My experience with sex is very limited. But thanks to all my friends I’m able to tell you everything you need to know about the “late night, last minute bang”. The first thing that you should know is that you always, always, smell your friend’s vagina. Trust me, I was just as surprised upon finding this out. My dear friend (literally) wiped herself with a single digit, looked at me, and said, “Mikaela, I need you to do me a favor.”
I’d do anything for my friends. I know how terrible they are but I’d die for them. It’s a terrible thing to be so attached to someone while they’re running full speed down a deep slope. I’d gladly find myself in a hospital room with them, half-dead, and complaining about the terrible fluorescent lights (which are ruining the selfies).
I’m even willing to sniff one of my best friends’ vagina. Disgusting, I know, but it didn’t even smell. The DIY PH balance test earned an A and she was able to pull up her Victoria’s Secret thong with peace of mind. Later she disappeared into the night and a couple of hours later she returned with a flushed face.
She barely ever spoke to the guy again.
The thing is, this is one of my tamer friends. I’m surrounded by amazing women. I mean it. I love how sexually deviant they are; it gives me life. They continue to inspire me to, slowly but surely, release my inner sex prowess. Being friends with women is the most magical thing (aside from unicorns and Leonardo DiCapro) and I’m a firm believer that every woman should have three other female best friends. It’s a perfect balance.
One of my best friend and I’s favorite activities is going to a park in the town over. It’s called “The Imagination Station” and I’m pretty sure every town in the Midwest has one. You go to “The Imagination Station” for four reasons:
- You need to smoke weed
- You need to have sex
- You need to get away from your parents
- You’re out of ideas
Living in the Midwest is boring – especially in Indiana and being under 21. When the town you’re born into is famous for an array of bar scenes and churches, your entertainment is strictly limited to Applebee’s and the Imagination Station.
My best friend (throughout this series we'll refer to her as "Clara") and I were at the Imagination Station one night. It was in the summer, therefore everyone from college was hooking up with their high school boyfriends/girlfriends (naturally). Clara and I usually migrated to the basketball court, mostly because it was the one place that was lit up so late at night.
We were having some dumb conversation, sitting criss-cross-applesauce, when we spot a couple making out in a car.
Despite being friends with hoes (it’s fine – they know they are) and attending the annual Pride Festival twice in a row, I’ve only seen public make-out sessions twice in my life. I have not attended any house parties (or barely any parties in general) so my fascination with PDA is notorious. I told Clara to look over.
She just laughed and said, “Damn girl, get it!”
Of course, me being me, I asked if they were going to have sex. But Clara kept giving me formulas. She explained “why they weren’t in the right position for car sex” and “there’s too many people around, so no.” I mean, how would I have known? I wasn’t experienced with car/public sex.
I had my first kiss at eighteen. I was a late bloomer. Before this, I didn’t know the dynamics of the process. For instance, where the hell did I put my hands? Where did he put his? All of this was answered in a boy’s bedroom at 11:30 in the evening.
His parents were sleeping in the next room and he had locked his door. I knew something was going to happen because the night was unplanned and I was fighting with my dad (activating rebellious mode). This guy won’t have a name because we don’t even acknowledge each other’s existence anymore. I have a deep respect for him for not giving two single shits (pardon my French) and though I don’t either, it’s still a fun story. I like to tell it.
The kiss was uneventful in every way other than the fact that it happened. He grabbed me by the face without warning. He was wearing sweatpants, I was in high-waisted jeans. We kissed for maybe five minutes before I heard his dad walking towards his room.
After I had adjusted myself (I was felt up for the first time that night – I was also wearing a sports bra. Whoops.) he asked, “Where are my shoes?” I kid you not, these were his first words. For some reason, I found that incredibly hot. It was so passive, so cool. He tucked a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket and took me back to my friend’s house. On the drive there he ran a hand through his bleached hair and I swooned.
I swooned but we fizzled. We fizzled but that was just the beginning of a new me, someone who wasn't afraid to walk in the no man's land between who I was and who I strove to be.
Oh, no.
This was just the beginning.
