The V card trick: Part III

Wondering why the hell I’m talking about teenage sexcapades? Start with Part I and Part II.

Also, possibly NSFW because, y’know, teenage sexcapades…

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It is dusk on a warm Saturday in late spring, and this is happening.

The Spaniard and I told our parents that we were going out for dinner and a movie. That was, of course, a lie. Oh we saw the movie, attending an earlier showing so we could give plausible reviews of it if asked. But as for dinner, well; what we’re really hungry for isn’t on any respectable restaurant’s menu.

So our desires have led us here instead, into the woods.

How very Sondheim of them.

Somewhere in the sprawling expanse of Pacific Spirit Park, in a small clearing off the beaten track enough to avoid easy discovery, I am watching The Spaniard set the stage for our first intimate encounter together.

Only one of us knows its true significance.

I am not nervous, per se. From the moment we set foot in the forest, a kind of serene calm descended over me. This is right, my mind murmured approvingly. This is the place.

But as The Spaniard spreads out a large plaid blanket on the mossy ground, I find I am curious in a detached sort of way. Gossip has gotten me this far, but words are one thing, actions are another. Can I live up to the lie I have perpetuated? Will my inexperience give me away?

The Spaniard shoots me a mischievous grin as he pulls a half dozen votive candles in glass holders out of his backpack and begins lighting them, and I feel a sudden rush of affection for this boy, the unwitting male lead in the grand finale of my great deception. Realizing I’m not giving him my full attention, I tell the clinical side of my brain to go stuff itself. I’m getting laid, not conducting a scientific study.

With a final flourish, The Spaniard tosses a couple of condoms packaged in silver onto the blanket and puts the empty backpack aside. He removes his shoes, steps onto the blanket and holds out his hand, eyes sparkling. I slip my own shoes off and join him with a smile.

We get right to undressing each other, slowly, deliberately. Hands run through hair, fingers trace lines and curves. Our bare skin glows by candlelight, by moonlight. Our lips meet over and over again.

It all feels so natural, so familiar, that I almost forget I have never done this before.

The Spaniard pulls me gently down onto the blanket. He reaches briefly to one side to grab a condom, and I take a moment to admire his erect cock as he rolls the condom on. To this day, it is still one of the most attractive male members I have ever seen.

And then I am on my back with The Spaniard hovering over me, his dark eyes staring into mine, seeking permission.

I nod my assent, and he plunges in.

I do not gasp. I do not cry out. I do not have an italicized Anastasia Steele holy cow moment.

On the contrary, after a few strokes it’s all I can do to keep from laughing aloud. This is it? This is what the big fuss is about?

I get it, Amélie, I get it.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s enjoyable and all. Certainly a refreshing departure from seducing my own hands. And every possible criterion needed to create a beautiful, romantic farewell to my V card has been met.

It just suddenly all seems so silly.

Okay, so I’m not exactly your stereotypical virgin. I’ve been there and done that with virtually everything remotely phallic I could find except an actual penis. But shouldn’t this feel like it means…something?

I do not feel as if I have reached a milestone. I am not engaged in some sacred (or profane), life-changing rite of passage. I am no more of a woman now than I was five seconds ago. We are just two horny teenagers boning away in the woods.

I can’t help but imagine my V card rolling its eyes as it departs. “Hey, look, you’re fucking. Good job,” it calls sarcastically from a tree branch above our rhythmic lovemaking. “Thanks for that stellar sendoff, NOT. Whatever. I’m outta here. Have a nice life.”

It takes me a moment to realize that I have achieved exactly what I intended.

No fuss.
No fanfare.
Just sex.

So why the fuck am I wasting my time splitting hairs over a societal expectation I never wanted any part of in the first place?

Because you’re an idiot, Nutty, my brain supplies helpfully.
You wanted sex for the sake of sex, and you’re having that. Right now. And instead of being present for it, you’re waxing philosophical. Don’t we have better things to think about? Like, y’know, THE ACTUAL SEX THAT YOU’RE HAVING?

Oh, right. Heh. I am kinda in the middle of something, aren’t I?

The Spaniard, blissfully unaware of my inner monologue, takes me by surprise and rolls us over so I’m on top. Without warning, I am in control. If there was anything I needed to snap me back to reality, this was it. It briefly crosses my mind that I have no idea what I’m doing, but I banish the thought. It’s not exactly rocket science, right? And I’ve always been a quick learner when I’m actually paying attention.

He has definitely gotten my full attention.

I watch his face as I tentatively explore different angles and rhythms, gaining confidence with every quiet moan and gasp I tease out of him. He is beautiful in the moonlight, and as I arch my back and raise my face to the night sky in pleasure, I know that I am too. A sense of power wells up in me. My dark hair shines. My skin glows with silver radiance.

To hell with milestones and rites of passage. None of it matters. Tonight, I am a goddess.

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Afterwards, we are in good spirits as we pack up our little love nest. If he has any doubts about the veracity of my alleged prior experience, he doesn’t voice them. We laughingly compare mosquito bites in unmentionable places as we get dressed, and look each other over for stray bits of moss and any other clingy evidence of our romp in the forest.

Once satisfied that nothing other than flushed cheeks will give us away to our parents, we pick our way back to the trail and wander slowly back to the car, hand in hand.

In the following weeks at school, the rumors don’t take long to spread among our peers. Did you hear? Nutty and The Spaniard are fucking. But the truth is, nobody really cares. Without a V card in play, we’re not front page news. We’re a two sentence blurb buried behind the Classifieds.

All according to plan.