mark. Something I just needed to get rid of. Something I just wanted over and done with.
And there was Maurice. He was old, fat, Italian and creepy. Even his name was gross. Everything about him screamed pedophile. There was not one attractive quality to him.
We chatted. He made me mixed tapes. I remember there was a lot of Beatles on it. Some John Mellancamp. Don Henley. Songs that when I hear them today, instantly make me want to vomit. I hate him not only for taking my virginity, but for making me hate Norwegian Wood. Such a damned good song.
I made up this elaborate lie to my parents that I was going to AC with a friend for the weekend, and her dad was coming to pick me up. And he arrived. All 386 pounds of him. Thick glasses. Thinning hair. And I got in the car and we went off to Atlantic City.
The rest of the weekend was a blur. I remember he have me a gold necklace I later pawned. I remember the comforter on the bed was super scratchy. He went down to gamble a lot, but I had to wait up in the room because I wasn’t 18 yet. I felt lonely. I felt bored. I remember the sound of the slot machines.
The actually “sex” I blacked out from my memory. I remember soaking in a tub afterwards though. In retrospect, a therapist could tell me how I was raped. I could spend hundreds of dollars to relive that night and try and uncover some forgotten memory. Some feeling. That could probably explain/excuse some of the mistakes with men I’d make later on in life. But I’ve never been big on excuses. I’ve always been a very intelligent girl. I knew what I was doing. I knew he was gross. I knew I was 17. I knew I was lying. And I knew I was a virgin. And in my small little mind, the ends justified the means.
I went to school that Monday and pretended nothing happened.
Nothing felt different.
The skinny white girls were preparing for a pep rally. That I wouldn’t attend.
They were having sex with their boyfriends. And although I know had “done it”, I still didn’t feel like them. I still didn’t feel anything close to what they felt.
I still walked the halls alone. Ate alone. Had a pretty shitty last few months actually.
And now, at 30, with a daughter of my own, I would slap the shit out of 17 year old me.
I would do anything in this life to take that year back. Send out my college applications, instead of signing up for chat rooms. Stop worrying about being popular, and study harder. Focus on my writing. Focus on my family. Focus on the life that was passing me by.
But,at 17, you know everything.
Great fucking post. Thank you for making me smile and remember how I knew everything at 17 too.
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