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By Starling Root
Pack the sweater you wore the day you lost (gave?) your virginity to that boy from SPAN 101.
It was the dark calico one Grandma had fashioned from patches she'd hoarded over the years.
You were studying irregular -er verbs when he told you to “relax” and gave you a few beers.
His dorm smelled of licorice, old coffee, new textbooks, and soon the saltiness of your tears.
But you quieted yourself with the thought that this is what you are supposed to do in college:
Let the whole campus enter your inner sanctum, worship at your temple, fuck you senseless.
You had missed your tween chance to be Lolita and Anna Karenina's fate was still years off.
So you let Gwen Stefani serenade you as SPAN 101 guy made his pitifully crooked thrusts.
That was not a moment of girl power, and despite No Doubt on the radio, you were doubtful
that this was how you imagined sex a decade ago when you first began considering doll busts
and Ken's questionable downstairs anatomy—and where did you develop that strange cough?
The one you made each time he pulled out, like you were trying desperately to breath, Stop.
Because you hated the way he stabbed you with his tongue. Because it was far, far from fun.
Because you remembered Grandma whispering how she fell in love with Grandpa and slept
with him for the first time the night before their wedding because they did not want to wait.
They collapsed into each other's arms and then woke up three hours late for their big day--
flushed, giddy, overwhelmed with a mischievous air because God had not struck them dead.
But winter break has ended now and you will be taking SPAN 102, you realize with dread.
You must avoid the guy by pretending not to see or hear him; say your phone was stolen.
You've closed your inner sanctum and hung a sign on the door: “Reserved for the devout.”
#College #Uni #Awk #GrossBoys #Virginity #Sex #GrowingUp #ComingOfAge #YoungAdult #Poetry #Poem