The Agony and the Opposite of Ecstasy

I’m still not exactly sure how I translated the random meeting into into an invitation to her bedroom. She was a sorority girl. I was not a fraternity boy. It started with the friend who occasionally enjoyed slumming it with us hooligans. She herself wasn’t above such slumming. Still, there are limits to slumming. One lets the gameless hooligans ply one with bong hits and booze before heading back to the normal social circle.

Most likely my efforts began to bear fruit at a fraternity party I’d gone to with a friend. He was in a different fraternity than the one hosting the party. Why did we go? Bad, evil drugs. But bad, evil drugs taken  in such a small amount that life was alright and we were confident and indifferent. I was really confident and indifferent. I was the ponytailed hippie-looking dude reeking of weed and moving on sorority girls at a fraternity party. Despite the bad drugs, it was one of my finer, bolder moments.

I do know I started working to close the deal while on campus one morning. Perhaps I was there for class. Perhaps I was just enjoying the scenery. I was definitely baked. I saw her, wandered up, and engaged her in conversation. Relaxed and still confident and indifferent, I started that pussy a-tingling.

The details get fuzzy again. Somehow she ended up popping into my apartment. Indifference is a powerful motivator. You make just enough effort then disappear. Then I was in her apartment, in her bedroom. She was showing me the tattoo of the sun she’d just gotten, while in Florida on Spring Break of course. It was on the left side of her Mons pubis.

Lights off, hit the bed, heavy petting ensues. She says, “I’m a virgin.” I snicker in disbelief. This was a really, really bad move on my part. Mood killed, but not so much that she kicks me out. I start working it again. Heavy petting resumes, but alas I’ve squandered my chances for that night.

Wake up the next morning. Heavy petting makes another return. Now I’m prepared. There will be no snickering. I’m still fairly certain that her admission from the previous night is dubious, but I figure I can play this game. Panties off.  She’s rubbing on my junk. I slide down and get my mouth on the pearl tongue, like she’s Mandy May and I’m Snoop Dogg. She’s writhing, grabbing the back of my head, moaning. She comes. Hell yeah, baby. One orgasm down, one to go. That purported virginity was to be mine for the taking.

Instead, she jumps out of bed and announces, “I’ve got to get to class.”

There have been several times in my life which have rendered me speechless. Unfortunately, this was one such time. I had no answer for this awful turn of events. Perhaps I whimpered like a confused puppy. Regardless, I was too far gone at that point anyway. I had fucked up royally when I finished her off. I should’ve teased and then gone for just the tip. Then, the whole enchilada. Instead I sacrificed my leverage.

I rummaged around for my pants, found the tools, and smoked a bowl, still laying in her bed. I wracked my brain for ways to rectify the situation. That day. Even gameless, I knew time was of the essence.

I never fucked her. I’m pretty sure that fateful morn was the last time I saw that pussy. Hell no, baby. I didn’t have hands, I didn’t have hand. They’d been severed like those of an Iranian thief.

I did learn from that experience, but I’m still remorseful. To come so close and blow it is a sting that never leaves. It’s one of those bizarre moments that lurks repressed-memory style and then pops up and says, “Remember me, motherfucker!” Icarus takes pity on me for that one.

I can laugh about it now. I wish I could enjoy a heartier laugh. I could’ve made the best of a bad situation as my buddy D did when confronted with a similar circumstance.

D’s chickadee didn’t leave him hot and bothered so she could go to class, but so she could shower before work. D thought quickly and made a decision -  he spanked it on her pillow. If you’re not going to get the pussy, might as well go out guns blazing. I wish I’d been similarly inspired. It makes for a much better story than my version of pitiful unrequited love. She was the one claiming to be a virgin, I ended up being the one asking if she’d still respect me in the morning. Since I never tapped it, we all know the answer to that question.

Since then, I’ve always trusted the divining rod. It’s always right. If I’d trusted it on that day, I would have left her quivering in the soft afterglow saying, “Damn.” On that day, I ignored it and, if only for a brief moment, became a cunnilingus king. You can’t be no kind of man if you don’t own land, I mean if you’re a cunnilingus king. And if you don’t own the pussy.