The Virgin Wars

There are some things that you don't tell anyone. Certain events or stories that you keep all to yourself. Not because they're too detrimental to those who know, but for one of two reasons: they're either immensely embarrassing or you're afraid that people will suddenly treat you differently.

Now, there are two kinds of girls: those who are virgins and those who are not. Let me clarify something for you: virginity doesn't define who you are. There's no way to know if a girl is a virgin just by looking at her. It's not as if a red A is plastered upon her bosom, like Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter. Virginity is an amorphous kind of trait; indefinite and shapeless.

This is the story of how I lost my virginity. It is a maladroit tale, a cataclysm of lies I'm not too proud of. But, I do ask you one thing: refrain from judgement until the end.

Listen, now.

*

"This is disgusting."

Celeste O'Connor pursed her lips into a tight pucker, as if she'd swallowed an entire lemon. Her blond curls were pulled back, her pale eyes glued to the sandwich in front of her, which was dripping with mayonnaise and chunky pieces of tuna.

"I second that motion," I said, tucking my knees to my chest.

The day was warm. The Californian heat cascaded from the blue sky, pouring over my freckled shoulders. There was a cluster of plush trees to our left, the shade simply out of our reach. Students paraded over the front field, packed together in tight-knit groups, gossiping and making over dramatic gestures with their hands, which were covered in glittering jewelry.

I finished my granola bar and crumpled the wrapper in hand, my throat begging me for more liquid.

"Do you have any cash on you?" Celeste finally asked, her sandwich plummeting onto a plastic bag, making an atrocious squishing noise as it made contact.

I nodded towards my purse.

Celeste smiled, her teeth crooked. Her hair stood up in wisps around her gaunt face, the humidity turning her curls to unwanted frizz. Her nails, chipped with an orange polish, lifted up the flap on my denim purse. After a couple frustrated seconds, she snapped her head up at me.

"It's like you're carrying a Pharmacy in here," she rolled her eyes, "I mean, who needs four shades of the same lipstick?"

"A girl can never have too many lip products."

"You're insane."

"Bite me," I retorted.

With an aggravated sigh, Celeste yanked my purse into the air and shook all of the contents onto the table. "There," she said, triumphant. "Now I can see what I'm dealing with." She flicked away a pair of my dirty gym socks.

Celeste and I'd been friends for too long. She was over-dramatic, over-sensitive, and over-indulgent in every sense. She was a handful, but I loved her. When we were younger, people used to call me "Pepper Peyton" because my hair was as red as a the crimson coloured vegetable. During art glass, Celeste had glued each of their lockers shut with crazy glue.

She was absolutely, irrevocably insane.

After finding some money to finance her purchases, she returned with a bag of chips and a can of soda.

"How nutritious," I rolled my eyes.

"Shut up, Peyton," she told me, reaching into the bag with her glossed nails and removing a ruffled chip, "it's the last day of school, I'm allowed to break my cleanse."

Celeste's cleanse consisted of trying to eat healthy then coming to my house and pigging out on butter flavoured popcorn. We'd both broken our New Years resolutions, which consisted of eating healthy (that never seemed to work for anyone), losing our virginity (we were both still as pure as pastors), and to do better in school (which seemed nearly impossible).