 The instant I walked
into the bathroom, I saw why he was looking at me,. I
looked at myself in the mirror and there it was. There
I was. An it. A cancer patient. 6’1, 120 pounds, with
no hair and eyes severely sunken into my head. I was
death. I was a walking symbol of death. I was
mortality – and Adam was smiling nervously at mortality,
not at a cute boy. Who would want this? And if anyone
did want this, wouldn’t I think that they were
disgusting? The image of myself in the mirror would not
let go – it suddenly became the image of the man on the
crashing plane… swiftly going down without anyone to
take his virginity. But there wasn’t a convenient
punch-line on such a grotesque and depressing sight.
That coy smile wasn’t
coy; it was fear. It was deep pity as shown behind a
plate glass window, afraid that my mortality would leap
the foot that separated us and spread to him too. I’m
sure that he didn’t know what it was that I had, but I’m
sure he didn’t want it. I wondered if he ran home and
threw his clothes quickly into the wash, lest my
mortality stain his carefree college life.
I couldn’t stay for the
rest of the Vagina Monologues. I left the bathroom,
walked back to Ruth’s Co-op and gave myself what I
thought might be my last orgasm before I went to bed.
Five weeks after my
abdominal surgery and I still hadn’t had an orgasm. I
got worried the doctors may have been wrong. My surgeon
had said that he didn’t need to cut the nerve that
facilitates ejaculation during the surgery, but maybe he
was wrong. Maybe I had lost my chance forever. Maybe
they thought I just wouldn’t notice. Or they figured
that no one but my-virgin-self would notice and
therefore, the problem would be contained… My abdomen
was bulbous, with what felt like a zipper of staples
straight down the center. I sat on the recliner at my
house, watching Seasons 1, 2 and 3 of Sex and the
City on a loop – living vicariously through the sex
lives of Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and (my favorite),
Miranda, none of whom ever appeared to lose their
orgasms. And I did little else. I feared maybe the
doctors were wrong. I had missed my chance, with
Sandra, Raquelle, Adam, anyone and I would, assuredly,
die sans penetrative sex with another person.
I was sleeping on my
back, since showering had proved too difficult with the
staples; I had gone 5 weeks without a proper shower; and
I was in more of a haze than I was in actual sleep. And
then, out of the blue, I see it: my classic wet dream
image from adolescence, developing with Polaroid-like
steadiness. There is a red-headed woman underwater with
a front-clasp bikini. I looked closer, trying to make
out her face. Was it Raquelle? No, no, no, Adam? No,
Sandra? Rolando? Maybe it was one of my many lesbian
gal-pals I loved and adored. Still no. Maybe it was my
old babysitter, Heather, who’s body and visage had
originally inspired the original recurring dream.
I didn’t know who it
was, but I knew what would happen. Water all around,
sunlight above, sand glistening in the distance… Maybe
they were right, maybe I could do it, maybe I could do
it, I could have penetrative sex… My dreaming eyes
closed and re-opened, thereby taking in my muse.
MIRANDA. Ohhhhhhhh….. Ahhhhhh…....Oh…. Ahhhh…. Oh…
Ah… Ahhhhhh….. I’m not sure if that’s the gayest person
to get off to, or the straightest – but I do know that
getting off to Cynthia Nixon officially makes me a
lesbian.
For the first time, I
didn’t rush to wipe off my masturbated cum opting
instead to lay in it, soaking in it, basking in all its
glory: proud, hopeful… The virgin would not die in a
ball of fire. I realized that, because I couldn’t
shower with my stitches, I wouldn’t be able to wash the
since-dried-cum on my abdomen for another few weeks. But
I knew, positively, that there could and would be a
future.
 And there was a future.
Six months later, on my first date with Vicky, it
happened. Boy, girl, penis, vagina, penetration, the
end. Well, it was better than that – actually kind of
nice. As we lay on the floor - an awkward one-balled
queer and a 26-year-old art historian/tattoo artist, I
revealed to Vicky that I had just lost my virginity.
Ahhh…. Conquest. Vicky quickly dressed, made me dress,
apologized and sent me home. Hmm?
The next morning, I
received a frantic phone call from her, begging me to
join her at Espresso Royale, where Vicky had gotten us a
table. Over our mochas, she leaned in with a face I had
hitherto known as only the cancer-face, serious and
well-intentioned and asked “Did I rape you last night?”
It was a serious
question with a serious face attached to it and I
smiled, “No Vicky, No. You did not rape me last night.
You have no idea how long I waited for that to happen.”
And she smiled, relieved that she hadn’t ruined the life
of a cancer survivor – and after that, it was all behind
us. Or at least my virginity was behind us. Or my
virginity was behind me. Err, mostly.
The End.
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6 COMMENTS ON THIS ESSAY:
Brilliant, concise, evocative, and funny. I should take some pointers from you. Seriously, though, stories like make me despair of ever fully understanding queer communities and lives - and I wouldn't have it any other way. Thanks for sharing.
i kept waiting for the part where he expresses his regret for such a misogynistic crusade. did i miss something?
In response to the previous comment, this essay feels to me like a critique on queer misogyny. I believe the description of the scene during the Vagina Monologues between the author and Adam alludes to this. Not to mention the reference to Cynthia Nixon, a lesbian, and dare I say, feminist icon. This is a funny, challenging essay and I can't wait to read more of his work.
Feminist lesbians be damned. I agree with the previous comment and add, he adores lesbians and considers himself a feminist. He's making fun of them, but in doing so making fun of himself. His crusade seemed more like a means to an end than misogyny. He wasn't afraid to admit the truth of his quest.
Having been an anxious virgin myself, I admit I'm less interested in the politics of Brian's feelings than I am in his having expressed them. I think it is really important to describe fear and desire in a masculine context (as well as all other possible contexts) because so many find these two emotional states inextricably intertwined in themselves and in social expectations of personhood. Also, I thought the piece was well-written and easy to read. Thank You.
Excellent writing...intriguing storyline. I am curious though, what was with the homosexual connotations and "queer" references in your story? Once finished reading your story, I reflected that this is a story about a bisexual man struggling with both cancer and sexual identity. Was this the purpose of your story? If so, great, but I get the impression that you were trying to convey something else.....?