In 9th grade, my best friend "Beth" and I made a pact that we would be virgins on our wedding day. In 11th grade, I got a serious boyfriend and after we had been together a year, he began to put pressure on me to consumate our relationship. So senior year, I gave in. Naturally, this didn't last, but I was devastated because I had broken my promise to my friend.
In college, I started dating again and was careful to not get serious. I thought of myself as a born again virgin. This went well until I met "George". We had similar backgrounds and beliefs about premarital sex. Everyone said we'd be the perfect couple and we became inseperable. He proposed on my 19th birthday. We planned to be married when he graduated in the spring. It seemed okay to act on our yearnings and we started having sex. The week before graduation, George learned that his high school sweetheart had broken her engagement. He dropped everything (including me) flew to Memphis, proposed to her, then flew to Vegas with her to get married. I was so depressed that I swallowed 60 Tylenol with most of a bottle of vodka as a chaser. Then, I took the razor out of my shaver and tried to get up the nerve to slit my wrists.
Luckily my roommate found me just as I made the first cut. In the hospital, I vowed to myself to never place so much importance on sex again. In fact, the day before I was discharged, I called a cute orderly into my room, pulled him in the bathroom and fucked him silly.
After months of counseling, my parents okayed me going back to college. I had failed the last semester of freshman year and missed the fall semester of what should have been my sophomore year. I didn't want to go back to "State U" and see all of my friends looking forward to their junior year while I was still technically a freshman, so I transfered to a college out of state. This also enabled me to create a new personality for myself.
My parents had barely settled me into my dorm room before I put on my shortest miniskirt, a tight blouse, and fuck me heels. I headed straight for fraternity row and soon had three guys practically fighting over me. I went home with one and had sex all night long. When he asked to see me the next evening, I told him not to be selfish, he needed to give other boys a chance.
By the end of sophomore year, I had slept with about 12 different guys. Some were one night stands, others were short, emotionless flings.
I went to the Netherlands for my junior year and took a more or less steady lover, an older man. But he was a part-time drug dealer and when he got arrested, I slept with four of his friends to pay off his debts.
Senior year, I came back to the U.S. and soon met a great guy. We were in three classes together and he lived one floor below me. After a couple weeks of spending five or six hours a day together, he spent the night. It started out platonic, but he was clearly aroused and I figured if we fucked then he'd stop tossing and turning so we could both get some sleep. This became a regular thing and he became a less great guy, but I still slept with him because he was going to be a December graduate and it was easier than breaking up. The second half of senior year, I slept with a professor to improve my grade in a class I was failing and needed to graduate.
On my first real job, I tried to be professional, but a bunch of us went to happy hour two or three times a week and they noticed that I often went home with guys I met there (Yes, I had about 10 one night stands during this time). Rumors flew. My boss offered me a promotion I didn't deserve and then invited me out to dinner. I knew. I blew him in his car outside my apartment that night and resigned the next day.
I guess the last straw was getting Beth's wedding invitation in the mail. She included a letter in which she thanked me for making that pact with her so many years ago. Next month, she will walk down the aisle in a white dress that means something.
I don't regret all the guys I slept with, but I regret most of them. And I don't want to say I'll never have sex again until I get married, but I think I've slept with too many guys.
In college, I started dating again and was careful to not get serious. I thought of myself as a born again virgin. This went well until I met "George". We had similar backgrounds and beliefs about premarital sex. Everyone said we'd be the perfect couple and we became inseperable. He proposed on my 19th birthday. We planned to be married when he graduated in the spring. It seemed okay to act on our yearnings and we started having sex. The week before graduation, George learned that his high school sweetheart had broken her engagement. He dropped everything (including me) flew to Memphis, proposed to her, then flew to Vegas with her to get married. I was so depressed that I swallowed 60 Tylenol with most of a bottle of vodka as a chaser. Then, I took the razor out of my shaver and tried to get up the nerve to slit my wrists.
Luckily my roommate found me just as I made the first cut. In the hospital, I vowed to myself to never place so much importance on sex again. In fact, the day before I was discharged, I called a cute orderly into my room, pulled him in the bathroom and fucked him silly.
After months of counseling, my parents okayed me going back to college. I had failed the last semester of freshman year and missed the fall semester of what should have been my sophomore year. I didn't want to go back to "State U" and see all of my friends looking forward to their junior year while I was still technically a freshman, so I transfered to a college out of state. This also enabled me to create a new personality for myself.
My parents had barely settled me into my dorm room before I put on my shortest miniskirt, a tight blouse, and fuck me heels. I headed straight for fraternity row and soon had three guys practically fighting over me. I went home with one and had sex all night long. When he asked to see me the next evening, I told him not to be selfish, he needed to give other boys a chance.
By the end of sophomore year, I had slept with about 12 different guys. Some were one night stands, others were short, emotionless flings.
I went to the Netherlands for my junior year and took a more or less steady lover, an older man. But he was a part-time drug dealer and when he got arrested, I slept with four of his friends to pay off his debts.
Senior year, I came back to the U.S. and soon met a great guy. We were in three classes together and he lived one floor below me. After a couple weeks of spending five or six hours a day together, he spent the night. It started out platonic, but he was clearly aroused and I figured if we fucked then he'd stop tossing and turning so we could both get some sleep. This became a regular thing and he became a less great guy, but I still slept with him because he was going to be a December graduate and it was easier than breaking up. The second half of senior year, I slept with a professor to improve my grade in a class I was failing and needed to graduate.
On my first real job, I tried to be professional, but a bunch of us went to happy hour two or three times a week and they noticed that I often went home with guys I met there (Yes, I had about 10 one night stands during this time). Rumors flew. My boss offered me a promotion I didn't deserve and then invited me out to dinner. I knew. I blew him in his car outside my apartment that night and resigned the next day.
I guess the last straw was getting Beth's wedding invitation in the mail. She included a letter in which she thanked me for making that pact with her so many years ago. Next month, she will walk down the aisle in a white dress that means something.
I don't regret all the guys I slept with, but I regret most of them. And I don't want to say I'll never have sex again until I get married, but I think I've slept with too many guys.
