How I Didn’t Lose My Virginity

This is a true story. Anybody who knows me and reads it will probably think, Well, that explains a lot. There are probably other people to whom similar things have happened. I hope not.

When I was 18, I still hadn't had sex, and it seemed like it would be forever before I would. Naturally, I was trying like mad. I was trying like mad to do other things, too, like shave, or have a need to. "You gotta just put the razor on there and shave it, man. It'll grow," said one friend.

"Nah, man, you gotta get yourself some pussy. That'll make it grow," said another.

"Can you help me out with that?" I asked this fellow, whose name was Phil. He was tall and black and handsome, a few years older than me, and apparently getting all the pussy he could handle. At least he said so.

"Well, I don't know, man. I'll see. You know, I know this chick in Queens, she might be able to do somethin' for you. I'll check it out."

The time was 1969. All around me a sexual revolution was taking place, and I felt like I was being held back from combat. In New York, which has always seemed to have a disproportionate share of the world's most beautiful women, the anxiety was heightened. I would walk the city's streets in the summertime and see golden girls with long, straight blond hair down to their waists, with skintight hiphuggers and dimpled backs and flowered shirts tied around their midriffs. There would be black girls with jet-black Afros and short, short minidresses, white go-go boots and skin the color of milk chocolate. Asian girls with almond eyes and golden skin. Spanish girls with ruby lips and dangerous curves and gorgeous asses. The talk about the Spanish girls was that they would let you fuck them in the ass, because they were all Catholic and didn't want to get pregnant, and somehow if they didn't have regular intercourse that meant it wasn't a sin. That was, if you could get in there in the first place.

I remember walking in Times Square on a warm Sunday evening, and stopping to cross the street. There were crowds of people everywhere, and suddenly a woman appeared across the street, waiting for the light to change. Even though she was in the midst of a crowd, she stood out. When she walked toward me, I almost stopped in my tracks. She was beautiful, no, stunning, with long, golden curls piled high atop her head, like a Roman empress, golden skin, a sassy, saucy smile, a thin, taut, muscular body, a low-cut blouse barely covering beautiful breasts, a bare midriff, long legs and a small behind that swayed mightily as she sashayed across the street. She was literally stopping traffic, and both men and women turned to look at her. She exuded confidence and pure sexuality, and it was as though the Red Sea parted to let her through. My gaze was so riveted on her and my head turned so far back to watch her that I almost walked into a car. I thought about her all the rest of that night, and the image of her is still clear in my mind. Because I was so young, I didn't realize until years later that she was a hooker. The realization shocked me at first, but I grew fascinated with it. I often saw women like that in the city, so beautiful and sexy that they took your breath away, but now it was winter, cold and damp, and everyone covered up and didn't show anything.

I was sitting in the park one day and Phil came over from his house across the street. "Hey, what's goin' on, man?" I said.

"Hey," he said, sat down and started rolling a joint.

"So," I said, trying my best to be nonchalant, "did you talk to that girl?"

"Huh? What girl?"

"You know, that one we talked about." Not good.

He paused, then said, "Oh, yeah, yeah, I remember. Nah, I didn't talk to her. But I'm gonna call her and try to hook up. In fact, lemme go do that right now." He got up and went back to his house. I was surprised that he was actually going to do this, and it momentarily displaced the disappointment about the unrolled joint he was taking with him.

A few minutes later he came back over and sat down. "OK, man, we all set. Friday night."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Really? What's up?"

"Yeah, she said come on over and we'll party." He took out his weed and started rolling the joint again.

"All right! That's great," I said. I could barely contain my excitement. Not only was I going to get laid for the first time, I was also going to get high. We talked about a lot of things but not Friday night, because I wanted to be cool and not look too anxious. We smoked and laughed and finally I said, "So what's this chick like?"

"Oh, she's fine, man. Blonde. She's small, thin. Got long hair, and them small titties. But nice, you know. Yeah, you'll like her."

I was beside myself with joy. We laughed some more, from the weed and the joking and the cold and the nervousness. I could feel the wetness in my pants. I couldn't wait.

Friday night came and I was ready, showered up, splashed with English Leather, wearing an outfit I thought was cool but which today would be in the category of All-Time Doofuses From Your High School Yearbook. I went by Phil's and we headed to the subway. The cold made us dance and skip on the way, just to get inside faster. The nervousness made me giddy. Phil had already worked his way through part of a six-pack, and he handed me a can. "Here, man, this'll tighten you up," he said. What I really needed was to be loosened up, and this would get me started. But I knew what he meant. I was really amazed that he was going through all this for me, a skinny, nerdy little white boy who didn't mean a damn thing to him. It made me admire him and want to be like him. I wondered what, if anything, he'd be getting out of the deal. Maybe he was going to get some too? Wait - maybe he was going to go first and I'd have to ... I didn't even want to think about it. But I knew I had an image to project tonight, and I walked and joked like a guy who had done this a hundred times, instead of never.

The subway ride would be short, but as usual, we had to wait for the train. All the while we made small talk, but not about the evening's plan. The ride took about 20 minutes and we arrived at a stop somewhere in Queens near the water, Rockaway or somewhere. I wasn't familiar with the area. When we got on the street it was even colder because of the ocean nearby. "We gotta walk a while," Phil said. We walked for blocks and blocks, through a part of New York I'd never seen. It was bleak and desolate, surprising especially for a Friday night. Probably too cold for anyone to come out, except two horny idiots.

Finally we turned a corner onto a long, deserted street. Seemingly out of nowhere, down at the end, loomed two rows of houses, one on each side, and what looked like the water. Was it a pier? I couldn't make it out. As we walked it came into focus. The end of the street was indeed the end of a pier. The houses, which looked more like trailers or bungalows, were set on the water. They didn't look habitable, but there were people in them, laughing, arguing, playing music. Whatever else they were doing, they weren't doing it neatly. It looked like a trailer park on skis, or a water park for white trash.

"Here it is," Phil said. We were at a shack made of corrugated metal, right on the water. The sidewalk leading up to it seemed like it should have been swaying with the waves like a dock, but it was solid. Phil knocked and we waited as the bitter wind howled. The door opened and we stepped in. I expected the shack to give when we stepped in, like a boat, but it stood firm. It was dark inside, the only light coming from another room, and warm, much warmer than I expected, but with a stale smell, like a window hadn't been opened in a few years. We were in a living room, and a man was standing in front of us. Who the hell is this guy, I thought. Not good.

"This is Bill," Phil said to me. "He's Jen's uncle." I shook hands with the man. He was maybe forty, with a brown pompadour, a thick moustache and ruddy skin, which at first I thought he got from constantly being in this cold, wet climate. Then I got a whiff of him, the smell of the permanently soused.

"Come on in, fellas," he said, walking inside.

The darkness of the living room gave way to the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen, its sink full of dirty dishes. The sink dripped and the stove was laden with pots and pans with leftover meals encrusted on them. The walls had water stains, the blinds were grimy and broken and the linoleum was cracked and missing tiles. The aluminum and Formica table and chair set, so common then, looked like it had been in place for 20 years. It was about as wretched a kitchen as you could imagine.

The garish light allowed me to examine Bill close up. He was graying around the temples, his skin was pockmarked and his nose was full of broken blood vessels, a sure giveaway. His hands were rough, like a laborer's, and they shook, like a drunk's. He was burly and beer-bellied and had a "Mother" tattoo on his bicep. Very original. I half expected to see "Fucker" on the other.

"Can I get youse a beer?" he asked. We accepted, but when he offered a glass, I said, "That's OK, I like to drink it out of the bottle."

"That's a man's way," he said and laughed, a rheumy cough that turned into a full-fledged attack of phlegm. He got us each a Pabst Blue Ribbon, the dishwater of bottled beer. "Here's to you guys," he said, and we clinked our bottles together. I made sure I kept the lip far back and hit the bottom.

"So where's Jenny?" Phil asked.

"Oh, she ain't home," said Bill. Ah, shit, I thought. "She'll be here in a little while." OK, better.

"Yeah, it's cold out tonight," he said. "Cold as a witch's titty." He coughed that disgusting wet laugh again and we laughed too.

"Must get real cold out here on the water," Phil said.

"Yeah, but ya know it ain't too bad," Bill said. "We keep the heat turned up, keep it nice and warm in here. That's why we get sick a lot, goin' in and out o' the cold, then the heat, then the cold." He coughed again. I began to feel like I was going to come down with typhoid fever any minute. "Ya know, you got a nice little chickie ta keep ya warm, ya don't mind it too much." More laughter. We had no choice but to join in.

I couldn't see the rest of the apartment from the glare and where we sat, and I was glad. I shuddered to think what might be in there, what forms of urban wildlife might be scurrying around in the dark. I hated being in this place, but sitting at this table, warm after being out in the freezing dark, didn't seem too bad, compared to what the rest of the night might hold.

Phil took out a bag of weed, rolled a joint and lit it. "You want some?" he said to Bill, offering it.

"Nah, thanks, youse ga 'head," he said. "It never did nuttin' for me, ya know? I mean, I don't mind if youse want it. I'm perfectly content wit' my Pabst Blue Ribbon." I was really relieved that we wouldn't be wrapping our lips around the same saliva-moistened cigarette.

We talked awhile about various things, baseball, cars, women. Actually Phil and Bill did most of the talking, because I didn't really know enough about any of those subjects to make a meaningful contribution. Not that either of these guys would have known what a meaningful contribution really sounded like, or what to make of it. Bill went on endlessly about his job in construction, and various other subjects I can't remember, and couldn't as soon as he finished talking about them, because of the sheer boredom of it. I just wanted this girl to come home and get the party started. I looked at Phil a couple of times, trying to catch his eye and signal my impatience, but he didn't take the hint. Finally, as we were beginning to get really stoned, out of the blue he just asked, "So when's Jen supposed to get here?"

"Ah, I don't know, she'll be here. She had ta woik. She'll be here soon."

"Oh, yeah? I didn't know she worked. What's she doin'?"

"I don't know. Cosmetology, some shit."

"That's good," said Phil. "You can make a lot of money doin' that."

"I don't care, long as she brings somethin' home ta help wit' the rent. She could be a fuckin' hooker, all I care, long as she brings somethin' home."

We smiled. There wasn't really much else to do.

"Not that I want her ta be a hooker or nuttin', I'm just sayin'."

"No, I hear ya," said Phil.

The evening wore on and Bill droned on. At one point, for some reason, God knows why or how, the subject got onto homosexuals. "Nah, I ain't got nuttin' against 'em," Bill said. "Live and let live, I say. But I ain't never touched one, and I don't want them touchin' me. Fact, I used to woik for a guy who was one. Nice guy, but, y'know, a fag. It was on a construction job, he was the owner o' the company. How he got ta be the owner I don't know. Maybe he turned after, or somethin'. Anyhow his secretary, anudder fag, says ta me, 'Ya know, Bill,' he likes you.' I says, 'Izzat so?' He says, 'Yeah, no kiddin'. Ya know, he wants ta give ya a job.' 'Give me a job?' I says. 'What, a blow job? I already got a job.' 'No, he wants ta make ya his right-hand man.' 'His right-hand man? Whatsat mean? I gotta do 'im wit' my right hand?' 'No,' he says. 'All ya gotta do is, like, be his valet, ya know, get his stuff ready. Then at night,' he says, 'all ya gotta do is pop 'im in the poop tube.' I says, 'What? All I gotta do is pop 'im in the poop tube?' 'That's right,' he says. I says, 'Well lemme ask you somethin'. What happens if he comes home one night and wants ta change places?' He didn't have no answer for that."

Actually, neither did we. We just sat there stunned, with dumb grins on our faces.

I had to go to the bathroom but I was holding it in, thinking that as soon as Jen arrived, I could go, then be ready for action. But I couldn't hold out much longer, from the beer and the onslaught of Bill's stories. "Um, where's the bathroom?" I asked.

"Oh, sure, kid, ya gotta go to the bathroom?"

Now Bill had this working-class way of speaking, the tough-guy, streetwise accent and lingo. I was particularly amused by his pronunciation of "bathroom." Imagine pronouncing the first syllable without the "h," almost like "bad," then hooking the "t" to the "room" to make "troom." "Bad-troom." Bill gave it an extra little flourish by spraying a few stray flecks of spittle every time he said it. "Yeah, just go right outta the kitchen, straight ahead, the bad-troom's onna left." I stumbled a bit as I walked out of the bright glare into the dark room, hoping I wouldn't trip on a rug or step on a rat. I felt along the wall, which was greasy, till I found the doorway. The door was almost closed. I pushed it in and was hit by two sensations: cold - the window was open - and a terrible stench.

I felt along the wall for the light and switched it on. I looked down to see the filthiest bad-troom you could ever imagine. The sink was caked with black and I couldn't see myself in the mirror, but even that was nothing compared with the toilet. It was full - I mean to the brim - with, well, what toilets are made to be full of. Some of it was fairly fresh. The stink was like walking face-first into a plate-glass window that you didn't see. My instinct was to flee, but I had to pee first, too badly to hold it in, so I had to ignore the smell. As I staggered and gagged and tried to avoid looking down, I was thinking, this chick better be worth it. There was, of course, no water coming out of the sink, but that was probably just as well.

I made my way drunkenly and unhappily through the semi-darkness back to the kitchen, which was like walking from a dark street into a floodlit police station, one that hadn't been cleaned in a few decades. I sat down and picked up my beer, which now seemed about as appetizing as ... well, it doesn't matter.

"Jeez, I forgot to tell ya," Bill said, "da bad-troom, we had a problem wit' da plumbing."

"Yeah, I saw," I said.

"We're waitin' for da plumber, da bastid." Bill's face was thick and pockmarked and pink like an uncooked Irish sausage.

I looked at Phil. He was grinning ear to ear, drunk and stoned. He hadn't gone to the bad-troom yet.

Just them we heard the door open and close, and I glimpsed a young woman in the darkness as she walked quickly into the next room. "Dere's Jen now," said Bill. "Hey, Jen, ya got company. Come and say hello."

The young woman popped her head into the kitchen. "Hi," she said with a big smile. She was very pretty, with frizzy, golden-brown hair, wide brown eyes, golden skin, shiny white teeth and a big grin. She laughed and did a little hop. "I gotta go to the bathroom." Oh, no, I thought, she's not gonna put it down in there, is she? "Did you get that bathroom fixed yet?" She disappeared into the darkness, and I listened but didn't hear any bathroom-like sounds, nor any of any particular dissatisfaction.

"Nah, I'm still waitin' for dat friggin' plumber," Bill yelled. "Friggin' women." He let out a long, hoarse rheumy breath that strived to be a laugh, but only succeeded in filling the air with all the smell of alcohol and none of the flavor. "Come on out and be sociable."

"In a minute," she yelled. I couldn't be sure which room she was yelling from.

Bill got us each another beer, and started in on another of his bizarre stories. But I wasn't listening, because it hardly mattered now; the evening had finally taken on the possibility of fulfilling some of its early promise. I nodded and smiled and hoped we could get some action going before I would have to go to the bathroom again.

At last Jen came into the kitchen. She wore a brown sweater and blue jeans. She was small, short and thin, but perfectly proportioned, with what looked to be small but excellent breasts. "Damn, it's so cold out there," she said. She looked at me and smiled, a look I thought said, Hmm, fresh meat. "Hi, I'm Jen." She extended her hand and I shook it. It was tiny and delicate, not at all like what you would expect of a girl who, um, did ... this sort of thing, or something, I thought.

"Didja eat?" Bill said.

"Yeah, I had some soup," she said. Her eyes widened when she noticed the weed on the table. "Ooh, reefer," she cooed.

"Hey, allow me," Phil said with his unintentionally phoniest suavity, as he reached for the weed to roll a joint.

"Hey, you're allowed," she said, and laughed. Phil and I laughed too. We were very willing to go along with anything she wanted. Before long we were toking away, while Bill prattled on about his boss or the Yankees or some freak he'd encountered.

We spent the better part of an hour talking about various inanities with Jen, who didn't appear to possess an intellect to match her beauty. Every so often she'd give me a come-hither look, just to keep me interested. I could feel the anticipation rising within myself, along with the gas from all that beer. I kept trying to get Phil's attention to catch a hint as to when whatever was going to happen would get started.

Jen got up and disappeared into the darkness again, presumably to her room. Bill was in the middle of a long, drunken story and I nudged Phil with my foot, and nodded in the direction of the other room. He took the hint and got up in the middle of Bill's story to find out what was going on. Bill just kept rolling through, uninterrupted and unfazed, through the crescendo leading to the denouement and finally the coda. Once or twice it looked like his eyes rolled back in his head, but his mouth kept moving independently, slurring and eventually sputtering to a halt. He didn't notice that Phil had left the room, or that he had come back. He got up himself to go to the bad-troom.

"What's goin' on?" I said anxiously, hoping to could slip into Jen's room before the old sot got back.

"Ah, nothin', man," said Phil. "She got her period, you know? She said she can't do nothin' tonight. Sorry, man."