We all remember that beautiful moment when we lovingly gave our virginity away to our soulmate. Oh wait, that’s not exactly what happened to you? Us neither.

The ultra fabulous and funny Jessica Bern and I decided to write about virginity this week. You’ll find her very entertaining post below. Leave a comment and then head on over to Bern This to find out how I lost my sweet innocence.

A Gift You Cannot Wrap

In October of my sophomore year of high school, I started dating Allen, captain of the hockey team. Tall, super skinny, sporting hair usually only found in the pubic region, he was every cheerleaders God and for reasons that still confound me, he was mine. After a month of dating, where he actually took me out alone a total of one time, he was already pressuring me to sleep with him.  He had this mentality of, “I’m a virgin plus you’re a virgin” equals “We should have sex immediately.”

On Christmas day, I went to Allen’s house to exchange presents.  For my gift he’d made a painting of a sticker he’d given me soon after we met. It was of a boy and girl on the same pair of skies with the words “love is doing things together” written across the top. The painting was an exact replica. I couldn’t stop smiling until it came time to open my gift to him. All I could afford was this flannel shirt I’d bought him with my babysitting money at Lord and Taylor. I was humiliated and his reaction after opening the box did zero to make me feel any better. “Yeah, okay,” was all he said and of course, I immediately started panicking and suddenly I’m telling him, “Wait, I have one more thing,” and boom next thing I know, I’m giving this guy my virginity as a CHRISTMAS present.

I remember Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” playing on his turntable.  I remember having to listen to him try and play it on his guitar for ten minutes before he would even touch me, something which became a very unfortunate part of our lovemaking process for the entire time we dated. I remember expecting him to hold me afterward and thank me for going against everything I ever believed in so that he, a Jew, could have a merry Christmas.  Most of all, I remember each time we finished I’d run downstairs and eat whatever cake his mother, a professional baker, had left on the kitchen counter. Allen would have barely stopped moaning and I’d already be slipping on my clothes, asking him, “Would it be okay if I went and got some carrot cake?”

Day after day I would try and get Allen to go places with me but all he’d ever say was, “Let’s just go back to my place and hang for a while.” It didn’t take long for me to understand that “hang for a while,” in high school speak, means “f*@k.”

Two months later, at the end of yet another game, I watched Allen come out of the locker room carrying a dozen roses. Since we’d been dating SIXTY whole days and since I presumed he only slept with women he intended to marry, I knew the flowers were for me and yet, I could still barely breathe, I was so happy. Just then, Allen walked up to me but instead of handing me the roses just told me, “Yeah, I just don’t think this is going to work out anymore,” and then turned to Erin, short, bad skin, and, I suddenly realized, in possession of a very broken hymen, and handed her the flowers.

It seems I wasn’t his first nor was I his fiancé.  I was devastated.  Okay, perhaps I wasn’t Ms. America but at least I wasn’t a prime candidate for Accutane and yes, I was short but at least I could reach the SECOND shelf in the grocery aisle and yet none of that mattered.  As they walked out of the arena together, arm in arm, I wanted to yell out, “Hey, I want my virginity back!” but even I knew how dumb that sounded.

It took me years to get over this guy and thankfully, I’m no longer that naïve, which I’m happy about but then again what are the chances that a guy my age is going to tell me he’s a virgin and on top of that, what are the chances that this time around I would consider that a GOOD thing?

However. I did learn one very important lesson from this whole experience and that is, there is no better way to cap off a night of lovemaking then with a nice big piece of German chocolate cake.

If you live in New York City, eventually you or someone you know will witness the following…

A transvestite hooker still trolling for customers while you are on your way to work at 7:30 am.

A couple doing the wild thing in some shadowy alley. Used condoms on the sidewalk the next day.

Someone going to the bathroom on the subway platform. Or on a truly fortunate day, on the subway itself.

Subway commuters trying to avoid the aftermath of someone going to the bathroom as the train jerks back and forth.

This city can be a dark, gritty place. We all know that going in. But I certainly thought the shock value had worn off. Until I sat down with my friend Abby for dinner on Saturday night.

Abby proceeds to tell me that a few years ago, she was sitting in a Manhattan movie theater and heard a scratching sound on her left, in a seat she knew was empty.  She looked over and saw a rat sitting on the arm rest, one chair over.

Yes, a RAT. Just enjoying the previews like anybody else.

Abby leaped up and bolted out of the theater screaming, just hoping to keep her flip flops on. She abandoned her purse, popcorn and drink.

So when she complained at the ticket window, the woman said, way too casually, something like this….

“I’m so sorry. There is a Petco next door and the rats tunnel their way in. We’ll refund your ticket and snacks and get your purse for you.”

Tunnel their way in? Damn, how much do those crazy rats want them some popcorn?! The dogfood at Petco must just totally suck.

Honestly, I don’t know how anyone recovers from an experience like that. I really don’t. 

But Abby did. She not only went back to the movies, she has actually returned to that theater. It took her a few years but now she’ll go there again.

She really could kick Whitney’s arse when it comes to survival in “The City.”

That Abby is one true New Yorker.

I love my Summer lovin’. I really really do.

But I can’t understand a damn thing that girl is saying.

Summer used to have like 20 words that I could understand perfectly and then dramatic arm movements to explain the rest of her life vision. But now she’s got like 435 words, except they all sound like she’s a slurring, drunk college freshman at 4 am.  Summer would be a very short college freshman.

Here’s a recent conversation between 2 year-old Summer and me….

“Jai vont shinkernell jaras,” she says to me with pleading eyes.

“What honey? I didn’t quite catch that last part,” I say.

“Jai vont shinkernell jaras!” she repeats.

“Ok honey,” I reply hoping she’ll just forget all about this “jai vont shinkernell jaras.” But apparently not. Whatever it is – it must be awesome.

“Jai vont shinkernell jaras,” she begs again.

“Dylan! What is your sister saying?” I yell out. Siblings have this secret language. They can understand each other when no one else can.

“Jai vont shinkernell jaras,” Dylan says, laughing.

Yes, Dylan, I appoint you the Queen of Helpfulness. That really clarifies things for me.

I look back at Summer who’s getting more than a little frustrated that her mother can’t fulfill a simple request.

“Oh honey, I love you so much. You are such a wonderful little girl. Maybe not so great with the diction right now. But no one can be good at everything. You know?”

Shinkernell jaras, shinkernell  jaras, hmmm…

And then I have a moment of unexplainable brilliance.

“Wait… Do you want your Tinkerbell pajamas?” I guess.

YES!!! That’s it. The two of us smoke some celebratory cigars, put on our Tinkerbell pajamas and spend the rest of the evening laughing about our endless miscommunications.

The above is all true.

Except the part about the cigars and me owning Tinkerbell pajamas and us laughing long into the night.

Summer just went to sleep.

Happily.

Let me take a moment to express my gratitude for some new episodes on TV lately.

I’m trying to remember my life before “Gossip Girl” but it just seems dark and meaningless and empty. We really need more soft porn teen dramas on television.

Right now, I’m strangely obsessed with Nate’s whereabouts and Rufus’ weird bangs. But don’t get caught up in my complex issues.

During the December TV drought, my husband and I watched a lot of movies. Like “The Women.” This movie totally made me insane because you never get to see one of the key players, Meg Ryan’s husband. It’s the ole Maris Crane nonsense. Oh by the way, my brother-in-law says hello.

I’ve really been looking forward to the new movie, “He’s Just Not That Into You.” It’s got Jennifer Aniston and a bunch of other super fancy stars.

So I ask my husband, who reads a trillion magazines and newspapers, when it’s coming out.

“It already came out.  It wasn’t too good. It had a short run in the theaters,” he replies.

So I immediately rush to the video rental place and the all-knowing video guy says, “It’s not out yet. It comes out in theaters in February.”

So I deliver this news to my smarty pants husband and he replies confidently, “No, it definitely already came out. I remember.”

Who has the balls to contradict the video store guy?

I FINALLY realize that I should not be relying on actual people.  Instead I should just turn to the trusty internet. And after a quick search, it’s clear that this movie does indeed open in February.

I send the link to my husband because I don’t want him delivering misinformation about chick flicks all over town. I promise you, it has nothing to do with proving my almighty rightness on this topic.

And finally, he admits defeat.

But it’s really unsatisfying because he just says something sweet like, “Sorry I gave you the wrong information” and nothing about my inherent brilliance when it comes to all things involving Jennifer Aniston.

I just hope he understands that when it comes to romantic comedies, you’ve just got to get your facts right.

mama bird notes:

If you liked this post, check out the time Rick and I argued about penis faucets. I think he was right that time.

And it looks like contributing mama Daphne Biener is witnessing a lot of sex these days. And lucky for us, she broke out the camera. Click on contributing mamas to read more.

By Contributing Mama Daphne Biener

Ok, forget what I said over at A Greener Biener last week.  Things are heating up around here, and when I say heating up, this time I do mean, wink wink, things are getting HOT.

I’m behaving. But come on, I just finished three weeks of school vacation. That’s three long weeks of full-on, 24/7, girl-time. By which of course, I mean, time spent at home with my two darling girls.

We did manage to get out a handful of times, mostly to call upon our fine furry friends.   And what we saw on those visits had me turning the camera away from the adorable kiddos and outward in the pursuit of science.  For the record, I saw neither birds nor bees.  But everyone else was pouring on the hot and heavy like the survival of the species depended on it.

The humans of this planet may be spending their post-holly-jollies moping around, but not so for our friends in the animal kingdom.  Those fellas know how to counter the wintertime blues.

Take for example the butterflies. I learned from some punk on college break an educated zoologist that these beautiful creatures live only 2-4 weeks.  But they don’t let that fact get them down.  Or maybe they do, if you count down and dirty that is.

Here look, my first naturalist photograph.  I call it Hot Wing-on-Wing Butterfly Action –

Maybe I have a dirty mind.  Or maybe the animals have a message for us. I think the butterfly sex was merely a gateway encounter, because the next stop on this Winter Break Road Trip of Animal Intercourse Encounters were these wild and crazy poison dart frogs –

That fellow wasn’t just frisky, he was chivalrous.  Look how he takes a turn, then let’s her climb aboard for some fun.  Perhaps you’ve heard the dart frog motto: full of poison, full of fun!

In the interest of full frontal, I mean, full disclosure, I was a grown woman pointing and giggling. I was poised with my camera at the steamy glass enclosure with no plans of moving on when I overheard Kira, my eight year-old, explaining to the teenagers behind me,

“My mom is taking a picture of the frogs.  They’re mating.”

Ok then, moving right along…

I didn’t get to linger very long over the love lives of these crusty old crustaceans.  Five year-old Acadia explained that my flash was what sent them scurrying.  I barely had time to make amends for breaking up the action when Acadia added,

“Oh well, I bet they would have been yummy, right Mom?”

Right on kid.

I put an end to my little birds and bees bonanza before the girls aged enough to know they should have been mortified by my childish behavior.  In my defense, they were home from school for three weeks.  Three Whole Weeks.

By the time we left the animals behind, I think I had matured a bit too.  After all, I didn’t make the kids stick around to see what these guys were up to –

I knew where all that cuddling was headed.  But we had places to go. It’s not as if I can spend my children’s entire vacation watching animals have sex.

At least that’s how I’m telling it.  Even if the evidence seems to say otherwise.

You can read more of Daphne’s work on The Rocky Mountain Moms Blog, on her eco-fabulous site, A Greener Biener, or here on the mama bird diaries.