prose · short stories

sugar virgin

Today I went to his place knowing what was coming at me. I could feel it for quite some time now from the way he started touching me, the way he looked at me – it was lust. He would never push me to do anything, but we both new that this was essential part of our relationship. And besides that, I wanted it the same amount as him.

The only thing that scared me and that was a subject of a constant debate in my head was the fact that I was a virgin. And now there came the questions: should I tell him? Does it make me immature? Would it make me frigid in his eyes? Does it point out my scrupulousness or does it point out the truth – that I had been unwanted until I met him? The possible pain was the least of my worries, and honestly I didn’t believe there would be any because I loved him and craved him and I didn’t fear anything. It’s the fear and tension, the uncertainty about doing the right thing that cause pain to girls.

Therefore I decided not to tell him. He didn’t need to know that he was my first time – not that it would make him proud as someone might argue. To him it would be unnecesary information. As long as he doesn’t suspect me, it’s swept off the table. I was sure that no virgin clumsiness or shyness was going to happen. Indeed I wasn’t afraid. It was no big deal for me to sleep with him, I wanted to do so for a long while, I was ready for it since I had met him. Anyway, it was just something to do without doubts. But it was my first time, and after having read Lolita and after having lived in the 21st century, I knew I was too old for that. I was ashamed.

Arriving at his place always has me feeling like a burglar prowling around, nervous about being caught. Things would be easier if he weren’t famous, I say to myself often. But then I realize that this part of him, the status and glory, is also something I secretly admire. I would never tell anyone, it would make no sense anyway since I refuse to appear with him in public out of fear of being photographed and subsequently judged by people who don’t understand our relationship. I don’t crave any attention for myself from public. Only from him. I hide him even from my friends, so the idea of getting famous because of being his girlfriend (another young girlfriend, this time younger than the one before) is just sick.

There’s a lot of dreadful things happening in this world and people refuse to see them. But if I confessed that I date an older man and that I love him like a fool, it would be the end of the world. An eighteen-year-old simply isn’t supposed to date a forty-five-year-old, no matter how healthy the relationship is, no matter how much love, pleasure and understanding is present. The young girl is considered a gold digger and the man is considered simply a pig. I can deal with the shit people would say about me because I can justify being with him. But it would hurt me tremendously whatever they would say about him – because his only mistake would be being with me, I would be the cause of his problems. He’s no little boy and I know he wouldn’t mind the things people might say. But the dogma drives me mad. On the other hand, it’s maybe all in my head.


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