The Gods of Virginity

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Written by William Quam
Wednesday, 26 March 2008

Last Updated ( Wednesday, 26 March 2008 )

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The Gods of Virginity

Not many people have heard of the "Gods of Virginity." They are the gods that decide when a hymen gets busted or a teenage boy sweats out his first paternity test. These guys are like Santa, but better. They dole out first time nookie to boys or girls, whether they've been naughty or nice. The GOV don't sit atop Mount Olympia; I'm pretty sure they hang out in the grotto at Hef's Beverly Hills mansion. I found out early in life that it is not wise to turn down an offering from the Gods.

I was sixteen years old and both scared to death of girls and madly in love with Barbie. She had big blue eyes, braces and had a thing for emaciated, weird looking, David Bowie types. By a freak coincidence, I was six foot tall, 150 lbs. and very weird looking. The first time I saw Barbie she was standing in front of the high school wearing tight jeans, a sweater and smoking a cigarette. My uncle once told me, "Billy Boy, if she's smokin', she's pokin'." I was seven years old at the time and didn't know what he meant. But honestly, who would know more about women than a horny, chain-smoking, borderline alcoholic, 40 year old with a 228 lb. wife? Yep, Barbie was the one for me. I wouldn't have climbed the fence in her backyard 37 times in the dark with a pair of binoculars if she was Miss Wrong.

I had asked Barbie to come over on a night my parents would be out. We would be joined by my friend Doug and his girlfriend, Bonnie. I really respected Doug. Heck, he reached 3^rd base by the seventh grade. Being a good friend, he always gave every detail of his exploits with the girls. Information like that was so important to an inexperienced wannabe like me. Bonnie was known as the "Polish Bombshell." Do I need to say more? Before we picked up the girls, Doug and I stood outside of a liquor store until we found some immoral wino that was willing to buy us two fifths of Seagrams. The 70's were such a great decade. It was a time when adults would gladly drop what they were doing to help a couple of youths in need. After making our purchase, we grabbed the girls and were off to party.

Doug had counseled me on the proper make-out music to pop into the 8-track player. I had two Arrowsmith tapes lined up. According to Doug, even the most discriminating women melt when they hear lyrics like "Lord of Your Thighs" or "Big Ten Inch." Last time I had a date over, I made the mistake of playing "Careful with That Axe, Eugene" from Pink Floyd. That led to a restraining order being filed against me. I popped in the first tape while the girls made the first round of drinks. We all got cozy.

As I was making another round of drinks, I had a great idea. Why not pull defeat out of the mouth of victory? In a futile attempt to prove my coolness, when none was required, I grabbed the bottle of Seagrams and guzzled about a quarter. I clearly had no concept of the correlation between large amounts of alcohol and a flaccid wang. The evening went downhill quickly after that. The last thing I remember was Barbie sitting on my lap, her arms around me and telling me that her bra size was a 38C.

I called Doug in a hung-over state the next morning to find out if I scored with Barbie. When he stopped laughing, Doug recounted that the first splash of vomit hit Barbie right below the 38C's. After that, I was spewing like a piñata. I asked him why he used the piñata visual. Doug explained that it was because of the way Barbie repeatedly kicked me and hit me with a broomstick after I hurled on her. That explains my swollen testicles. The "GOV" lobbed one over the plate and I swung and missed.

I suffered a couple of months of ice-cold stares from Barbie and taunts in the hallways from the entire student body. "Yeah, that's the loser who puked on Barb." Even the Audio-Visual geeks were piling on. I'm pretty sure one of the janitors called me "barf boy." On the bright side, everybody knew who I was. My rite of passage, my chance to be a ladies man had come and gone. I was resigned to the fact that high school women would not be coming my way anytime soon. Just when I was getting comfortable with the concept of long-term masturbation, my friend Doug tells me in disbelief, "I don't know why, but Barbie's friend Pam really likes you." I didn't care why; I always had a thing for girls with bad taste in men.

Pam was an Irish Catholic girl with a devilish streak. She was kind of cute. She was curvy bordering on chunky. She was also very forward, in a weird, stalker kind of way. After I let on that I was interested, Pam use to wait for me at my locker before every class. She would carry my books to each classroom. Upon arriving at my desk, Pam would announce to the room that she and I were lovers. That should have set off alarms, but I didn't care. I was at the bottom of the social food chain and Pam was willing to look beyond the "barfing on Barbie" thing. I was ready to ask Pam out.

I picked a Saturday night that my parents would be out of town with friends. To play it safe, I invited three other couples over to the house on the night Pam was coming. I figured there was safety in numbers. However, I made one more fatal mistake when inviting one of the couples. I started with the invitation with, "I'm having a little party this Saturday night..........."

It was just my luck that the Appleton West party scene was dead on the weekend of my little make-out party. I didn't know it at the time, but news about my party was spreading like wildfire. Before my guests arrived, the phone was ringing off the hook. As hard as I tried to convince everyone there was no party, the word was out. Cars, bikes, kegs and dozens of students descended on my parent's house like roaches. I tried to keep the revised guest list fewer than sixty. I figured that by the end of the weekend I'd either be arrested and kicked out of the house or I'd be the coolest kid in the 10^th grade and erase the stain of Barbie.

The party was well under way when Pam and the three other couples showed up. I sheepishly let on that a few other acquaintances had dropped by. I think Pam already knew. Actually, she was impressed and ready to party. By the look on her face, Pam thought I was "the Man." As we strolled through the house arm and arm, it took every fiber of my being not to look at the carnage and scream...."Don't butt your smoke in the carpeting!"......"Hey, get your head out of my fridge!"....... "Clean up that beer spill!" That would have been uncool and tonight was all about acting cool. It must have worked. Pam looked at me with a smile and said, "I haven't seen your bedroom yet."

It would have been rude at that point to race upstairs ahead of my date. So I took her by the hand and slowly began making my way through the crowd. Broken bottles, half-eaten food everywhere, burns in the rug, I no longer cared. I was gonna' get laid. Almost to the staircase, I was hijacked by a partygoer I didn't recognize. "Dude, you gotta come to the garage, quick!" My god, was the house on fire? Against my better instincts, I turned to Pam and said, "Gimme five minutes."

I opened the garage door and walked into a fog. The garage had become a designated pot smoking area. In one two car garage was the finest collection of stoners that Appleton West High had to offer. I had a contact high within 30 seconds. A bong was thrust in my face. "We just want to thank you for the party, man," droned two of the stoners. "Take a hit." It didn't have any significance at the time, but the two guys holding the bong were named Beavis & Butthead. Only a fool, a loser or a stoner would have taken that hit with a girl waiting in the bedroom. I took four or five. Hey, it was high quality stuff. I floated out of the garage and found Pam.

As Pam led me up the stairs by the hand, I knew that the beers and high powered weed was taking a toll. I was just holding on. In the bedroom, we sat at the edge of the bed and kissed. Pam told me to lie on my bed. She climbed on top and straddled me. After kissing my neck and face, she rose up and slowly removed her sweater. Damn, I was so stoned! She asked me if I wanted to see her boobies. I looked up with a big toasted smile and said, "yeahhhh." At that point, I would have answered yes to a spoonful of rat poisoning. Pam reached behind her back and began unhooking her bra. I could barely focus. Two beautiful, creamy, full breasts tumbled down. As I reached to touch them, I dry heaved an recoiled. (Picture Malcolm McDowell in the last part of A Clockwork Orange.) I attempted to clear my mental haze. I remembered the old saying, "When you see four breasts, always grab the two in the middle." I couldn't do it. My last words before passing out, "My god Pammy, they're so beautiful............"

It doesn't take a genius to figure that Pam gathered her bra and sweater and left, leaving me passed out on my very own bed. It was over between us. What happened next was freaky. The "GOV" appeared before me in my ganja and Miller Lite fueled dream. Man, they were pissed. This punishment was going to be really, really bad. NO SEX FOR 40 MONTHS! And by no sex they meant girls, guys, animals and dead bodies. Necrophilia? Damn, these guys cover all the bases!

By the way, what is the shelf life on an unused box of condoms?