Would You Like To Take A Survey? The First Time I had Sex

I lost my virginity when I was 21 to a 29-year old punk who at the time airbrushed T-shirts for a living. I liked him because he was hot in a dirty way. And he had tattoos. However, he was not very bright. He was so dumb in fact, I would drink a liter of wine before I hung out with him so that we could have conversations. And keep in mind that my IQ could quite possibly be in the single digits.


Our relationship was a volatile one. We broke up pretty much every day that we were together which was about a total of 4 months.


Once, he stormed out of my apartment because I said that I thought Ted Nugent might be a bad father.



Once, he jumped out of my car on the highway (tucked and rolled) because I said I didn't care for Insane Clown Posse.


Once, he broke up with me in the middle of the street during a Mardi Gras parade because I hadn't noticed that a cop had come up to him and told him to move his dog away from the floats so that she wouldn't get hurt.

Once, he kicked me out of his house in the middle of the night for stealing the covers. I deserved it!

Once, he broke up with me and I threw rocks at his car. He told me that that wasn't nice, so I threw rocks at his head instead.

Ah, young love.

I remained a virgin for so long mainly because I knew it was going to be painful and because I didn't want to get a disease, or worse, pregnant.


One morning when I was 21, I woke up and decided that that day would be the day. I didn't have anyone in particular in mind, but I figured I should probably at least know the guy to whom I lost my virginity. (Looking back, it really wouldn't have mattered, but I was so innocent then).

So, I called up (we'll call him Dirtbag) Dirtbag and asked him if I could come over later that night. At this point I believe we had been broken up for 2 weeks for probably the fifth time. I told him I'd bring over a movie and beer.

I carefully selected our movie for the night, Requiem for a Dream, and brought a 40 for him and magnum of wine for me.

As I watched Jennifer Connelly get gang-ass raped by large African-American men, I couldn't help but wonder: Did I want my first time to be special? Or did I just want to get it over with?

After having picked up some helpful hints from the movie and after downing the equivalent of 2 bottles of wine, I decided I was ready.

I pulled Dirtbag into his room--ah, wait. I forgot to describe Dirtbag's "house."

Dirtbag lived in a shotgun-shack in the middle of Elysian Fields, or as the locals fondly referred to it, "Death Row."

Every single one of the walls was covered in graffiti and not even good graffiti. More about this later.

The whole house smelled like Dirtbag's dog, Papoose, a sweet German Shepard, and one of Dirtbag's roommates, whose name escapes me, but whose face was covered in tattoos and he used to shoot junky crack into his veins right in front of me as I had to go through his room to get to the bathroom, which was a little disconcerting, but, you know, REALLY sweet guy.

So, there I was. I bring Dirtbag into his room and I look up at him lovingly and say "Can we do it now?"

Dirtbag: "Huh?"

Me: "Can we, you know, do it?"

Dirtbag: "Do what?"

Me: "Get it on."

Dirtbag: "Get on what?"

Me: "DO YOU HAVE A FUCKING CONDOM?"

Dirtbag: "Oh! Yeah! Wait. Really?"

Me: Yes.

I lay back on the bed. We commenced. All of a sudden, something started to sting really really badly.

Me: MOTHER FUCKER!!! THAT FUCKING HURTS!!!

Dirtbag: (immediately stopping). Am I hurting you?

Me: *sigh* YES. (i wished for another bottle of wine)

We commenced...again.

I started snapping my fingers and cursing to distract myself from the pain. So it went something like this:

Sex sounds: Week-a-wack-a Week-a-wack a

Me: Snap snap snap!

Sex sounds: Week-a-wack-a-week-a-wack a

Me: FUCKING SHIT FUCK WHORE

Sex sounds: Week-a-wack-a-week-a-wack a

Dirtbag: Uh! Uh! *grunt*

And so forth.

And then it stopped hurting and Dirtbag I guess got off, I don't remember for sure, but I do remember thinking how funny it was that I was losing my virginity as I was staring at a cartoon pile of steaming poop on the ceiling..and then it was over. I got up and started collecting my things.

Dirtbag: Wait! Does this mean we are back together?

Me: Absolutely not. See ya later.

And with that, I pushed through the broken screen door and went out into the balmy New Orleans weather, got in my car and called everyone I knew.

A week later I would find out that Dirtbag had told everybody he knew that I wasn't a virgin, but that I had faked it and had really just had my period in his bed.

A week and one day later, I would sleep with his third roommate who was slightly brighter than Dirtbag, but not quite as good looking. Sometimes, I like to pretend it was this guy who was my first. He was so sweet, wrapping me up in his comforter after spilling beer all over me in the middle of the night having fallen asleep with a Natty-light clasped gently in his hands, like a Teddy Bear. Like an angel.

The next morning, I snuck out of that shotgun shack for the last time. A few years later I would return to New Orleans, and found myself driving down Death Row. As I approached the spot where the dilapidated old "shack of love" with the peeling yellow paint and broken windows used to proudly stand, a slow smile spread across my face. There, in it's place, in all its pink and white glory, stood "Elysian Field's Wedding Chapel." How appropriate.

Would you Like to Take a Survey?

Perhaps this will explain some things to you

First Kiss:

Was with a pony-tailed gentleman of Arab descent in a club called The Hippodrome in London. I was 16. Later on, back at the hotel, I guess I felt dirty so I washed my face using shampoo which resulted in an enormous cystic-like growth on the rim of my upper lip. I still have a scar from where I popped it--three times. It just kept coming back.

Another thing that I will always remember from that night was my cousin telling me in a very authoritative voice that "As long as it hasn't been on the floor, you can use the toilet paper."

Words that have stayed with me to this day....

RIP Mr. Wonderful

To be clear, MW is not dead.



However, I am fairly certain I will never hear from him again. Let's go to the tape.



*Flashback*



MW grabbed me and pulled me into an ATM vestibule. He leaned in to kiss me. My whole body vomited. I bolted into traffic and dove into a cab through the window.

cut to

*April: A cool crisp day*

I was enjoying a lovely day with my cousin. We had stopped off at a quaint little bar for a couple of glasses (bottles) of wine, when my phone began receiving drunk messages from MW who had just won two grand on a baseball game. (Yes, we can add "severe gambling problem" to "staggering drinking problem" and "questionable fashion sense" and "artless self-congratulation" on the list of MW's attributes. I sure can pick em.).

Now, I do like my men with a little money on the side. But there is little I find more repulsive than a man (or woman for that matter) who brags about the amount of money he or she has. I don't give a shit. Just buy me something and shut your mouth.

So, to make a long, anti-climactic texting tale short, MW informed me that he was in a limo with some friends and they were on their way to pick my cousin and myself up and take us to Atlantic city.

I called him immediately to tell him that, unfortunately, as appealing as riding in a sweaty limo with his sweaty friends was, we had prior engagements that we just couldn't possibly break. However, when he picked up the phone, I soon realized that he was beyond speech.

"Hello, MW?"

"!!!!!!!!. HAHAHAHAHA" (I hear girls screeching in the background)

"Um, MW?"

"WHERE YOU I SHALEGANDFA weiowA:w !!!!!!!!!!"

(More screeching)

"What?"

"lkajdfs"

"HELLO???"

"Hi. Who is this?" A somewhat inebriated voice asked.

"This is Cookieface. Who is this?"

"This is MW's friend. Are you coming?"

"Absolutely not."

"Good. You sound like a stupid bitch." *click*

WOW.

Now I'm sort of stunned for 2 reasons. 1) A stranger just called me a stupid bitch and 2) It was as if this stranger KNEW me.

*The next morning, Sunday, 9 FUCKING AM*

My phone rings.

I look down and it's MW. My cousin has woken up and groggily asks "Who the fuck is calling you so early?"

"MW," I reply. "I am going to pick up because it's going to be funny"

And it was.

A) He did not remember texting me
B) He did not remember speaking to me
C) He woke up in AC next to a half-eaten bucket of chicken, and empty wallet, and no idea how he had gotten there. (Please see my previous post)
D) He thought it was QUITE hilarious that his friend called me a stupid bitch
E) He demonstrated how funny he thought his friend calling me a stupid bitch was by squealing in his high-pitched demonic-mountain goat laugh which my cousin now imitates perfectly.

To wrap things up, the next time I saw MW was the last.
I was out.
He texted me
I told him he could meet me.
He got to the bar.
He started dancing with some strange men
I ignored him.
He left.

And that, my friends, is the end of that.

Drunken Dater's Boyfriend Criteria

1) Must not wear hair in a ponytail. Particularly if he is bald on top.

2) Must not drink so much that he blacks out, kills me, then wakes up, finds me dead beside him next to a bucket of half-eaten fried chicken, and wonders what happened.

3) Must not own a gun.

4) Must not own a chainsaw.

5) Must not own black plastic trash bags.

6) In the event that he does accidentally/purposefully kill me blacked out on alcohol, must not dismember me.

7) Must not cook me. This is VERY important.

8) Must not eat me. This is actually the most important thing that I look for in a mate...is that he is not a cannibal. I do not want to be eaten by another human being. Maybe by a tiger, though.

Barnes and Nobel and Lesbian Porn-Travel

Apparently, the place to meet people in Manhattan is the travel section in the Barnes and Noble in Union Square.

I say apparently, because that’s where, a few weekends ago I was accosted by two men and one woman.

(And, of course, accosted is a wild exaggeration. Apparently I think that if someone speaks to me in a public forum other than a bar I am being accosted).

What was I doing in a bookstore in the first place? Much less the travel section? I mean, let’s be clear: I only read books that contain gratuitous sex, gratuitous violence, and/or gratuitous incest. “Virginia: A Historical Guide to her Plantations and National Parks” has none of those things.

In truth, the travel section borders the Gay and Lesbian section.

For me, the Gay and Lesbian section of the Barnes and Nobel holds much intrigue. See, unlike Matthew Mcconaughey’s pants, I have no idea what is in there because I’ve never had the courage to step inside.

What are the books like? Are they like books like…“Gone with the Wind” but only everyone’s gay? Or, are they all coming of gay stories? Or are they just books filled with straight up kinky sex? (This is obviously what I’m hoping for).

So basically, I was hiding in the travel section trying to muster up the courage to make my way into the Gay and Lesbian section. I was about to leave the safety of the widely accepted travel section when an overly loud voice stopped me in my tracks.

“LET ME ASK YOU JUST ONE QUESTION!!!”

Startled, I looked up from the “Bosnia on a Shoestring Budget” I was pretending to read, and found a very smiley, portly man wearing a trench coat. Panicked, my eyes darted wildly around, hoping that he was speaking to someone else. He wasn’t.

“Um. Yes?”

“WHY WOULD YOU EVER WANT TO LEAVE NEW YORK???!!!”

I had a choice. I could relent and have a conversation with this man, who was clearly harmless, and whom I’m sure was very pleasant…OR I could close my eyes, clamp my fingers over my ears and count from 1 to 10 as loudly as I dared and hope that he disappeared by the time I reached 10.

I obviously chose the second option.

When I opened my eyes, my portly friend was gone. I looked to the left and to the right. Okay. The coast was clear. It was time to make my way to the Gay and Lesbian section.

I took a deep breath. And-

“Excuse me!”

I turned. There stood a very attractive young man wearing hiking gear and carrying a backpack. (I mean, I realize I was in the travel section, but COME ON. Was the trail mix attached to his climbing tool belt really necessary? Was he planning on scaling the escalators?)

“Um. Yes?”

“Do you know which brand is the best?” He asked me.

“Um. Brand? Of Book?”

“Yes!” (He might as well have said “Nuh duh!”

“Um, I’m sorry. No. I don’t.”

“Oh,” he said.

Clearly disappointed in my lack of travel-book knowledge, he turned away. Two seconds later, a semi-attractive girl walked into our aisle. I guess he only had one pick up line cause he proceeded to ask her which brand was best. She knew the answer, probably because she was actually in the travel section to find travel books as opposed to biding time before she went to gape over gay porn, and of course this little conversation ended in her giving him her number. I mean. REALLY?

Shaking it off, I kept the goal in mind. Just like a mountain climber thinks to himself, “I am going to make it to the top of Mount Everest,” I thought “I’m going to make it to the Gay and Lesbian section of Barnes and Nobel.”

It was not to be.

Here’s what happened:

I was slowly making my way, much like a hero in slow motion walking away from an exploding building right after he’s saved a family of orphans, to my destination. I was almost halfway there when a woman popped up in front of me and said:

“Hi! Do you know where the books on New York are?”

Smiling, I pointed to the New York aisles that couldn’t have been in more plain sight if they had had flashing, blinking, neon signs pointing to them.

“Oh, thanks! By the way, my name is Chris!”

“Oh…hi,” I replied, confused.

I was also frightened. Why the fuck were people so friendly in the goddamn travel section???

“And your name is…?” she enthusiastically prompted.

That was the last straw.

I put my head down and mumbled, “I don’t know, I have to go,” and turned, head still down, and walked rapidly to the escalators.

Before leaving the bookstore, I probably should have stopped by the self-help section seeing as how I seem to have people skill issues, and have an unnatural gay porn obsession, but it was almost 5pm and it was time to start drinking.

Lessons learned:

1) Order gay and lesbian literature off of the internet. This is, after all, what it’s for.
2) Put on makeup the next time I go to Barnes and Nobel. I seem to do very well in their travel section.

Drunken Dater's Boyfriend Criteria

1) Must be able to dress self. And I don't mean "dress nicely." I mean physically be able to put on pants.

2) Must keep clothes on in public. This is very important to me.

3) Must have an unusual name. Or a name that I cannot pronounce.

4) Must not have a job. Because there is nothing I like more than supporting a man. Apparently.

5) Must be decent looking. And by this I mean he isn't dead.

6) Must like to go sailing. And by this I mean drink.

7) Must be interested in things I say. And by this, I mean look in my general direction when I speak.

Mr. Wonderful fulfilled one of these criteria. I now have to go out of the country (for real) but when I return I will bring you the exciting conclusion of MR. WONDERUL IV: The Death of Mr. Wonderful. And my Dignity.