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Don't Seem PAGE
TWO: But things did get off to a decent start. I was able to take my clothes off without much assistance. I had been watching my friends watch straight porn for years, so I had a pretty good sense of how I was expected to waste five or ten minutes before actually inserting my penis into her vagina. I squoze things and figured it would do the trick. Condoms didn't scare me either. I had been trying them on for years. The primitive containment system fascinated me. I think Kelly was a little confused as to why I already had one on when I got into bed, but nevertheless, all seemed to be going just fine. Until the moment of penetration. Now, all of my research on the subject seemed to suggest glided ease, like Greg Louganis (also a gay) dipping in for a late afternoon swim. But in this case the pool seemed to be filled with peanut butter, lined with Velcro. Something was wrong. I struggled to make it right while Kelly's body emitted sounds that could only indicate extreme, acute discomfort. And then she said it. The most frightening, abhorrent, blood-curdling words a gay teen could ever imagine: "I think this will work better if you go down on me first." Now, it was dark. And I was wasted. And while there were no mirrors, I can still see the look on my face as the notion sunk in. There was no way out, and no other way in. Sure, the more reasonable, mentally stable gay teen would most likely have abandoned the cause at this point. But I had established that everything in my life would work better if I participated in vaginal intercourse, and it had been established that vaginal intercourse, apparently, would work better if I ate her out first. And since I have always had tremendous respect for the transitive property, I swallowed hard, lifted up the covers and said, "I'll be right back." To classify the breath I took as "deep" would be doing me (and the breath) a tremendous disservice. Bracing for a large oncoming wave -- sitting down to take a final exam --these require deep breaths. My inhale had more of a Shawshank Redemption-escape-route feel to it. Safe to say that my mouth was in unfamiliar territory. Luckily, thanks to HBO's new late-night hit series Real Sex, I had learned from an eighty-two-year-old nudist Mormon that the letters of the alphabet, when applied just so, could be extremely pleasurable to a woman. (Incidentally, the accompanying song can be extremely comforting to a homosexual while performing oral sex upon a vagina.) I must have dotted the "i" with a great deal of force and accuracy…or perhaps it was the acceleration through "j, k, L-M-N-O-P!", but the eruption that ensued was… shocking. I was sure I had broken something. Perhaps the fallopian tube? But "yes" means "yes", even in a court of law, and that was the only word coming from Kelly's mouth. Before long, I was summonsed out from under the covers. Greg Louganis, who had been foiled by the missionary position moments before, was now effortlessly twisting and tucking and somersaulting into the deep end with virtually zero splash upon entry. I was having sex. It became clear right off the bat that premature ejaculation was not going to be an issue. In fact, as the "Summer of '94" mix tape flipped over for the third time, I began to realize that my award-winning speed in circle-jerk competitions was not relevant here. Books have been written about this kind of stamina. Kelly's encouraging moans began to wane, and by the thirty-minute mark, she was essentially asleep. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I began to shift my focus from the woman I was having sex with…to the high school wrestling team. If you close your eyes tight enough, you can imagine just about anyone -- doing…anything -- and sure enough, my cadence accelerated. My veins expanded. My toes curled. Kelly woke up. Amazing technicolors dream-coated the walls!! Just like that, it was over. I clumsily rolled off the bed and into the bathroom, in order to congratulate myself on a job…done. I enjoyed a good long look at the man in the mirror. Unfortunately, while the man did seem to be wearing his heart on his sleeve, he didn't seem to be wearing a condom on his dick. Fuck. It had somehow fallen off. I swiftly but covertly leapt back into bed. With the steadiness of a spinal surgeon, I inspected Kelly's vaginal region. No luck. Those final thrusts of passion must have catapulted the condom way up into her uteral passage. What had begun as a feeble attempt to adjust my sexuality had resulted in the impregnation of a sixteen-year-old girl! The fetus was surely being suffocated by the condom -- not enough to kill it, just enough to severely damage the brain. I liked retarded kids, but wasn't ready to love one as my own flesh and blood. The next several hours were filled with panic and irrational behavior and a little bit more alcohol. I called my mother around 6:00 AM, but hung up when she answered. A grandmother at 47. What had I done to her!? When the sun rose I went to the bathroom to urinate, and a strange sound emanated from my genital territory. Not unlike a gurgle. Not unlike someone pissing into a condom. I looked down and there, on my pathetic, shriveled up penis, was the rubber, still attached. Apparently, in all of my prophylactic practice sessions I had never seen one in its sloppy, post-coital, transparent state. I laughed at myself and flushed it down the toilet. Flushed along with it went any doubts about my sexuality. After all, though I did physically have sex with Kelly Quinn, mentally I did things to the high school wrestling team I am still ashamed of. I saw Kelly a couple years later when I was playing a squash match at Princeton University. I told her I was gay, and that I had fallen in love with my freshman roommate. She started laughing and introduced me to her girlfriend, Vanessa. Not only did that god-awful sex fail to turn me straight, it had driven Kelly to a life of lesbianism. Incidentally, losing my homosexual virginity was far less traumatic. And
thankfully, the letters of the alphabet aren't gender specific.
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I'm
quite certain my road to alcoholism was paved that evening.
Booze had always intrigued me, but on the night of my deflowerment,
my body adopted a rather "Belushi-esque" quality about
it: I was attacking the liquor cabinet like a soldier going off
to war, and I was pissing like Secretariat before the big race.
As a result, by the time Kelly escorted me up to her parent's bedroom,
I was fucking wasted. 
