1st time efforts rarely result in triumphant returns. This rule of thumb can be applied to an assortment of situations, but we'll just get to the nitty gritty and say that in my case it was sex. All the awkwardness of an uncomfortably packed elevator, plus post-coital confusion, in less time than it takes to toast a pop tart. Truth be told, in less time than it takes to unwrap a pop tart. Her name was Danielle. She was a highly sexualized woman 5 years my senior who had embarked on a conquest of sleeping her way through the 89110 zip code, which she almost succeeded in doing, if you exclude the elderly and children. She was 19, which really begs the question of why would a 19 year old want to sleep with a 14 year old anyway? My knowledge of sex and associated skills were limited to the love scenes I'd seen on Days of Our lives, which I'd watch with my mom when I got home from kindergarten and Magnum PI. I remember how my mom would go on about his mustache and its magnetic powers. I couldn't get past those awful shirts he'd wear in every episode.
Still, Danielle wanted me to want her, which I kinda did. She had enormous boobs, and the only bare boobs I had seen prior to Danielle's belonged to my 75 year old grandmother who I regrettably walked in on while topless and my mother, again with much regret. I was too young to fully grasp or appreciate the concept of an STD, the gift that keeps on giving, so following a friend, who followed another friend didn't seem as dirty then as it certainly does now. But I found myself alone with Danielle on New Year's Eve 1993 after having smoked a festive amount of weed and my inhibitions were on holiday.
We talked for a little bit, then started fooling around. I tried and failed to take off Danielle's bra, my approach less debonair and more kid opening a Christmas present. She saw that I was struggling with the bra and she did the coolest thing a girl/woman/confused man can do and that is undo the bra with one hand behind her/his back. You'd have thought Danielle's last name was Copperfield and she had just made something vanish as I was really that impressed and really that naive. After the bra trick she asked me what I wanted to do and I said I had no clue what to do. I could have figured it out, I suppose, but I was naive and confused. So she walked me through what comes so easily to rabbits and Mormons, yet somehow mystified me.
The beauty in how long things lasted lies in the truth of how long things lasted. People love to embellish about these types of things as its far more palatable. I say fuck that, dear reader. It was about 5 seconds later when I realized I knew nothing about nothing and all I could think of was being home. Danielle knew it was my first rodeo and she did something that was nice. She wrapped her arms around me and said "It's ok". I never forgot that.
Being 14 I hadn't the faintest clue how to react to my subsequent emotions and thoughts. Was this relationship legally binding? Is she pregnant? If so, what kind of father would I be not knowing how to fist fight or change my own oil, let alone work for a living? So I avoided Danielle for a while till she wrote me a letter explaining how I was an asshole. I later apologized for my behavior and we became friends again. Shortly after, she moved to an apartment on Maryland Parkway to start working her magic on UNLV's student body and it's students bodies.
I lost contact with Danielle till recently when a friend told me she was on Facebook. Not looking to revive anything, or drudge up the past, but only say hi, I contacted her. To my astonishment, she had no clue as to who I was, not even a hint of recollection. I guess the adage of "you always remember your first"does not apply to the deflowerer. I attempted to explain who I was to her and that I wasn't on a "what does it all mean" trip, finding myself playing ex-girlfriend bounty hunter as to explain my present day actions or mistakes. I simply wanted to say hello. And she couldn't remember me, my name, those ravaging 5 seconds or the subsequent awkwardness. She told me she was a school teacher somewhere in the Midwest, a mother of 12 and a married woman. She explained to me that she had long forgotten about most of her past in Las Vegas and apologized for not remembering who I was, but she hoped she was "good for me" that night. And that was that. I had been reduced to a notch on a headboard that had been worn off by the shifting scales of morales and time, which is fine. And here's to you, Mrs. D.
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