Happy Friday everyone. This week’s guest blogger is Rohan. He’s an author, a musician and a fun guy! I hope you all enjoy his post and please don’t forget to check out his newest book that was recently released. You won’t be disappointed.
I have an issue with the word virginity. A concept originally invented to ensure that the child was indeed the husband’s – and entitled to inherit his name and property – as the wife was a virgin when married. Today we have DNA testing and there are no, or very few, illegitimacy laws thank goodness. Children have human and inheritor rights based on their genes and the fact that they exist and not their parent’s marital status at the time of their birth. These days virginity has become the general term used to describe when either a man or a woman first engages in sexual intercourse with another person.
However because everyone has a slightly different definition when it comes to what constitutes sex, it makes the term virginity rather obsolete and makes the loss of virginity much harder to identify. But for the sake of this post the loss of virginity is defined as the moment when a penis entered a vagina. There, I said it…
It was a beautiful winter’s day in Lismore, New South Wales, Australia. However it must be noted that the middle of July in the sub tropical southern hemisphere, is not very wintry at all when compared to more temperate regions. There was no snow or frost, it was chilly, but nothing a light jumper/sweater couldn’t fix. I spent my morning drinking coffee on the veranda looking out over the sacred Aboriginal mountain that rose up in front of the family home. I was 16 years old and a gigging musician. I had left school a few months earlier to pursue a career in music.
“Today is the big day,” I thought as I looked out over the lush foliage “tonight she will come, and we will make love for the first time.” I smiled to myself. Our love was of the forbidden kind. Hence the deception. The plan went like this:
1 – She would tell her parents that she is spending the night at a girlfriend’s place.
2 – She would pick up the condoms (safety first!).
3 – She would arrive and spend the night at my place.
4 – My dad would drive her to school in the morning.
We had a number of counter measures in place. For example if her parents called her friend’s house, her friend would answer and tell them that she was in the shower, but that all was well and she would call them back. The friend would then call my house to let us know, and she would call her folks back from my home phone. Genius!
I had to go to Byron that day with my dad; music stuff. While there we had a coffee with Dan Rumour, and I picked up a Morrissey poster from a record store as he was my favorite artist at the time. Hipster Rohan was into Morrissey before it was cool! On the drive home it rained, I hoped it would rain during our night together. There was, and is, nothing I like more than the sound of pounding rain while I’m drifting off to sleep, and I could only imagine what that would feel like when combined with the sweet embrace of my lover.
We’d been seeing each other for two years on and off. We’d shared so many “firsts” already and so many memories. There was no one more worthy of my first time than her, and I felt humbled and honored that she would choose me to be her first as well.
Back at home I anxiously awaited her arrival. I showered and spent far too long in front of the mirror before hearing her footsteps crunching across the gravel path. I greeted her. The plan was working! Never had I felt such anticipation and excitement as I did that day. We ate, we talked, we took a stroll around our three acres and as the sun set we retired to my bedroom. “This is it!” my heart raced as the realization fully dawned on me that the next morning I would wake up having made love with another for the very first time.
We were so naive and curious. We got undressed and into bed together. In my haste I tossed her lace slip onto my lamp and a few seconds later the delicate material had melted to the hot bulb. Smelling the fumes I quickly removed it. The slip was destroyed, but nothing mattered that night. We laughed. She asked me to get out and stand naked on the opposite end of the room. I obeyed, and there it stood, as nature intended, displayed for her. Here eyes widened, I heard her whisper “Wow”. I ran back to bed and we giggled. I asked her to do the same. She stood by the bed and made a 360 degree rotation, like the twirl of a young woman asking for a friends opinion of a new dress.
What followed was possibly the most memorable night of my life, and one which still brings a broad smile to my face every time I think of it. I am acutely aware that very few people are so lucky as to have a first experience of the caliber of mine and her’s. I feel blessed that on that day the universe conspired, whether through random chance or divine guidance, to provide such an sublime sensory scenario. A lifetime contains only a handful of perfect days. This was one such day. It rained that night, and we drifted off to sleep curled up in each other’s arms to the pitter patter of water falling onto a corrugated iron roof.
The next morning I awoke first, still holding her tight in my squishy single bed. I savored the few minutes before her eyes opened, and kissed her when they did. We made love again in the morning and then it was time for school. I helped her dress and gave her something to eat. Then it was in the car and off. At the school I hugged her and kissed her goodbye. Class was starting and I watched her sprint toward home room.
Back at home I sat on the veranda, in a pleasant foggy daze. I rolled a cigarette and took a sip of coffee overlooking the sacred Aboriginal mountain and smiled serenely.
A week later I received a phone call. It was her. Her voice was weak and warbling, she was crying. From a phone booth she told me it was over. That it would be too hard to keep going, that her parents wouldn’t allow it. We said goodbye, we understood that this would happen, we were thankful for the time we had. But it still hurt like hell.
I hung up the phone, I found my guitar, a pen and my pad and I wrote this song.
Although it was over, I’ll never, ever forget the day that love seemed possible in very possible way.
Thanks for reading, all the best!
Her raw voice pierces through the drums of my ears as I hear her begging. It’s German. I’m not sure what she wants. Is it money? Drugs? A warm shower? She could use a shower.
She reeks of death and the brown lump she’s trying to boil in her tea spoon is not helping. While trying to hold the tea spoon steady and the lighter beneath it, the substance in it slowly turns into rusty water.
She sits in a puddle of her own pee, but she doesn’t notice it running down her leg.
Using her teeth, she pulls the elastic tubing around her arm. One of her veins pops out only slightly. She grabs the dirty needle laying next to her on the floor.
She looks like she hasn’t eaten in a year and her arms and legs are twitching as if they are about to crack. Regardless she is a master of her favourite game.
Heroin-addiction is the only game where you score before you shoot.
I take place on the bench next to her, while I wait for my train and she floats off to a destination unknown to me or any of the other travelers.
As the rest of her body turns numb, she rests her head on the bench. The top of her head strokes the side of my leg as her fuzzy long blonde hair runs down the side of the bench.
It’s okay, though. I’m not allergic to addicted blondes.
The speaker announces that my train has been delayed for an hour, so I decide to grab a beer in a bar around the corner.
It’s a bar at the corner of a street behind the Red Light District. The bars in that street are lousy with shit-faced tourists looking for their next rush. They’re in Amsterdam. Sin City. Once they cross the border into this city anything goes.
But not this bar. It’s a quiet Irish Pub, with a young, Irish girl behind the counter. Here people come to converse and share observations.
I tell her the story of the German blonde at the train station. She knows her. She’s been strolling the streets for years, the Irish girl tells me.
An old man, from the other side of the counter says: “If everyone would walk straight and proud, like a boss, and not measure their pride by the price of their shoes, no one would be addicted to that crap.”
I nod in agreement and raise my glass to him. He continues: “These girls come here to sell their body for money, but all they end up selling is their dignity.”
They say she once came here during the summer. To party. After a deadly dose of heroin she ended up selling her body to maintain her newfound addiction.
Her parents never came looking for her. Her friends went back home without her. No one knows her name.
When I arrive back at the station she’s still there, more conscious than before. The bench she’s leaning on is empty, yet there are plenty of people waiting for the train.
I take place next to her. She looks surprised and slightly anxious. I smile and offer her my hand: “need help getting up?”
As she grabs my hand, a tear runs down her cheek. As she gets up and collects her belongings, I tell her to not worry. We all do crazy things.
She takes a few firm steps towards the railroad and throws the needle and elastic tubing under the arriving train while slipping the tea spoon into her pocket.
The question marks in my eyes must have been obvious, because before she walks away, she tells me: “It belonged to my grandmother. She didn’t survive the war.”
The German blonde that reeks of death, with pants soaked in her own urine walks away with her head held high and a hop in her step.
She turns her head to me, before she steps upon the escalator. I notice a twinkle in her eyes: “It’s Miranda, by the way.”
“Bye, Miranda,” I tell her, as the escalator slowly rolls her down to the station’s main square.
Miranda wasn’t looking for a hand offering drugs or money. Instead she was looking for a hand offering empathy.
A helping hand.
Written by: Daan van den Bergh
A 28 year old husband and father from The Netherlands. Over at my blog I share poetry, short stories, flash fiction and comment on actualities in an attempt to pour society’s issues into the art of writing. Visit my blog at Daanvandenbergh.com. Follow me on Twitter and like me on Facebook.
We had just finished eating supper. We sat down to watch the 6 o’clock news. She never misses it.
We were both so tired.
Just as the weather report came on, thunder erupted from the sky above. A severe thunderstorm closed up the clear blue skies.
Power left us immediately…along with the news.
We burst out laughing; hysterically.
The building fire alarm started screaming at us.
I went out onto the balcony for a smoke. She decided to sit with me; I mean, it was better than sitting inside alone, in the dark.
I played in the rain while she laughed at me. ‘Good girl’ she said. We told stories of times long ago. Faded memories being patched together again.
Two hours later the fire alarm committed suicide. ‘Yay!’ We shouted.
We went back inside, cold, wet and hungry.
‘Power outages always make me hungry.’ I told her.
‘Really?’ She asked.
‘I don’t know but I’m hungry now, so yeah?’ I responded.
We laughed some more.
‘Go make a sandwich.’ She told me
‘K, you coming?’ I questioned.
‘Yeah I am.’ She said.
After our snack was devoured, she sat at the kitchen table and twiddled her thumbs and we laughed some more.
‘Looks like there’s nothing to do but go sleep.’ She said; so nonchalantly.
‘Say what? Its only 9:30pm!’
I walked her to her bedroom since I was the only one with light.
She went to bed.
I’m sitting on the sofa, in the dark, typing this post up, from my phone.
I talk a little louder
I speak a little bit prouder
To get here
One too many excuses
Many more lies
Don’t look surprised
I’m not who I was
Tamed, damaged, caged
You don’t get
To know me
Of your perfection
From your touch
Don’t be mad
At your ego
It’s the one to blame
We didn’t work out
But this is us
Staring at each other
15 years later
We both survived
To be the me
That I am