Some News Can’t Be Unbroken

She was a virgin.

A sweet southern school teacher. She was 23, and had natural D-cups that were full and soft, but definitely not too soft. These are the things that fantasies are supposed to be made of.

The truth is, she’d never fucked.

So there we were in bed. We’d met in a bar. I don’t remember the particulars now. I remember that I was lonely that summer. I went to bars with my friends when I could corral them to go with me. I went there hoping to meet someone. I went there to cure what ailed me. I went as often as I could.

I was 22, and recently dumped. There had been a great run-up to the dumping involving another woman (unknown to my real love), a month-long bender and ultimately a near-death car crash-up.

The car crash had been a one-car right-angle turn that wasn’t properly executed at 6:00 AM. The relationship had come to an end shortly thereafter. It’s funny how romantic notions of death are appealing to some women, but nobody’s laughing after a wreck like that.

I was walking wounded on a smashed-up hip, but the feelings inside hurt worse. Much worse. My former love had hurt me. She was supposed to come to the hospital but hadn’t arrived due to a supposed miscommunication with my family.

Truth was, she just couldn’t justify it anymore. The romance evidently had died with the car. She was mortified by the outcome.

Yet the walking wounded still get around. Maybe they’re a step slower, but they get there in time most of the time.

In the absence of love I found hope in my sweet southern virgin.

Let’s call her Nancy. I wonder if I should be ashamed that I don’t remember her name… considering what followed. Maybe it’s just blocked out.

I remember that her voice was syrupy. She was from Florida. She taught children. This job seemed to suit her. She didn’t seem very grown-up herself. But she was all woman.

Back then, it was still somewhat of a novelty for women to really hit the gym. So women were softer. It’s neither good nor bad necessarily. I remember that for a 23-year-old, she was perhaps three to five pounds overweight. It was as if she carried all the extra in her breasts.

She had a full bush. It wasn’t exaggerated, just not really trimmed. It went all the way up to her pantyline.

Her vagina wasn’t super-tight or anything. Fantasies are just that… fantasies. But I’ve never been obsessed with tightness. Like with all things, I look for ‘just right.’ Call it the Goldilocks test if you will.

I remember that she smelled clean. No perfume, just soap. Her vaginal juices were acidic. Not a judgment, just a chemistry thing. Not bad. Great if you can get it, really.

She was so fucking cute. And she saved me, in a sense, that summer. She was the first after all the rest. The first after I’d found love and lost it again. I would move from there soon enough.

Dark hair. Winning. But not sophisticated. She’d never had sex because she hadn’t gotten around to it. Even thinking on that now, it amazes me.

After a couple of dates, she confessed and I persuaded.

So we fucked. I fucked her, and then I showed her a bit of how she could fuck me. She took right to it.

Virgins are lousy in the sack. It’s universal that way. Sex is a habit best practiced.

Still, I was so grateful. So happy. So relieved. I was happy to be fucking her, and more than a little proud that I was her first after all those years she’d taken a pass on it.

She was pleased. It was a healthy situation. She felt comfortable being brought into a sexual life by me. Except for one thing.

I hate condoms. I did then, and I do now. I don’t sleep around as much as you may think and I know how to spot trouble, shall we say. So diseases have never been a problem. I pulled out after fucking her and came on her stomach. We fucked twice a night for a week. I assured her that it was fine. In fact, I’d been doing this for a long time. I don’t have any problem with the idea today. How complicated is it? Just don’t ejaculate. Pre-come is all weak swimmers with no tidal rush behind them. Pre-come is nothing compared to the onrush that follows. Pre-come is harmless.

Pulling out late is a problem.

I left town. Upon return, I called her or she called me. Presumably I called her. It was winter.

I had liked her a lot, she was charming. And I had really enjoyed her breasts. They were quite spectacular.

She was staying across the river. We met up. We drank. At least I did. I drank a lot. I don’t remember drinking a lot, I just remember waking up the next morning feeling like I’d been hit with a hammer.

The next morning, she told me that she had had an abortion.

I got angry. “You didn’t call me?!”

She said that under the circumstances, back in the south on summer vacation, she hadn’t thought much of it.

“You didn’t think of it?” I stood up. I began to pull my clothes on. I did this angrily, like a demonstration. This is a dumb exercise for anyone. But it gets the point across. Childish and clear.

“What was I supposed to do? What would you have said?”

“I don’t know. You never gave me that choice!”

I was really, really angry. To this day I sit with the knowledge that I was powerless that morning. It had all happened while I was getting high thousands of miles away. I hadn’t been consulted. Had she tracked me down through family, I would have not been able to comprehend it. I was spending my nights in a meth house.

We are all good people. The sweet southern virgin. Me and my restless exploration of cheap taboos. The mother of the young child that lied half-catatonic on the meth den couch while she argued with her common-law husband. We didn’t mean to do these things. Maybe we’re not good all the time. Maybe we would all get another chance. Maybe not.

I looked at her. Nancy. The former virgin.

I was hungover and I was upset. I love children. These moments are confusing.

I walked out the bedroom door, down the stairs of her friend’s house, and she and I never spoke to one another again.

Raymond Burns is an esoteric indie film professional living in Los Angeles. Raymond is a social animal who loves every inch of the female form. He comprehensively appreciates the quiet aftermath of a woman’s orgasm. He hangs a bit to the left.