Essay / October 2016 / Patricia May

Sex Ed: A Comprehensive Timeline of the People Who’ve Kinda Been Inside of Me

Let’s talk about sex. Because your health teacher definitely skated over it, and your has-been high school friends in the proverbial locker room didn’t actually know shit. That being said, I won’t try and draw you a map to the clitoris (although God knows most of y’all need one), because this isn’t that kind of sex talk. It’s more of a personal anthology of awkward sexual experiences, and not just with boys!

In fact, just to prove that I’m not man-hating all up in this bizznitch, here’s my first story:


So, scene: I’m fourteen. My mom made me commit to going to youth group because she caught me with a booze. I raided her liquor cabinet and mixed every spirit into a plastic bottle #yolo #youngwildfree. I didn’t want her to tell my dad so I made sure to not to make much of a fuss, even though at this age I considered all things Jesus absolute bullshit (sorry God).

I try and participate in some balloon games. I’m pretty stoned, and not in the Biblical sense. I learned some stuff. Then I met the cool girl with all the tattoos. Her latest one, a white heart on the flesh between her thumb and pointer, was our conversation starter.

She ended up being my “mentor.”

She also ended up being my “first.”

The weird thing was, that even with a ten year age gap, this was a lesbionic first for the both of us. She’s got a kid now. And a husband. That to me is even weirder.


Scene: I’m fifteen and waiting at the train station in the downtown of some suburban pit. I’m waiting for a kid who’s name I forgot, but I remember his Jeep: A black, canvas wrangler. He makes me wait a short while, but I’m too excited to hold this against him, and time seems to go by awfully fast when you’re waiting on a blind date.

He was shorter than me, which is something I’m so used to that I was entirely unphased. I hopped in and suffered through series of small talks as benign as the topical tumor I had excised a month earlier.

Anyway, we’re on our way to the movies. We get there. I buy my own ticket because feminism. I steal half his popcorn and drink his soda. Everything was great. The movie sucked.

Then, we leave. We get in the car. He drives me to a parking lot. Sketch.

I was uncomfortable, but I didn’t know I was allowed to be. I tried to maintain a cool air and seem like I was about this whole deep-talk-in-an-abandoned-lot thing, but I wasn’t. We made out. He tried to put his hand up my shirt and down my pants and I wasn’t about that. He hit me. I got punched in the backseat of a Jeep Wrangler because I didn’t want to fuck him there on the first date.

When he finally drove me home, or rather, when he dropped me off in a middle school parking lot and left, I called my mom and she was pissed. She picked me up. I waited to cry (because I’m a little bitch) until I closed the door behind me, and she wasn’t so mad anymore.

My mom had to deal with a lot.

Like when I actually had sex with a kid and she had to take me to buy Plan B the next morning. She drove us a whole thirty minutes, two towns over, just to make sure we wouldn’t run into anyone. She had me wait in the car too. Props mom.


Scene: I’m at a house party, though it only qualifies as such because there are more than eight people. We’re all good friends. I’m the only girl. Go me.

We play pong in the garage. There were three bongs on the table, they were our obstacles. We played and played. Then we went and smoked on a trampoline. One boy’s parents weren’t home and so we knew we had the night to ourselves.

One boy was cute. I’d known him since I was fourteen and I was attracted to him. I’d flirt. Blow smoke in his face. Let him touch me and bump him back. We went back to my place. Bad idea.

He’d been drinking and I was young and inexperienced, or most accurately, stupid.

I straight up mounted this bad boy, and I shit you not, whipped out my Blackberry and played snake behind his back for fifteen minutes. When he finished, he passed out, and I took a shower. The next morning he jumped out my window so as to not get caught by any real grownups.

Next there was college. Oh boy. I won’t remember them all. I’ll just bare my soul about the worst ones.


Scene: The cafeteria. He said his name was Fernando. I believed him. I didn’t find out until months later his name was actually not Fernando.

I met him at his place. He didn’t have protection. We used a Stop & Shop shopping bag for all of thirty seconds.

WOULD NOT RECOMMEND.

He wanted to cuddle. I left. “Let me know when you’re actually ready to go.” He gave me a thumbs up.

We eventually made things happen. It was alright.

I always left afterwards.

Lucky number two lived in my dorm and I actually liked him a lot. He had a rough life. He told me about it. He trusted me with it. He had an older sister so I thought maybe he had some inner knowledge into the workings of women that would somehow make him perfect for me.

He was a terrible kisser. Though we only got to do it once.

When I was having an awful time on a bad batch of molly, he stayed with me while my friends went out and gave me a piggy back ride back to my bed. He was so freaking sweet.

Even though we lived three doors down from one another, I pretty much never saw him again after we did the dirty deed. After we were done I wrapped the sack and slingshotted it into the trash. I made it, which definitely should’ve been an impressive feat on its own. Maybe I’m just awful in bed.

My friends heard otherwise.

One girl heard and asked if I would help out her friend who was coming to visit. The school he went to was apparently void of pretty girls. I genuinely sympathized with him.

While we were all hanging out, I made some weird winky-eyebrow thing with my face and we fucked, not so subtly, into the other room. Wham and bam, I blew him away. Haha. Get it?

I left and sat down again with my friends, wiped the corners of my mouth and continued on with the conversation. My friends didn’t even notice us gone.

Scene: Airplane bathroom. I made the mile high club. I bang my head on the changing table over the toilet. I pull up my pants from my ankles. Then I open the door and am met with the furious stare of an old woman wearing a hijab. I definitely committed like twenty-six cultural faux pas and a couple felonies. I couldn’t help it, I burst laughing and skipped to my seat, leaving my poor partner in the bathroom to deal with that woman’s scorn.

Ten minutes later he makes it back to his seat, furious. He calls me a fuck-up and tells me I’m a sketch. Prior to this ordeal I gave him a handjob under the blankets, over the pants, next to a poor old man who was snoring in his seat.

I’m awful. It’s ok. You can think so. This isn’t actually to blast men. This whole piece is about how much I hate myself. Don’t believe me? Want to comfort me?

Well, this whole time I’m being railed in an airplane bathroom, I have yet to end things with the guy I’ve been railing back home. The worser part? I didn’t care. I may just be a sociopath. Or maybe not. I don’t know.

In fact, this work of art has absolutely no educational value. It’s my testimony.

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