So virginity is a pretty shitty concept. It’s also completely subjective. One person’s penis in vagina is another person’s vagina on vagina which is another person’s finger in cunt and you get the point. But even with this aversion to the idea of virginity in its grossest conceptual viagra type drugs form, I like the time-old tradition of Telling The Virginity Story anyway, because talking about early sexual experiences is a beautiful bonding experience that’s usually hysterical, or at the very least interesting.
What body part went into which cavity is never even the best part of the story. There’s the whole leadup, the context, where it happened, who you told. Virginity-loss fashion is the most underrated detail, and it’s the best detail because clothes are tinged with memories forever-after. People change but a virginity outfit is forever.
So here are six virginity stories, as told through fashion.
When I try to figure out who I technically “lost http://generictadalafil-20mgdosage.com/ my 2.5 cialis virginity to”, I sometimes wonder if I should count the high school boyfriend I went down on like three times, because I don’t want to be all “if it’s not penis in vagina it doesn’t count”. But I still can’t really convince myself that having my mouth on a penis for three seconds counts as anything really, so in the end I always give the honour to Cody: a dude I met under totally random circumstances when I was like seventeen.
Cody was in a band with some absurd name I could never remember later when I tried to google him. We met outside a bar. I pretended I smoked, then we kissed on a park bench. He said he was reading a Joseph Conrad novel, and apparently this was impressive enough to me at that point in my life that thirty minutes later he was awkwardly trying to take off my pantyhose in his bedroom.
If I saw Cody again now, I’d probably apologise. Because if I’d have known I was going to be fucking someone that night, maybe I wouldn’t have worn such a complicated outfit. I was wearing a blouse under a petticoat under a pinafore. With a belt. And I’d done that secret superhero double-underwear pantyhose thing that only femmes understand. I was into layering and it was pretty full-on.
So he took off the outer knickers, saw the pantyhose, furrowed his brow, but kept going. My underthings
were still ripe with the promise of cunt. But then he went in again to roll off the stockings, and there was still no sign of my vagina. More panties. He looked at me desperately with eyes that pleaded “you gotta help me out man”. He grabbed at my petticoat as if seeing it for the first time: “what the fuck is this?”
I had sex with him, sure. That happened. Cody was a pretty innocuous memory as far as body parts are concerned. But if we’re talking fashion, well. I’ve never worn that petticoat again without a flashback.
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