Tequila + Backpack = Love and Other Lessons I Learned In Undergrad

It wasn’t a conscious decision. I wasn’t holding off for religious reasons; wasn’t entertaining thoughts of a gropey white wedding night or fearing damnation or feeling wretch and shame when I fantasized about Ashton Kutcher, or most usually, John Travolta circa “Saturday Night Fever”-white-tux-glory. It wasn’t homage to any diluted Euro ancestry or even due to a total lack of options. I’d had guys want to. I’d almost even thought about it. But it just never blossomed to fruition, and by twenty years old, in the presence of my well-practiced roommates, I was a mythified freak of nature/science project for a good intentioned, albeit slightly creepy, pair of girlfriends.

“We need to get you laid.” Breanne was direct from the bed above me. Lily shrugged from her haphazard loft. “Let’s call it Project Deflower.” They laughed. I scowled from my lumpy bottom bunk, wrapped crazily in purple-leopard sheets with a belly roaring from Stage Five Hangover.

“Very funny, ladies. Leave me alone. The only man who loves me is Jose Cuervo.” Tummy turn-over, hand s squished to my abdomen trying to keep the cramps and nausea in remission. “Uggggh,” I moaned thickly. “It’s an abusive freaking relationship.”

 Breanne from above: “Don’t you want to?”

 Me from below: (sarcasm overload) “No. I hate guys. I don’t want anyone to ever want me. I want to die alone with a shitload of cats.” Breanne snorted and the whole top bunk shook as I lay below with my eyes shut tight, my belly mutinying, waiting to be crushed to death. These bunks were a horrible idea.

 “It’s going to happen, you know; if you don’t smarten up.” A pause. “What about RJ? He likes you.”

I sighed. “He likes anything with a vag. That doesn’t count.” I shuddered, wrapping my sheets tighter around my body until it was almost painful. “And just by the by, isn’t he, you know, kind of slow?”

Lily sat up from her loft. Her mouth guard was like a clear plastic apple slice jammed across her top teeth, spewing drool as she talked. “Not slow. He just has a little brain damage from a car accident.” I groaned. “Nothing major!” she was quick to add, “And he likes you. He would love to win Project Deflower.” Laughter. Abdominal cramping, stumbling, vomiting, no more drinking ever for the rest of my earthly existence.

After this conversation, the topic didn’t just go away like I had hoped maybe it might. To my complete and total crawly skin humiliation, Lily had involved her boyfriend Mike in the whole process. Mike was friends with RJ, actually best friends, and somehow he was going to put this whole ridiculously graphic mess together-a pep talk or something and then RJ would just come over and do me.

Awesome.

<p data-ow-chain="orphan">I’d had enough on Friday afternoon when I came home from class to Neil Diamond’s ‘Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon’ garishly and inexplicably blaring from our stereo. Lily and Breanne were cleaning for the night’s weekly festivities of alcohol, cards, microwave burritos and seriously bad decision making. They tried to hide chuckles behind the Swiffers and dust cloths as I marched (ok, tantrumed) to the radio and flicked it off. 

“What is wrong with you two?” No responses, just more giggles and dusting. “It’s really not that crazy of a thing. Virgins live amongst us alllll the damn time.” Giggles. “I’m not weird, you know. Actually, I think you guys are just raging slutbags. How ‘bout that?” Guffaws.

 “Oh Kim, shut up!” Lily propped herself against the mop handle and laughed “We love you. We’re just teasing you, Sister.” Breanne agreed. I rolled my eyes.

 “I’m pretty sure my first time was a felony,” Breanne offered, “so that probably makes you feel better, right?” I just shook my head. “He was like twenty-three and I was sixteen. That’s illegal, yes?” Both Lily and I nodded and Breanne sighed. “Huh. Really pretty gross, now that I’m thinking about it. What a perv.” I groaned and made myself a sandwich.