Halt! No Cookie For You!

A humorous commentary on sex (or lack thereof), respecting yourself, and the often funny/painful differences between men and women.

I’m all about life lessons not-so-stealthily placed within self-deprecating stories these days, so I thought I’d share this tidbit from waaaay back. I’d like to title this story:

‘The Time I Almost Lost My Cookie – A Lesson In Womanhood’.

My first opportunity to lose my virginity happened my senior trip.

Oh, Mazatlan, Mexico – the land of all sheltered girls’ deflowering, where alcohol flows freely and the club scene stomps on poignant memories of high school dances.

The place where you dry hump some random stranger on a pulsing, neon-lit dance floor and it feels so racy, so promising, so FANTASTIC – until he turns and upchucks all over the place, splashing your freshly pedicured, strappy sandalled feet, and another guy in heat shuffles over to take his place.

Ah, the good stuff.

I wasn’t one of those girls holding onto my virginity like a badge of honor. Honestly, I had never been presented the opportunity. At 18 years old, away from home and surrounded by a plethora of willing participants (I’d have to wade through the pukers, of course), it seemed like the thing to do.

No time like the present, eh? Find a relationship. Have sex. Happily ever after. Voila! Isn’t that how it works?

Oh, naïve Ashley. The lessons.

I was at the pool, nursing an itsy bitsy hangover from double fisting Long Island Ice Teas all night (something I couldn’t dream of doing today without wanting to detach my poor pounding head from my booze-sweat drenched body), showing off my first teeny weeny (only in my mind – the bottoms were only slightly more sexy than high-waisted granny panties) hot-pink bikini, giggling with my two travel companions about the sad choice of drunken suitors/dry humpers the night before.

Life for me had really turned around. One month, I’m double fisting Swiss Rolls, and what feels like the next, it’s Long Islands poolside with girlfriends, discussing getting laid.

I’d officially entered the Twilight Zone of awesomeness. The world was my MF oyster.

Yasssss….

There I was, thinking life couldn’t get much better, when I saw HIM.

He was a Greek God of epic proportions – long, sinewy limbs, a glistening, tan, muscular chest, dark eyes, and a smile straight out of a toothpaste commercial. I literally heard a ‘ding’ when he smiled.

Seeing him was like one of those moments in the movies – where the babe climbs out of the pool in slow motion, flicking drops of water out of her hair, showing ridiculous hip abductor muscles that no human actually has in real life, accompanied by flawless, lovely cleavage – only it was a dude.

The finest dude I’d ever laid eyes on.

I was in love. Not only that – instant lady boner. I’d never had one of those before. I didn’t quite know what was going on, only that all the blood in my body had rushed to my nether regions and my vagina was singing ‘The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Music’.

I must have made some weird guttural noise, because I heard one of my friends ask, “What did you say, Ashley?”, and I know damn well I didn’t actually say anything coherent. I’d become a cave-woman, grunting out my approval.

“Uhnnn… uhn! uhn! uhn!”

The Greek God settled into a lounge chair, donning a smile that filled my stomach with a bazillion crazed butterflies. I think my G-spot was attempting to jump down the canal and right out into the world (Hi! Look at meeeee! I actually exist!).

I couldn’t speak, so like a complete idiot, I mutely pointed. My travel companions eagerly whipped their heads around to get a glimpse of the specimen rendering me speechless, and he immediately turned in our direction (of course, he did. My finger was probably shooting sparks).

We all exchanged looks, and he nudged the guy next to him. His friend could have been attractive, or he could have been an alien from outer space – I only had eyes for Greek God. Everything else faded far, far into the distance.

Including my brain cells.

Eventually, once the oxygen had returned to my brain, I realized a group of four guys were smiling over at us and we were grinning back.

I also realized my smile was so wide it actually hurt, and anyone within eyesight could probably see the Huevos Rancheros I had eaten for breakfast. I flailed around on the chair, attempting my best ‘sexy chick’ pose and brought my Joker-sized smile down to a constipated Cheshire cat.

The awkward mating dance – that I had not yet experienced – had begun.

It all started somewhat successfully: the men jumped into the pool and waded our direction. They hopped out of the water, muscles twitching, water droplets flying from wet locks, like an official brigade of the Thunder From Down Under, and joined us.

Although my girlfriends were both attractive, I didn’t have to compete for GG. My entire body was a neon sign flashing, ‘Open for Business’.

He sprawled out on a lounge chair next to me (wowsers), ordered a bucket of Coronas, and I – miraculously – kept my composure enough for him to invite us all out that night.

His real name was Izzy. He was 24 years old and, still to this day, is one of the most amazingly beautiful males I have ever laid eyes on. He was also funny, and sweet, and (I thought) waaaaaay out of my league. Besides, my mother definitely wouldn’t have approved.

Challenge accepted! It was on.

I got rip-roaring drunk in preparation.

I’m sure most girls would have labored over what to wear, squeezed into every viable outfit exploding from their suitcases while wiping off at least 20 shades of lipstick with toilet paper. They might have consulted their friends for advice and giggled nervously when the inevitable end of the evening was broached. They could have asked for much needed ‘sexy-time’ advice.

Nope. Not me. I just got wasted. (It’s Mexico. What can I say?)

I didn’t have many outfits, and I certainly didn’t have an impressive selection of lipsticks. I’m pretty sure I had a 99 cent tube of Wet n Wild and a tin of Carmex.

I mean, I feel like I’d just finally graduated from wearing my mustard yellow hammer pants. And it was 1998. I was far behind the curve. (Understatement)

I was completely freaking out. I was an imposter stepping into someone else’s life. It couldn’t be real.

I drank more tequila to calm my nerves, which is always a GREAT idea.

I don’t remember what I wore, what we did, or what we talked about. I vaguely recall floating above myself, watching this girl I didn’t recognize flirt, and giggle, and happily dry hump on the dance floor with the hottest guy in the club. Aside from that, it’s pretty blurry.

Adrenaline and alcohol are one hell of a mix.

I do, however, remember the end of the evening. It’s forever seared in my memory.

I had worn my best underwear (straight from the 5 for $20 rack at Target). I had even asked my girls to give me a couple hours in the room alone.

I really wanted some redeeming, awesome moment to look back on. One suave second to outweigh my sad 18 years of romantic incompetence. A Hail Mary.

Yes, that’s right. I was actually trying to come up with smooth lines to successfully get GG up to my room. Like it was ever going to be a challenge.

Dum Dum!

There was the understated: Hey, (put hand gently on his shoulder) want to come up? My roommates won’t be back for a while….

Nah. So cliché.

The seductress: Hey, big boy, (slide hand across leg or possibly (eek!) to a place I had never felt before) got something special for me?

Bahaha! Yeah right.

The coy/game player: I had such a great time tonight. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?

Hmmm… could backfire.

The obnoxious: Want to come to my room and f#*k?

Ummmm… no. I wish I could have pulled this off at this point in my life. No way. NO WAY.

In the end, I said nothing. Yet, somehow, we drifted away from everyone and toward my room (I know, I know – shocker! How in the world did that happen?!).

This IS going to happen! I thought to myself as we walked, hand in hand, down the open-air, mosaic tiled hallway.

Holy sh*t! This is actually going to happen!

I was a goddess in my own steamy soap opera.

I opened the door and his hands were on me, and mine were on his chest and waist, and he was muscular with the softest skin and it was happening.

OMG. It was. It really was.

I had never really kissed anyone before – just a childhood friend in a very pathetic attempt at doctor – but it felt GREAT. We stumbled onto the fold out couch.

He took off his shirt, and mine…. I was so adult, so smooth, so awesome at going with the flow.

Yeah, girl! You got this!

Then I felt it. It stabbed into my thigh. It was ready to go.

Holy sh*t! This IS actually going to happen! (Those were the thoughts racing through my brain… but the words I spoke were very, very different)

“I can’t sleep with you,” I heard myself blurt out.

What?! What did I just say? That wasn’t my voice was it? YES. IT. WAS.

He pulled back like I was a bed of burning hot coals.

“Oh-kaaaay,” he answered. It felt like the longest sentence anyone had ever spoken.

He stood up and put on his shirt. The washboard abs (poof!) disappeared.

AHHHH! What is wrong with me?

“I’m…I’m sorry,” I stuttered.

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I had been the epitome of a green light and had just floored the brakes. Screeching halt. Like I smelled the rubber burning, only it wasn’t the type of rubber I’d expected.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked, meekly.

I just needed him gone. There was no recovery. I needed to be alone to nurse my pathetic, virginous, naivete.

I have to give him credit: he left without a negative word. I highly doubt he had EVER encountered such denial in his life (I mean, seriously, you should have seen this guy), but he handled it with class.

I vaguely remember whining to my friends when they joined me in the room. I mostly writhed around in my own self-pity and embarrassment, then passed out.

I awoke with a nasty hangover and a resolute determination to give it another try. I had snubbed GG, but it was a new day. I was ready.

He was probably waiting for me by the pool. Of course, he was. Either that, or I’d wait for him.

It was destiny!

I put on my bathing suit and a pair of cut offs, gave myself a pep-talk in the mirror, and set out to claim my man.

I found him sprawled out on the chair he had occupied the day before, a bucket of Coronas on the side table. He was wearing sunglasses so I couldn’t see he eyes, but he was smiling his Greek God smile in my direction. My heart surged.

Do-over time. Do-me time. YES!

With renewed confidence, I marched toward him.

Then, I saw her: a petite, curly haired brunette in a leopard print bikini, stomach down in my chair, giddily gazing up at my GG.

Her bikini was a real bikini. It in no way resembled granny panties. She had a GREAT ass too, I noticed with disdain. Way smaller, tighter, and better than mine.

Wonderful, I thought. I have to kick this dumb b*#ch out of my chair. (I know, it’s horrible)

And then he laughed in response to something she had said. I stopped in my tracks, a mental montage playing through my head of the day before: the posture, the smile, the laugh, the attitude, the dimples, the bucket of beer – they were all the same. It was deja vu… only I wasn’t the one next to him.

In that instant, I knew I had been replaced. In all of 6 hours. 6 freaking hours! I hadn’t even managed to take a shower in 6 hours, and here he was, well on his way to an afternoon delight. And it was still morning.

Whaaaaat?!!!

I was inexperienced in relationships, in sex, in anything relating to the complexities between a man and a woman, but my intuition equaled the strength of my lady boner the day before.

I completely understood what was happening. I held my head high and resumed walking. When he saw me, his poster-boy smile faded and his body tensed as though preparing for an attack.

I only nodded politely as I passed and twisted my mouth into a tremendously painful, tight-lipped smile. His head followed me, finally fading out of my peripheral vision.

I settled into a chair fifty feet away. I allowed a few tears to squeeze through. Only a few.

They were inseparable the rest of the week. I heard her playful shriek in the pool, saw them on our loungers exchanging lusting glances. I walked past them in the lobby, his arm around her waist. They were everywhere.

There was some mysterious part of myself, a part I had never met, that made an appearance that trip. She told me to keep my dignity. She told me not to waste any more tears. She was the shadow of my future badass self guiding me, reminding me he wasn’t worth the pain.

When he knocked on the door of our hotel room our last night in Mazatlan and asked me out, I politely declined and wished him the best. I closed the door and fell against it, nearly hyperventilating.

I doubt he knew it was our last night. Miss Leopard Print with the tight ass had probably flown on home.

It was my first taste of the harsh realities of womanhood. I had romanticized a relationship never meant to come to fruition.

Before we’d even slept together, before we even knew each other, I had envisioned flying to visit him, our future, and little Greek God babies with sparkling white teeth running around the yard.

He, on the other hand, was just on vacation looking for a fun night or a fun week – whichever came easiest.

I didn’t harbor any anger or resentment – he hadn’t done anything wrong. We just weren’t on the same wavelength.

This difference in ‘wavelengths’ would be a repeating theme in my future, (as it is for many women) and I’d received my very first lesson.

I’ve made many mistakes in life – sometimes investing energy into unhealthy (or non-existent) relationships – but my experience with GG helped to pave the long path to respecting myself and valuing what I have to offer.

I decided to hold onto my V card for a while after that. And I’m so glad I did.

– Ashley

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