KILL THE CHERRY
By Ben R. Philibert
Copyright 2012 Ben Philibert
Artwork by Mike Wigand
“What’s her name again?”
“I don’t remember—Molly or Holly or something like that.”
When Spencer Whitman first heard that his college roommate and friend, William Critchfield, better known as Playboy Willy, had hooked up with a couple of sorority girls from the University of Missouri—a school that was all the way on the other side of the world and were more than desirous to accompany them to a fun and wild night out on the town— he felt charmed but also a bit skeptical. The self-consciousness was not the issue here; it was his relationship with the opposite gender that left something to be desired. In fact, it was going to be his very first. After Willy had informed him of the very special night that he arranged for the both of them, his spirits rose, motivating his confidence like never before. Everything has to have its starting point, the thought. None of them begin perfectly, but that's the nature of the beast. The experience is what will bring me closer to mastering it; my man Playboy Willy always pulls through for me, and he has ever since we we met two years ago as freshmen!
And now here it was. Tonight was the night, and as the night had finally come and they were on the road right now to meet them, he almost considered the idea of unhooking his seat belt and bailing out of the moving vehicle. Willy picked up his vibe almost right away.
“Hey, I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Don’t you dare pussy out on me now. This will be a special night like you would never believe. And the thing is you wanna do it now, while you're still young. You don’t wanna be sixty years old, having dreams about it in your sleep and then wake up to look at your old gray, haggard wrinkly-ass face in the medicine cabinet wishing you had done it in your youth, right?”
“I guess not.” Spencer said.
“'Course you don't. Now, I haven't seen your girl yet, but my chick...Kirsten, Kristen? Krissie? I forget...” he scoffed, “...as if it matters anyway, but holy shit that is what I call a piece of tenderized grade-A certified beef. And chicks like that are only friends with other counterpart-pieces-of-ass so I think it’s safe to say you got lucky, too, bro!”
Spencer smiled as Willy laughed. As much as he tried to endure that as a positive thing, he continued to shift his butt around in the passenger seat as he stared outside at the dusk-darkened world, watching as the scenery went from buildings to hilltops to trees to farmlands as Willy drove his 2013 Ford Excursion down the highway to the pub where they agreed to meet the girls.
He was pretty certain of himself at first, but as the time came closer, he felt his confidence being nipped away with every minute that passed. The first time had to be the most perfect time and there would only be one first time in his whole life…and he knew that he was going to blow it. It was a guarantee, in fact—it was already established as far as he was concerned. With the sort of relationship he had with luck, he knew that this was going to be a night that he would reminisce upon as a reminder that his self-esteem is for shit; a reminder of what a nobody he was, is, and always will be.
“You’re gonna do fine,” assured Willy. “I was never nervous my first time—you know why? I kept one thing in mind. If a problem presented itself, I just rolled along with the punch.”
“W-what kind of problem would happen?” Spencer said.
“I couldn’t tell you. Anything can happen. You just gotta go with the flow, and if a misshap occurs, just deal with it and move on—simple as that. You gotta keep your head; if you do, you'll keep yourself out of trouble.”
Spencer shot yet another jaw-dropping look of awe and admiration for his friend. It irritated Willy when the other losers at school did it; couldn't tell if they wanted to suck his cock in the literal or figurative definition, but with Spencer it was an exception, for it made him feel like a king.
“You make anything sound as simple as that, Willy. My problem is I can’t be as...cool as you are right now. How do you do it? How do you feel so loose and just play your cards like it was nothing? What’s your secret, dude?”
Willy grinned.
“The real trick is, they say the date is all about the lady, well in a way it’s sort of true, but essentially, the date is really all about you. You gotta go up there and represent! Show her your crazy inner-self. Show her the guy that you talk to in the mirror all the time when you’re all by your lonesome and no one's around. Just break down that wall that tries filtering out any obnoxiousness or any false opinions, bad traits, whatever. Be yourself, that’s what they mean when they say be yourself, man. Stick with my strategy and you’ll be on a roll, my homie. Trust me on this.”
He managed to stretch across a smile with his tucked-in lips, nodding. With such little words, Spencer could understand where he was coming from. He took a deep, long breath and exhaled slowly. It will be alright after all. It’ll work. Then something else hit him.
“Are you sure I look okay?” Spencer said.
“Spense, you look like a total fox! Would you just please try to chill out?”
He looked down at his blue-and-purple striped polo T-shirt and brown corduroys. He flipped his passenger-side roof mirror down to check his finely-combed fair hair; at least that should stand out best as far as personality goes for outward appearances.
“Have it be all about me,” repeated Spencer, more to himself than to Willy.
“Yeah; let your sense of humor break free. Show her your style, just hang loose, go with the flow, and then…she’s all yours. And that’s our goal, my brother. I know you got a party animal in there somewhere. All you gotta do is uncage that fucker. It's easy!”
Spencer closed his eyes and took another deep breath. His words and wisdom brought confidence with the snap of a finger. Of course he could do this. And he would!
“Alright,” Spencer said, nodding. “I’m with you, man. I’m gonna show her the side of me that no one’s ever seen before.”
“Fuckin' A, you are. I like this attitude now!”
He was curious about it since he was a child, and yet had not broken the cherry that held firm within his spirit. There it was, lying heavy in his chest where his heart was; but the way his mood was swinging now, the way the evening was going and how sure he was that this night would be a success, he could now see how thin and fragile that cherry was turning into and could already see the cracks bursting and branching throughout the surface like an old, ancient aging vase. When it would be over, it would be gone and he would wake up a god.
“It’s gonna be unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, man,” Willy said, grinning as he watched the road unwind through the beam of the headlights. “Think of it as a drug that’s free of doing any physical damage; it might affect you mentally, but that’s only if you let it. People take drugs to quote-unquote ‘make their pain go away’; to focus on something else other than the shit they’re forced to deal with on a day-to-day basis. This shit is stronger than the most popular Mary Jane in Tijuana, bests the finest cocaine they distribute in Columbia; makes the best heroine in…the world look like a fucking joke, man. After you do this, you can take all that shit and none of it will have any affect, any affect whatsoever like what this will do for you, and that’s a guarantee.”
Spencer felt his face weigh down on him from the blush; he struggled to ask the next question.
“You don't think twenty-one is too old for a first time?”
Willy snorted. Spencer wanted a pillow to bury his head underneath.
“Spence, I may have had my first at fourteen, but that don't mean shit. Age is a number, dude. A fucking number. That virginity hoopla is overrated anyhow. You know, I never understood that. Where, who and at what point in our evolving society e
ver said that you're only a well-respected, rewarding individual only if you've popped your cherry somewhere in your early teens? Regardless that you attend school, have a decent job, you speak well, you have excellent manners, you're smart, fun, funny guy; have goals and ambitions for your future—if you've never split cherry oak, none of that matters, you're just another sad douche? It's stupid. Spence, it's a retarded thing to worry about.”
Spencer blinked, saying nothing, letting the words sink in. It brought him ease.
“You're right as always, Playboy Willy.”
“You bet I am. Just chill out. Your brand new life, your emerging, your rebirth, your next step in evolution...begins tonight.”
Spencer kept his stare on at the side of Willy’s face for what felt like hours. He was told that this would be a lot of things, but this was the first description he ever heard about it.
He slowly panned his gaze to the windshield and then back outside. Behind his hazel eyes he could envision how the routine would play out, and how his emotions were going to morph into place as the plan would progress. It was going to be great. They were going to have enjoy a nice conversation during a lovely dinner and take a trip to the carnival; he would charm her with his talk of school and golf and what stocks and bonds he planned to invest in, anything that brought him to his comfort level he would discuss with her and would help him bring him out of his shell. She would do the same, and he would listen, therefore making a connection, which he knew would fasten and click together nice and firm. Now that she would be in his hands, she and he would retire to a nice, comfortable location. Perhaps there would be a drink or two, but definitely not too many, that would just be hostile. He had to remember to keep smiling, he had a good row of teeth and from what he learned, that’s one thing girls were picky over, were teeth, so he was covered on that. He would smile, she would smile, they would embrace in a kiss—oh yes, Spencer could already feel that special drug violate his system, running rampantly through his veins as he pictured it...only a tip of the iceberg so far. Then he would remove his shirt, she would take off hers, unhook the bra to reveal her breasts—Spencer’s heart began to pump wildly—he would ease her on her back, remember to remain calm, take position…
…and then reach for the shank pocketed in his back pocket and then jab that motherfucker right down through her breastplate without any thought or hesitation, watching her face, her eyes as he did it. He would stab, he would stab deep, he would stab deep and then twist…
The eyes! Oh how it looked in his imagination! The disbelief, the fear, the dread, the submissiveness, the look that told him she knew she had been looking into the eyes of a god!
Spencer let the imaginary feeling take him over and he lay back in his seat, stretching a smile across his lips as he continued to look on outside as if he had just taken a hit of some of the finest shit money could buy.