I Lost My Virginity To A Doppelganger

I was a pretty late bloomer in the sex arena. My parents had instilled in me a peculiar dread of teenage pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases. They were both in the medical field so they made me hyper-aware of the horrible ramifications of sex. I knew the symptoms for every STD in the book. Herpes was my greatest fear. Genital warts came in second. If I added up all the time I’ve spent being afraid of contracting sexually transmitted diseases, I’d probably have at least 4 years worth of fear.

At age 15 my mother sat me down and “had the talk” about condoms and sexual intercourse. She was very open about the topic. I, however, was mortified about the idea of sex. It scared the crap out of me.

Six years later, after that first talk about sex, at the age of 21, I lost my virginity to a crazy, alcoholic, poet wannabe. I noticed my interest in insane men spiked after my father was put into a mental ward after a long bout with depression and an unsuccessful attempt at suicide by hanging. He chose a weak belt buckle, and it broke as he was in mid-hang.

The poet wannabe had long, dishwater blonde curly, greasy hair and his nose was rather large. He didn’t shower very much. He would spew forth random lines from poems and he carried around a little writer’s notebook. He was drunk all the time, so he didn’t make much sense. He wore “arty” clothes and worn-out brown ankle boots. He was a college dropout. He had big, wide-set blue eyes and they were his best feature.

If I squinted my eyes or was tipsy, he began to morph into the man who haunted my mind and my heart, the Artist whom I met in Tokyo. I never got over the Arist. I wrote about him here. He was the uber-talented painter who I fell really hard for. I continued to be obsessed with the painter long after we had said our goodbyes. I tried to find him, again and again, through other men. It never worked. The deep neural grooves had been formed in my brain and I was hard-wired to try and re-live that emotionally intense relationship. But I could never make it work, nor could I recover from my intense passion. No other man made an impact on me like the Artist did. I felt cursed with my unrequited passion for him.

Why did I lose my virginity to someone I didn’t like?

1. I was tired of being scared of sex and was ready to just get it over with.
2. I was tired of girls at college talking about it and not understanding what they were saying.
3. The wannabe poet looked an awful lot like my past love, the Artist. And I wanted to make love to the Artist because I never did in real life.

I’m pretty sure I got drunk the night I lost my virginity. The poet wannabe had brought over some wine. For some reason, I still remember the way his greasy hair looked. It was shoulder-length, very curly and I liked it.

I made him put on a condom. I don’t remember the sensation very well as he entered me. It was uneventful, and I was stressed out. After doing “it” for a few times, I got up, ran into the bathroom and found a few droplets of blood on my underwear. Panic set in. I had to take a shower. I had to get any of his gunk (if the condom had broken) out of my body before anything horrible happened to me. I didn’t know the poet wannabe’s sexual history. I took a shower and went back into the bedroom where he was. I think I told him to leave, but honestly, I cannot remember.

Afterwards, I remember thinking to myself, “Sex is overrated. If that’s all there is to it, it seems like a fucking big waste of time.”

It’s sad, I know.

I never had sex again with the poet wannabe.