BOYS #4

Name: Cliff

Age: 19

Location: Las Vegas

Status: Neighborhood rich kid

Boundary Crossed: Intercourse

My first period brought with it a whole new set of problems. One was that I still had my hymen. It was a thin, flat layer of flesh completely blocking my opening, making it impossible to use tampons. I would push at it until it hurt, but it still wouldn’t give way. I even called my dad’s ex, Vivian, but she was also stumped.

The other problem was that new kinds of hormones began to surge through my body, impairing all mental functioning. I walked around with a constant craving to be penetrated.

I had met some older boys in the neighborhood who were having a party, so I decided to try my luck there and see if I could solve two problems with one man. I saved my money and bought a slinky black tube dress, which I wore with black stockings. Then I called my best friends and we pooled our money, rented a limo, and went out to celebrate the loss of my virginity before the fact.

Thanks to the memory of my grandmother’s coffee-table wipeout, I wasn’t a big drinker. But I made an exception for this special occasion. I downed seven tequila shots over the course of the night and tried to act like the sexpot I thought I looked like. The target of my lust was the leader of the pack, Cliff, a rich pretty boy who had recently wrapped his dad’s Porsche around a tree. I was only fifteen and a half, but I was finally starting to fill out, so I felt like the star of the whole party.

All night long Cliff worked me —teasing me, feeding me shots, telling me how beautiful I was, leaving his hand on my waist a little too long. Eventually, he led me to the bathroom. He pinned me against the wall, and we started making out.

His hands were all over my body —squeezing my breasts, my hips, my ass. He grabbed my stockings around the thigh and ripped a huge hole. Then he pushed me backward onto the toilet, lifted my dress, and started eating me out.

He stood up, unzipped his pants, and began a difficult balancing act. He steadied himself with one hand against the wall, lowered his penis into range with the other hand, and poked at my leg, trying to maneuver through the hole in my stocking. It was all happening too fast. That’s when I realized: This was it. I was going to lose my virginity forever to this drunk homing missile. My next thought was, “This isn’t right. I can’t do this.”

I started to panic. The word began building in my head before it exploded out of my mouth in a short, sharp scream: “Stop!”

He jumped back, shocked, and then testily zipped up. When we walked out of the bathroom, all my friends were gone. They had taken the limo and left me, assuming I was getting what I had gone there for. Now I was stuck. I had planned to sleep over at a friend’s house. But I couldn’t just show up at her place and wake her parents. And I couldn’t call my dad to pick me up at a party full of college-age guys. Besides, I was wasted.

So I drank a little more, considered my plight, and then asked Cliff to drive me home.

“Sure,” he said. “No problem. Jeff can give you a lift.”

We climbed into the backseat of his friend’s truck and made out the whole ride. I loved every moment, because it felt like I was being accepted and initiated into this cool adult world. Now I know better.

When the truck stopped and we got out, we weren’t at my house at all. We were in front of Cliff’s. “You can stay in my brother’s bed,” he said. “He’s out of town.”

By then, the last two shots of tequila had kicked in. I was not only too trashed to complain coherently, but too trashed to walk. I kept collapsing on his lawn and slurring gibberish. He picked me up and carried me inside. I shut my eyes until I heard a deep gurgle. He had dropped me onto a cheap, black lacquer waterbed. I looked at the sheets: they were a hideous collage of red and blue stars. Even though I was shit-faced, I remember thinking how disgusting his bed was. I just wasn’t in the mood anymore. He kissed me. I was grossed out. And that’s the last thing I remember.

When I woke up, I was completely naked. I looked down at my body and saw a huge pool of blood.

“Oh my God,” I thought. “That bastard stabbed me.”

It was so eerily still in the room, with Cliff sleeping noiselessly, I thought for a moment that I was dead. Then I realized what had happened.

I grabbed a scratchy wool blanket at the foot of his bed and gently lifted myself up, trying not to create a wave large enough to wake him. The only decoration in the room was a poster of a woman in ripped jeans with ultra-green eyes and cut-off jeans. The first thing I wanted to do was not to run out of the house screaming, but to check and see if my objective had at least been accomplished.

I crept into the bathroom and sat on the toilet. Dried blood streaked down my legs to below my knees. When I tinkled, it stung so badly my body curled like a burning strip of paper. Afterward, I tentatively put a finger inside. There was no resistance. I pushed it in further and felt, for the first time, my cervix. Was I upset at having been fucked while passed out? Hell no. I was ecstatic: my hymen was gone. And it must have been quite a feat for valiant Cliff because, judging by the blood everywhere, it was a pretty strong membrane.

Not having had a mother figure in my life, the thought that this was a textbook case of date rape never even crossed my mind. I thought it was a good thing, the start of a new life. And, like an idiot, I fell in love with the guy who had ignominiously given me this new life.

So we started dating. The next time I was in his bedroom, I asked about the poster of the gorgeous woman with the colorized green eyes. He said it was Traci Lords. I had no idea who she was. I just knew I wanted to be that gorgeous.

Once I had conscious sex with Cliff for the first time, I was a convert. I loved it. It was all I thought about. I would call him every night, begging him to come over and take me into the bushes behind my house and fuck. I don’t know what was going on in my body: My hormones were having a fucking party. Seven times a day was not enough. The most unexpected side effect was that I started having mother pains: an intense desire to have a baby overwhelmed me. Even at the time, I understood that it was a normal, evolutionary instinct —that’s what sex is for, after all— and was able to repress it as I acted out my innocent, seemingly unquenchable desires.

But one night when Cliff and I had plans, he didn’t show up. I called, and no one answered the phone. So I decided to drop by his house. I buzzed the bell; nobody answered. However, the door was unlocked, so I walked in. I climbed the stairs to his bedroom and pushed open the door. And there he was, in bed with another girl —a girl I knew.

I looked at them. They looked at me. No one spoke a word. I just turned around, shut the door behind me, left the house, and vowed to get revenge. I wasn’t hurt, because the love I felt for him was an illusion anyway. I just regretted having lost my virginity to this asshole, and wished that my period had come a month earlier so I could have lost it to a guy I actually cared about.

The second I returned home, the phone was ringing. It was Cliff, groveling, telling me that he was so sorry and I was his girl and he loved me. I was completely over him.

Three weeks later, I went to a party at his house. There were about two hundred people there, including his best friend, Owen, a blond, six-foot-four-inch gymnast and surfer. I had a thing for surfer boys, but I didn’t want to have sex with him because he had a reputation for having a really big dick. So, after I prepared with the usual shots of tequila, I took Owen by the hand and dragged him into Cliff’s bedroom. We rolled around on the waterbed, making out.

Before Cliff, everything I had ever done —every piece of myself I had ever given a man— was because it was something I had wanted to do with someone I felt an emotional connection to. But now that he had hurt me, it was on. Sexuality became a tool for so much more than just connecting with a boy I was attracted to. I realized it could serve any purpose I needed. It was a weapon I could exploit mercilessly. So, just to mess with Cliff, I continued to see Owen.

Cliff picked a fight with Owen a few days later, but since Owen had a good fifty pounds and six inches on him, he pretty much squished Cliff. Not long afterward, Cliff went off the deep end: he got addicted to drugs and ended up in prison for dealing.

As for Owen, even though we dated, I never actually had sex with him. There was no way that was going to happen: his thing was so thick it took two hands to encircle and so long it stretched past his belly button.

Somehow, I’ve always ended up dating guys with big dicks. I guess I have a radar for them.