Don't Fuck My Friends (or How I Thought I Lost My Virginity)

It was the last week in November of my freshman year of college. We'd only just got back from break and already I was dying of boredom. I lay on Cliff's bed and stared at his ceiling as he sat his laptop playing some RTS (that is to say, Real-Time Strategy) game. He had some black metal blaring from his stereo. I sat up and looked at him.

"I'm so bored!" I exclaimed, not knowing if it would be enough to pull him away from spawning more troops.

"Well, what do you want to do?" he asked. My plea for attention went unnoticed.

"I don't know," I started, "Ummmm...let's go to your hometown. It's what? An hour or two away?"

That got his attention. "Are you sure?" he asked, and before I could reassure him, "We should call James."

Mere seconds later we were both on our phones, Cliff scoping out parties in Bum Fuck County and I working out how much dro James and I could put down for. One quick change of clothes, a routine "business" deal and we were flying down the highway.

"Don't fuck my friends," Cliff warned me.

"What?" I asked, incredulously, "I'm a virgin, Cliff. Clearly I don't...well, y'know."

"Yeah, whatever," Cliff said, "Just don't fuck my friends."

"Whatever, dork."

"We're close," Cliff announced about 45 minutes later.

"Can we stop for cigarettes?" I blurted.

"Are you gonna give me one?"

"I guess."

We pulled into the driveway of a large, ranch-style house. "Don't slam the doors," Cliff instructed, "And follow me. Be quiet." We crept through the backyard soundlessly. The back door opened and a woman greeted us.

"This is my friend Liz. Liz, this is Lydia and that's James."

We followed Liz to a room near where we entered and took seats where we could find them. "Wanna smoke a bowl?" she asked once the door was closed. She pulled out a jar full of some of the driest schwag I've seen to date.

"Okay," I agreed and she started to pack the bowl. I wasn't used to low-grade marijuana at this point. It wasn't the green, fresh, deliciousness I was accustomed to. It hurt my lungs. I was barely buzzed. It was then I pulled out my own metal pipe and started to load a bowl which James, taking my cue, contributed to.

Well it turns out, Liz was cool, even if she sold dry schwag. Supposedly supply wasn't as plentiful as it had been in our hip, little college town. But in all my collegiate discernment, this was not exactly what one would call a party. It was just then that Cliff bid Liz farewell and ushered James and me back to the car in the same secrecy whence we arrived.

A few minutes later and we’re in front of another house. A shirtless guy runs out the front door and shouts to Cliff, “Holy shit, dude! I can’t believe you’re here!”

“What’s up, Kennedy?” Cliff greeted the half-naked boy with a handshake.

“Come in, guys, we’re playing beer pong.”

We walk in and it’s a fucking sausage fest if I’ve ever seen one. Not that I’m opposed. A few of the guys were younger than I expected, about fifteen if I had to guess. Sixteen, they tell me separately. I grab a Keystone and toss one to James. He’s already fawning over the beautiful Les Paul in the living room. I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen one in person and I understand the hefty price tag associated with it. It’s beautiful. A tall, cowboy-looking guy walks over and resumes his jam session on the now coveted ax.

Suddenly I’m more overtaken by how attractive I think he is than his musicianship. I don’t know any of the songs he plays and assume they’re songs he wrote on his own. I start walking around the living room, surveying everything. Pictures of the guitarist’s graduation. His name’s Jesse. And I want to touch him, maybe even (gasp!) kiss him, but instead I ignore him the entire time. I have to play it cool, right?

I partner with one of the sixteen-year-olds in a game of beer pong. I’m awful. Tired of losing streak, I wander into Kennedy’s bedroom and offer up a bowl. About five other guys enter the room, as if magnetized. Fucking potheads. Kennedy kicks most of them out so aside from us, only Cliff, James and Jesse occupy the room. It's about now that my perception of time stops aligning with reality.

Shortly after I notice the frays at the bottom of Kennedy's jeans, Cliff sets them on fire. "What the fuck, you fucking Jew!"

"Hey fuck you, man! I was just kidding! Look, it's already out."

"Hey," I protest, "What's wrong with Jews?"

"Oh," Kennedy says, "I don't know. I never thought about it, we just say it."

"Well," I continue, "I'm Jewish. And I'm pretty cool, right?" Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There goes my cool points.

"Yeah," Kennedy concedes (to my surprise), "I guess Jews are pretty cool then."

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Many rounds of beer pong later, the majority of the party is passed out on couches in the living room. Jesse left for a different party long ago and I sit in the corner of one with my knees pulled up to my chest, trying to compact myself as much as possible to stay warm. I'm wondering how much I drank, but I keep losing track of my thoughts. Nothing makes sense and I give up admitting defeat. I'm definitely wasted. Just then I hear the front door open and in comes Jesse. I get up and head for the bathroom. Just as I exit I meet Jesse in the hallway.

"Oh, hey," he says.

"Hi," I say, "Umm...where are you going?"

"My room...?"

"Oh well...it's really cold in the living room. Can I go with you?"

"Yeah, come on."

Holy. Fucking. Shit. Did that seriously just work? No, wait what the fuck did I just do? How did I manage...? I'm utterly mindfucked at this point, but I crawl into bed next to Jesse all the same. We lie next to each other for a while and I try to savor the shared warmth, the small victory I feel I've won.

"Hey, are you going to be awake for awhile?" he asks me.

"Yeah, probably," I say.

"Do you want to fuck?"

It takes a second for my mind to wrap around the question. Wait, did I hear that right? No, I have to be hallucinating. No, no, I definitely heard it right. My thoughts culminate into the audible, "Uhhh...." But do I want to....fuck? I guess I can just get it over with...I have to do it sometime, right? My heart is racing and without another thought I blurt, "Yeah."

"Take off your pants." Just like that. No romance, no soft focus, no perfectly composed soundtrack.

But he never actually...entered me. He kinda just thrust himself between my legs and rubbed it against me when he got up and grabbed a bottle of lube. "Turn around," he instructed. I figured he was way out of my league, so I obliged him without protest.

It didn't even hurt like you would think. Jesse was definitely well-versed in the arena of anal intercourse. It actually felt okay. Actually it was starting to feel better than okay when suddenly he stopped, "Sit up."

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"You have to leave before my girlfriend comes over," he said, "Here's a blanket, actually, here's two."

I went back to the couch, my mouth numb, a pineapple flavor lingering. I must've slept for about 2 hours. Then it was up again and saying good-bye to everyone. The last good-byes were exchanged and we got back into Cliff's car.

"I have to tell you something," I said after I shut my door.

"What?" Cliff said, sleepily.

"I fucked your friend."

"Damn it! I told you not to...well who?"

"Jesse."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Most girls are going to fuck Jesse at some point. You just...did it a lot sooner than most."

Great. Just great. I felt empty.

Introduction

So if you happened upon this blog, you're probably thinking it's some sort of porn site with pictures of what they'll promise you are "hot MILFs" when really all you're getting is the washed up waitress of some seedy hole-in-the-wall with over-bleached anuses.

I can at least promise you there will be none of THAT.

No, what is meant by "Fornication and the Suburbs" is that it's basically the same skankiness of another certain "relationship" column, but less agreeable because it isn't done in a pair of $500 heels.

The true inspiration for this project comes from a friend of your humble narrator and condom connoisseur, another writer whom I respect deeply (and not just because he makes me feel like less of an alcoholic).

What my intent in writing this is to chronicle the relationships with others (and I say others as opposed to men because I'll screw anything with good looks, good charms or good booze) beginning from the point I lose my "actual" virginity.