Happy Birthday to me,
I just turned eighteen,
I’m a virgin no more,
Thanks to Len Levy.
Gotcha! I’m kidding. I am totally still a virgin. I asked Len for a double devirginization and he gave me a triple set of DVDs instead.
Not that I don’t appreciate his present. He put together a little John Cusack box set. The combination of obvious (Say Anything) and not-so-obvious (The Sure Thing) and not-obvious-at-all (Hot Pursuit ) selections made the overall gift perfect. Just perfect. I am so relieved that his birthday was in August, before I was his girlfriend, because the pressure to live up to his excellent gift-giving is just too much for me to bear.
Still, I did think that maybe I had a shot at having sex with him tonight, which is sick. How did I become the sort of girl who dreams about losing her virginity on landmark days like New Year’s Eve and her birthday? I don’t know how I became the sort of girl who obsesses about losing her virginity at all. I guess this is what I get for deciding to date the only eighteen-year-old boy on the planet who is saving himself for marriage.
The thing is, it’s not just about losing my virginity. If it was just about losing my virginity, I would stop “denying what we have” and jump on Scotty. That’s about as sexy as earwax.
So it’s not just about sex. It’s about sex that means something.
This is probably where I’m going wrong. I mean, it doesn’t seem to mean anything to Manda, Sara, or Call Me Chantalle. What makes me think it will be any different for me?
Anyway, sex was a nonissue tonight since we watched the movies at his house and his mom treated me like a drug-addled skank despite my carefully chosen Gap khakis and Ralph Lauren turtleneck. Could you get more All-American than that?
“Hi, Mrs. Levy!” I gushed as wholesomely and overachievingly as I could. To help my cause, I had actually applied make-up to fake the face of apple-cheeked, bright-eyed innocence. It didn’t work.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“It’s. Um. Jess’s birthday today.”
“I’m eighteen,” I chirped. I cocked my head to the side, hoping that my bob would bounce with freshly-shampooed purity.
“You better watch yourself, then,” she said coolly. “Now you can be tried as an adult for your crimes. Heh-heh-heh.”
Len said she was just joking, but I knew better. She wasn’t joking then, or on the phone, or ever. She ends all her sentences with eerie, cheerless laughter, especially when she is completely unamused.
She made me feel humiliated, horrified, and totally unhorny. It’s no wonder Len and I barely touched each other tonight. I didn’t even get turned on during Say Anything in the scene where John and Ione are devirginizing each other in the car and they’re shivering and in love.
Len had never seen Say Anything before, which I simply couldn’t believe. Not even the edited TNT version. When it was over, I asked him what he thought.
“Um. It was okay.”
“Okay? Just okay?”
“Kind of. Um. Unrealistic, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“They barely knew each other. And they call that love?”
I chalked his comment up to his logician’s mind-set and left it at that.
Later that night, when I was on the floor in my room, twisting myself into my nighttime asanas, I started to think deeply about Len.
He got the second best SAT scores in our class. He wants to go to Cornell because that’s where his dad went. He wants to be a cardiac surgeon because that’s what his dad was. That’s all I know about his dead dad because that’s all Len will say about him. He gets along well with his brother, who is a miniature version of Len, which means he’s a mini-mini version of their dead dad. He has an unnaturally close relationship with his psycho mother, who hates my skanky drug-addled guts. He had a debilitating stutter as a kid, and speech therapy taught him to blather or splutter but not how to do anything in between. He doesn’t know he’s hot because he still sees purple cysts on his face when there aren’t any there. He likes to play guitar and can write music but not lyrics. He likes Nirvana and Pearl Jam and respects both bands for not selling out, but does not respect Kurt Cobain for committing suicide. He hates Episode One but loves the original Star Wars trilogy. His favorite author is J. R. R. Tolkein. He believes in obeying laws and following etiquette. He hates anything that can’t be explained, and didn’t see the irony of fronting a band named Chaos Called Creation until I pointed it out to him. He does not appreciate irony or sarcasm. He likes me because I am smart and driven and want to do something with my life. He tells me I’m funny, but I’ve never once heard him laugh at anything I’ve said. His best friend is Marcus Flutie.
This isn’t much. I’ve been dating Len for three months and I barely know him. But unlike John and Ione, it’s not love. Not even close.
the twenty-fifth
You know what I’m thinking about a lot lately?
S-E-X.
Part of the problem is that I have to think about it in order to pass that damn Health and Human Sexuality class.
Today’s topic: The Bush Administration’s Abstinence-Only Initiative.
“There is a movement in Washington to provide funding only for programs that promote abstinence until marriage,” Brandi said.
“So that means no condoms in schools,” Manda said.
“Right!” gushed Brandi. “No condoms or any other information about alternative methods of birth control. The message? Sex outside of a monogamous marriage is hazardous to your health.”
Sarcastic “Yeah, rights” came forth from the Upper Crust zone inhabited by Scotty and his meatballer buddies.
“So how do you all feel about this?”
To my utter mortification, my boyfriend raised his hand.
“Yes, Len?”
He cleared his throat.
Oh, Christ.
“Young people need to learn how to make the right choice between self-restraint and self-destruction. Abstinence-only programming is the only form of sex education that makes sense. Abstaining until marriage is the surest way, and the only effective way, to prevent unwanted pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases . . .”
“Sucks for you, Jess,” Scotty said with a snicker.
Everyone laughed. Har-dee-har-hard-on.
Then Manda raised her hand and said, “I agree with Len.”
Scotty rolled his eyes and made a harrumphing noise of annoyance.
“It’s not just a moral issue, it’s a matter of public health.”
This coming from a girl whose moral compass is in the form of two erect nipples pointing toward the nearest penis. I burst out with a spitty, bullshitty snort that caught Brandi’s attention.
“Jessica, would you like to contribute to this discussion?”
“Uh . . .” ALL EYES ON THE VIRGIN AS SHE GIVES HER VIEWS ON A SUBJECT SHE KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT! “It seems that the abstinence-only people are kidding themselves.”
“How so?” Brandi asked.
“Well, for one, people are waiting longer to get married. It’s very unrealistic for the government to think that we’re going to wait until we’re thirty to have sex.”
Though not very unrealistic for me because I am going to die a virgin, but that’s besides the point.
“Secondly, hormones are very powerful things. Teenagers are going to have sex. Without some kind of formal sex education, we’re going to turn to less reliable sources for information, like the Internet. Or friends. To me, it makes the most sense to give us the most comprehensive information available, so we have the power to make informed, intelligent decisions.”
There was a moment of silence. Then the entire class—with the exception of Len and Manda—burst out into applause. It would have made a killer editorial. Oh, well. I was so awed by the appreciation of my classmates that I didn’t notice that Marcus raised his hand.
“Yes, Marcus?”
Oh, Christ.
“Jessica
is right about the hormones,” he said. “But she’s wrong about everything else. I can’t speak for the females, but the typical teenage male’s sex drive is so powerful, it has the ability to override the best sex ed. class. If a guy is in an intense situation with a girl, and he’s aroused but—oops!—doesn’t have a condom handy, he’ll still try to find a way to get off, even though he knows he’s not supposed to.”
Scotty and P.J. nodded their heads in agreement.
“Ignorance isn’t the problem,” he said. “Some very smart, informed people make some really stupid decisions about sex.”
“You should know, Krispy,” said Sara, who was immediately highfived by Scotty.
“You’re absolutely right,” he replied, looking her right in the eye. “I do know.”
Even though the bell rang, the discussion wasn’t over for Len.
“So. Um. Do you really think I’m kidding myself?”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said. “I just—”
Then Len walked away without bothering to hear my explanation.
“He’s really narrow-minded about his beliefs,” said Marcus, who had overheard the exchange. “You’re either with him or against him.”
“I know.”
“That’s how I knew he really liked you,” he said. “When he forgave you for New Year’s.”
“Yeah, I know. Marcus?”
“Yes?”
I wanted to ask him if he regrets his stupidity.
“Nothing,” I said instead. “Forget it.”
“Don’t worry,” Marcus said with a small, sympathetic smile. “Len will let it go.”
“Yeah.”
But Len had a difficult time letting it go today. He was huffy for the rest of the afternoon, and didn’t stop by my locker after tenth period.
You know what? I wasn’t nearly as worried about our first fight as I should’ve been.
the twenty-Seventh
So guess what I’m thinking about right now? Yes, sex. Good guess. But more specific.
I’m thinking that there is only one other person I know whose name could have also made the last line of my birthday song rhyme. I know he’s not saving himself for marriage. Last night, I had a bodice-ripping daydream that he was a stable boy and I was a countess. Inside my mind, I’m a way bigger whore than Manda. The Mystery Muckraker is destined to find out about this somehow, and expose my secret, skanky dreamscape to the whole school.
February 1st
Dear Hope,
I appreciate your advice. Truly, I do. Though yoga has helped me show a marked improvement in the sleep department, it hasn’t helped my sex problem. Think about it: Any method that showcases heavy breathing and increased flexibility will be of little help in getting one’s mind off getting laid. My chakras are quaking and I’m hornier than ever.
Sorry. Too much information. I know. I crossed the line.
Where is the line, anyway? Wearing a tank top to school is a dress-code violation because it’s a “sexual distraction.” Yet it’s perfectly acceptable to use class time to fill out a sexually explicit survey? You should have seen this questionnaire Brandi passed out on the last day of Health and Human Sexuality class. “An anonymous survey designed to provide information to more effectively identify resources to assist our community’s youth to grow in a healthy, caring, responsible way.” Yeah, right. Check out some of these questions:
Do you think someone who gives or receives oral sex is a virgin?
Have you ever engaged in sexual activity with a legal adult (over the age of eighteen)? If so, were you a minor (under the age of eighteen)?
Have you ever engaged in sexual activity under the influence of drugs or alcohol?
Off-the-charts ack factor. Not only did I resent a reminder of my nonsexed status, which had the administration’s approval, I was totally offended by the potentially incriminating nature of the questions. For all its anonymity, it screamed entrapment to me. What’s worse, we all had to fill it out because it was mandatory to pass the class. (I can’t help but think about the editorial that could’ve been: “Pervy Survey: Stopping School-Sanctioned Smut.”) Even though I know it’s totally irrational, I filled it out because I don’t need a third-marking-period senior-year failing grade to keep me out of the Ivy League. Imagine me failing Health and Human Sexuality. Ha! How appropriate.
I lied about everything—including the personal info—just to screw up the results. Masturbation? Ten times a day. Threesomes? Hell, yeah! It was pretty funny. Len, of course, answered honestly, which only he could because he’s never done anything wrong in his life. I couldn’t help but wonder how the questions were answered by my fellow classmates who actually have incriminating backgrounds. But I stopped myself before I wondered too much because that’s precisely the kind of daydreams that I’m trying to stop having.
I know this is going to sound like a crazy question—especially since you aren’t currently dating anyone—but I’m going to ask it, anyway: You would tell me if you did it, right? I used to think that I wouldn’t want you to tell me—because my nonsexed status would make me feel left out and alone—but I’ve changed my mind. I know that the kind of sex that you would have is the kind that I need to hear about—romantic, right, and real. Hearing about a devirginization like that would validate my decision to wait. So I hope you tell me when it happens. And I promise to do the same, if I’m not too senile with old age and can remember how to use a telephone.
Virginally yours,
J.
february
the fourth
I got accepted to Piedmont University today. They even offered me an honors scholarship that covers half my tuition and gives me priority housing and class scheduling. In any other situation I’d be psyched. I have no intention of settling for Piedmont or any of the others until I hear from Columbia, but I can’t tell my parents that.
This sucks. It really sucks. Especially since I made the mistake of mentioning to my parents that Piedmont was my number-one choice. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
“Jessie!” my dad said. “I am very proud of you.”
This was a very magnanimous gesture on his part, since we do not speak.
“We are so proud of you!” my mom said, enveloping me in a hug.
“You must call Len! We must go out to dinner and celebrate!”
“Yes,” my dad said, “it would be nice to have something to celebrate.” (Subtext: Since you’ve done nothing of importance since ruining your life by quitting the cross-country team.)
Of course, I can’t have any part of such a celebration.
“Actually, I was kind of leaning toward . . .” I tried to guess which acceptance letter would come last, the one that would buy me the most time until I found out from Columbia. I went the alphabetical route. A, P, S, W. “Williams.”
“Williams?!”
“Williams?!” echoed my father. “Since when is your first choice Williams?”
“Uh . . .”
Okay, Jessica. Come up with something good. Come up with something really, really good. Something your parents won’t be able to resist.
“Since I applied for an honors scholarship that pays full tuition?” My voice went up at the end of the lie unintentionally. And I was gnashing my lips down to the gums. Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!
“You did?!”
“Why didn’t you tell us?!”
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up?” Again, a question more than an answer.
“As the ones footing the bill for your education, young lady, we need to know these things,” my dad said.
“Right,” I said, feeling as guilty as ever about Columbia. “I’m sorry.”
But not sorry enough to tell them the truth.
After a quasi-celebratory dinner (pizza ordered in, not eaten out) I called Len to tell him about my Piedmont/Columbia problem. He wasn’t home—he must have been at rehearsal. Of course, I did the really mature thing of hanging up when his mom answered.
Caller ID. Du
h.
Like Mrs. Levy needs another reason to despise me. I know Len told her all about our Health and Human Sexuality abstinence argument because he tells her everything. That woman is as unbalanced mentally as she is physically. When it comes to parents, I think total honesty is overrated. (And look how healthy my relationship with my parents is!) But this is just another topic on which Len and I have agreed to disagree.
I don’t think this is a bad thing. That must have been why I wasn’t worried about it the day it happened because the occasional fight is healthy for relationships. Because if you don’t fight, you don’t care at all.
This is the problem with Bethany and G-Money, I think. They never fight. Ever. But it’s not because they share a romantic soul-mate mind-meld or anything. It’s because they don’t really talk to each other enough to have anything to fight about. I think that’s worse than not fighting at all.
My parents fight, of course. But it’s hard to take comfort in this, since they are usually fighting about me.
the fourteenth
Imagine the coldest, cruelest, most cringe-worthy episode of MTV’s Dismissed.
One in which the guy pretends to like one girl, even though her competition for the guy’s affections is hotter and whorier than she could ever be. So the guy really plays it up, and the ugly girl thinks she has a shot, even though it’s obvious to everyone else—the hotter, whorier girl, the camera crew, the viewing audience—that she will be humiliated— harshly—at the end of the half hour. But the ugly girl doesn’t see this; she’s blinded by the guy’s charms. And she gets excited thinking about how personality has won out over whoriness, and fantasizing about her future with this great guy. Then when it comes time for the Dismissal, the guy who has restored her faith in the opposite sex turns to the girl and says, “I wouldn’t do you if you were the last piece of pussy on the planet.” And then he looks right into the camera and laughs and laughs and laughs.
That’s about one-bizillionth as bad as what happened to me today, when Len did the thing he assured me he would never do. He broke my heart on Valentine’s Day. Again.