It was time to have sex. Which I knew because Carrie had just told me that it was time to have sex. I sprang off of Professor Ross’s afghan-covered sofa and followed her into the bedroom, where a twelve-pack of dry-lubricated latex condoms had been placed strategically on the night stand.
We stripped down unceremoniously and what was usually a long make-out session was cut short by the anticipation of finally completing The Act. I wrestled with the gold foil and put it on awkwardly. As if there was any other way.
Carrie smiled at me. “I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too,” she replied, a slight tremor in her voice. “And don’t worry, if I get pregnant, I’ll have an abortion."
Romance.
What followed is a bit of a blur. There was fumbling (mine), laughing (hers), panic (mine), clenching (hers) and a loss of virginity (both of us) in only the most technical sense.
As I tossed the used condom in the trash, where it lay in wait for noted novelist Judith Ross, Carrie could sense that I was upset about my performance. I have occasionally wondered how different our relationship may have been had she responded to my intense vulnerability with tenderness and understanding.
But instead she speculated aloud about the various possible reasons, physical and psychological, for my failure, her tone increasingly agitated and accusatory.
“You should see a sex therapist,” she concluded.
“Will you calm down?” I implored her. “This was our first time. It’ll get better.” She was not reassured.
“Then what about a prostitute?”
“Jesus, Carrie! We’re both new at this! You didn’t know what to do, either.”
“I’m sorry,” my Ellison-educated feminist girlfriend said, “but the guy is supposed to know.”
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Bad Sex & Good Scotch: A Reunion Story
Short Story#86 in Short Story (7/11/15) Remember your "first time?" Well, I wish I could forget mine. As a Freshman in college, I met Carrie and we fell in love. We thought we were the perfect couple. We thought we would always be together. But after we decide...
