THUGLIT Issue Twenty-One by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2015-12-29T16:00:00+00:00

Virgin Sacrifice

by David Rachels

I knew Jamie was a virgin, because virginity itself was the justification for every refusal. And though I knew the answer would never change—never change, that is, unless desperation finally drove me to propose marriage—I kept coming back for more rejection because every No! made me only more desperate. Within the bounds of the law, I did what I could to make my conquest, applying more pressure every time I repeated the hopeless plea that Jamie would brush off with a toss of the head, a knowing smile, and a laugh of clueless cruelty.

Always, some variation of this: "But I'm a virgin! Haven't I told you that before?" More laughter that we were having this conversation again. "Silly goose! You know that's not what virgins do!" As if a famine victim would refuse food because famine victims starve. "Silly goose! That's what famine victims do!"

And I was starving, all right. I was starving to death as sure as any famine victim.

Every moment apart was torture. Every moment together was torture. Even if we weren't in the back seat of my car with Jamie adding to my tally of rejections, it was torture. The luminous eyes. The lustrous hair. The ebullient laugh. The exquisite body always in tight clothes. The sinuous walk. The…everything. The everything. All of it designed to torture me.

You can apply three types of pressure to the opposite sex in the back seat of a car, and when you're a horny teenager, those types will come in this order:

Emotional

Logical.

Physical.

The emotional is the easiest to reject. You say, "Don't you love me? If you love me, you'll prove it."

And they throw it right back in your face. "If you love me, you'll wait. If you love me, you won't try to make me do something I don't want to do."

After this, the logical argument stands no chance. You say, "There's no reason to save yourself. There's nothing special about being a virgin. Nobody thinks any less of you if you're not a virgin, not anymore."

And then you're right back to, "If you love me, you'll wait till I'm ready." After these conversations happen three or four times, each iteration a touch more unpleasant, you begin the physical pressure in spite of yourself. You're a good person—of course you are!—but when you're embracing and tangling tongues and writhing, and there might even be a little rhythm to the writhing, that's when your hands start to move, first in back, then in front, then down in front.

You find the jeans.

You find the waistband of the jeans.

You find that lone button.

You ease that button through its hole, and you hold your breath, waiting for a beat before you dare to touch the zipper, and then the reaction comes. It could be a yell, or it could be a slapping away of the fingers, or it could just be a hand come to gently remove your hands from the scene of the crime.

Rejected again.

There are bad people, of course, and

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