Author’s Note: The girl in this story is only partly real. She has only just started realizing she’s a character in a story that can control her own destiny and this series will chronicle her journey along the way.
“Fuck it. Do you want a cock in you?”
And it’s a big one, the sort an experienced woman dreams of, perhaps, but also the sort of death sentence to a virgin that makes her wonder if sitting on a broadsword would have been a better idea. She already knows the length of it surpasses the length of foot and knowing that, somehow makes the pain breed within her nerve cells.
The internet suggested she sit on top to dull the pain, and he whispers the same to her as he guides her to straddle his hips. The internet assured her that she would not be killed by an unusually large cock, and he’d already laughed about her fears and said, “If a baby can come out there….well…”
The internet told her to press her thumb between her ring finger and middle finger on her left hand to prevent gagging while giving a blowjob–but she had no idea who she could possibly confirm that information with.
The pain delivers a bisecting blow to her that finally matches the way her brain has been splitting over months of smiling to her strict, conservative family and obeying their every whim as if nothing were wrong. Of course they know something is wrong, but they never ask about it and she voices no concern to them and swallows down the truth she longs to fling in their faces, that she has found someone who means more to her than them, than the home and bedroom she has spent the entire span of her 31 years in, and yes someone that means more than God!
The weekend before he’d guided her hand to his cock and she thought things like, oh, it really IS like a steel rod wrapped in velvet. She tried to jerk it off the way he was urging her to but she was afraid of hurting it, so he finished it off and made a mess on her satin camisole that she later cleaned up with warm water and soap.
When she slipped back under the duvet with him, he draped the solid heat of his arm over her shoulders and clapped his hands and said, “Come on, give yourself a wee clap!” Because he knew everything about her and her family and her God, and he knew exactly the worth of what she was in the stages of giving him.
Long past is the safety of teenage fearlessness and arrogance that can destroy a virginity within minutes of an embrace, a young hymen ripping like damp tissue paper. Past thirty meant a hymen rather set in its unmolested way, and a vagina that had never even been introduced to the world of vaginal masturbation, much less a nine and a half inch “you know what” taking three solid pushes to break through.
She’d first gone to bed with him the weekend before and when his hand pressed over her knee she didn’t know if sex was supposed to happen so she fell asleep hoping the problem would be gone in the morning.
She woke to his hands rubbing in circles over her back and her pulse raced and her moan was the permission he needed to slip that hand between her legs, and where the hand went the fingers took over, and those fingers HURT. So he switched to his tongue and the sight of the top of his head down there was so bizarre she laughed. So he switched back to his hand, and panic, suffocation, and pain made her cry out and there was a doctor’s finality to his voice when he said, “Yeeeeah I guess you are really tight down there.”
Wasn’t tight supposed to be a good thing? Isn’t “tight” the thing women were getting plastic surgery on their vaginas for? Wasn’t “tight” the thing men craved so much that they hung bloodied bed sheets out windows as trophies in some lands?
So why did he have a sigh in his voice when he said it about her?
“Am I defective?” She asked.
“Nah,” he said, and now a laugh entered his voice, “It just means we’re gonna start from scratch. I haven’t seen this problem since I was a teen.”
So it IS a problem?
“It will have to go in stages, everything is about stages.”
He’d laughed at her before when she’d admitted she’d never actually touched herself down there and now she knew, he thought she’d been joking.
Taking the virginity in stages helps them both, it’s a kind and mature thing for him to do because it means he is mindful of her pain and fear in a way a teenage boy would probably never be. He’s easing her into this world that is his reality, and to this point had only been a vague concept for her.
“You’re not a girl, you’re a woman, you’re a grown woman,” he told her on an almost daily basis. He is the only friend and confidante of hers who is not a family member.
But what makes a woman? She is past thirty but feels keenly that she is a girl, especially when she sees couples in public and on movie screens snuggling and kissing. She is a girl, she knows, as she glimpses her soft posture where her belly slumps inward, and her tiny feet remain hidden in children’s sneakers. She carries stuffed toys, and she has no fashion or understanding past jeans and a t-shirt. She collects video games and books, has never rebelled, and never left her home unchaperoned. She has lost her fear of strangers due to boredom and curiosity and instead finds herself staring at any stranger, wishing they would look at her and just… talk to her.
This is what happens when a shy girl is taken from school at twelve, and because of religion, old fashioned ethnic values, illnesses, and injuries, she ends up in a near institutionalized state in her own home at thirty.
Her family means well, they fear for her shy and giving nature and their protection of her has slowly developed over the years into proportions past biblical. Encourage her not to drive, it’s too stressful, encourage her to stick to her hobbies rather than get an actual job, the workplace is too tiring, commend her for never having a friend (that they know of) outside of the house, it avoids drama, and be grateful she’s never had a date or anything close to a boyfriend (until now–but they don’t know that, do they?)
“Did I really just take your virginity?” He asks in tender tone but the sentence itself rings every alarm bell buried within her cells, and she won’t face the real meaning of those words. Can she avoid the truth that is almost twenty years later in reaching her than it is for the countless other girls who have learned their virginity is just something that is … well, simply lost (and that’s it), no matter how many stages it takes to do it?
The girl is crippled by being the girl. He wants a woman. The virginity he knew was his to take was supposed to be his way of crossing her over that threshold because when he’d first asked her to marry him, she said she was terrified of upsetting her family. And this sounded ludicrous to him because he can’t understand why a family would cling onto a single woman like this, and not want her out of the house with a job and a flat, and why they would deny her ever having a husband.
She’s been raised upside down and wrong in this world and he was helping turn her right. This will make her brave. Won’t it? Every girl is terrified of upsetting her family, and all she needs is that one push to realize she is a woman, and upsetting her family is only a brief discomfort that gives way to acceptance and change.
Instead she finds her world more terrifying right-side up than it is the way she’d been living upside down. She stares at the blood on the sheets and the blood on his hands and face and she apologized for the mess, and he said quite calmly that the blood was natural and he didn’t mind it dried all over him. There were bloodied condoms on the floor, one stuck to a shoe, and alcohol, and stray gold pound coins, and the mess lingered for weeks and each time sex happened it hurt and brought more blood.
Who would find a heroine in a girl such as this?
It has become embarrassing for her to explain why she has no ambition, job, independence, or experience. She is afraid to call herself a woman because she feels that word should be backed with some sort of list of accomplishments that she lacks. The golden cage initially erected by her strict religion and family becomes something that she enables, because she never just “got up and did something about it.”
Should she feel ashamed because she has always been a mouse and not a tigress? She felt shame for being an inexperienced virgin, and now she feels even more shame for having had sex…. and she feels shamed for feeling shame. The parts about herself she actually likes, her friendliness and quiet nature, don’t seem to match up in her eyes to the empowered Goddess-females written about in novels, celebrated on movie screens, and paraded over the internet.
She wants to talk about sex with someone, ask questions about losing virginity and the days and days of bleeding that followed, but all she has is internet medical articles and nightmares in the dark that one person in her family might find out that she’s been dirty, so dirty.
The sex only increases her timidity and helpless quirks and it drives him away ultimately. He wants to care for her but realizes he’d have to carry her, and it must hurt him that she does not seem to be inspired in any way to claim her independence and stand up to her family, or even to God. He lets her go, watches her return willingly to the cage she says is killing her without a fight.
“There are liars and there are bull-shitters,” he tells her. “Liars get what they want, and bull-shitters are just looking to avoid a fight by making everyone comfortable. You are a bull-shitter.”
And she cries in front of him, all the time now, something she never does in front of her family because no matter how sad she is, she doesn’t want to upset her family. Ever. So he is right, that does make her a bull-shitter.
And what’s the point of wasting one’s life for bull-shit?
Cee Martinez is a tea swigging cat lady without a cat. She lives in a china cabinet in Golden, Colorado writing fictions and lies. If she likes you maybe she’ll let you sit with her a wee while. A number of her short stories and poems have appeared in anthologies and magazines in print and online and her first novel “Antipathia” is onsale now.