By Helly Schtevie
I arrive at college in Washington D.C., virginal as ever. While I did appreciate the hints of sensual touch from my “boyfriend” the previous year, he only seemed interested in my hands and shoulders. Given a campus dorm room as my lab, I begin studying and experimenting with the basics of human sexuality and mind alteration in earnest.
My accompanying wardrobe has a mission statement: to lay bare that which parental oppression has so long attempted to veil, pioneering new ground in the migration of the plunging neckline and the ever-rising mini-skirt hemline. I make advances on these dual fronts, at the same time struggling to acclimate to the brand-new attention this brings.
For example: Whereas I had trouble scoring myself a pity date to prom, two months into my freshman year, internationally renowned hip-hop star Wyclef Jean chooses me to live a fangirl’s dream.
I can’t claim to know what other virgins would have done in my position: when Wyclef pulls you onto the stage at the 9:30 Club, anatomically celebrating you in lyrical verse and making contact via your pelvises before an audience of hundreds, it dawns on you that this is one way in which laywomen wishing to have sexual experiences with famous musicians throughout time and history have customarily gained access.
I grow suddenly nervous. My few forays into physical intimacy have been on campus with boys of similarly lim- ited experience, and these have only given me a brand-new set of debilitating anxieties, like what I should do with my hands or feet or whatever.
Now I have a new one: “Am I going to lose my virginity to Grammy Award-winning Haitian-American rapper, singer-songwriter, musician, record producer, and poli- tician Wyclef Jean?”
As quickly as I’m pulled on stage I find myself ushered stage right. I stand for a moment looking out on the surg- ing crowd—the crowd cheering for Wyclef. Two roads diverge and I, I take the one less confident, acknowledging that my few fumbled dry runs with nerds my own age have not earned me the credits for an advanced erotic evening of this magnitude.
Better to head back to the dorm room and check the results of my ongoing experiments.
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