If you had a car, you had a bedroom. The backseat was ample enough room to become acquainted with the object of one’s desire. Darkly lit streets, vacant parking lots and local parks harbored youth from the prying eyes of adult disapproval and punishment.
I was young, I was limber and I could maneuver around the bucket seats of a two door Nissan with the grace of a synchronized swimmer. Nothing short of the Pittsburg Steelers offensive line could keep this 16 year olds raging hormones under wraps. If you were cute and had wheels I was bound and determined to insure a play date of heavy petting and hickies.
Trying to reconcile my desire to dryhump everything with a penis with the chastity imposed by my youth group’s pastor was cruel and unusual punishment. The urge to suck face with one of my God fearing, innocent youth group peers was never far from the surface. I was in a competition with God. He was trying to keep their clothes on and I was trying to get them off. Game, set, match. Even the threat of eternal damnation was not enough to keep me from exploring the boundaries of my sexuality.
This is how I met Stephen. The tall, slightly goofy, devoted Man of God. He was a senior in high school with dreams of becoming a pastor himself. Even knowing my reputation as the man-eating, temptress didn’t keep him from wanting a taste. Like a puppy dog, he followed me around in hopes of defiling then saving my soul.
We would have long discussions about sin and forgiveness, temptation and redemption, monogamy and salvation. He would preach to me about premarital sex in the eyes of the Lord and made confessions to me about how he had strayed before. Luckily for him, God had sacrificed his only Son so that Stephen would be forgiven of his horrendous misdeed.
I didn’t particularly have any desire to fool around with Stephen. I wasn’t all that attracted to him and I was afraid of what his dirty talk would consist of should I get him excited. The only thing I had ever seen him get passionate about was The Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit. Should he see my tits in any capacity other than under the sanctity of marriage, he, no doubt, was the type to whip himself with a leather strap in the privacy of his own room while chanting in Latin.
Going out for coffee one evening, we again commenced our usual conversation and banter. This usually consisted of him warning me of my sinful ways and almost certain road to hell. Considering that I was, in actuality, still just a virgin, him prophesying my eternal resting place was a tad overly dramatic. Assuring him that my healthy appetite for making out did not condemn me to a place with no air conditioning for the rest of my life after death I got the feeling as though I was not so much one of his projects for salvation but more his dessert for the evening.
Sitting in his truck, Stephen placed his hand on my thigh. His other hand went behind my neck and with an unfounded confidence, pulled me to him and tried to stick his big, fat, inexperienced (except for that one time) tongue down my throat. Trying to push him away, he continued on as though my refusal was merely a distraction from him trying to insure my speedy travels into hell by taking my cherry premaritally.
It didn’t take much to remove the hypocrites’ paws from my body and I was never in any real danger of being deflowered by the ginormous bible thumper. I was more offended that he had spent so much time spewing his religious bullshit highlighting the error of my ways and need for salvation when his intention all along was to take from me that which he considered to be most important in the eyes of God.
Oh. And his kissing. That offended me, too. When will some folks learn that simply sticking your tongue in a mouth and leaving it there to take up space is not considered kissing? It’s considered storage.