You may not be her first, her last, or her only. (Bob Marley)

That was the day I lost my virginity. Technically it was a felony. Like all the things in life that are supposed to be bad, it was quite good. Not fantastic, but not as bad as they make it out to be in those abstinence campaigns or high school health class. I didn’t tell him it was my first time, obviously; that wouldn’t have been cool. I didn’t want him to think it was important or special or anything.

In retrospect, I guess I blew by the whole thing like it wasn’t important or special. I wish I had taken more care now, not that it matters, but it might have been nice to have a date first or at least to have undressed slower. But as quickly as I dove into it I can still remember the musky smell of his hair and how it lingered hauntingly on my fingers for the rest of the day as if it was trying to remind me what I had done as if it was wrong. That’s the problem with having any sort of moral code (and I will admit my moral compass doesn’t exactly point due north), it holds you back and keeps you from embracing life and enjoying the moments. Was it the moment Nicky Martinez stole away my childhood or was it the moment I discovered passion? Everything is marked by the measure of my morality. Luckily I was pretty good at stowing away my moral inclinations.

I would have learned more from it if it had been terrible or if he hadn’t called. I did pay for it later though but that was a long way away.