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We made a list of the best teen movie v-card scenes – good, bad and ugly. Because virginity... who needs it?
By Kate Wertheimer and Phil de Semlyen Posted: Thursday June 24 2021
Losing one’s virginity – be it romantically, awkwardly or otherwise – is a teenage rite of passage (perhaps the teenage rite of passage). While it pops up in a miscellany of adult-oriented movies, like The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Call Me By Your Name, it’s an absolute fixture in teen flicks. The motivation behind most teens' actions can be boiled down to one thing: sex, without which we wouldn’t have the following great scenes. 
This sweaty, sun-dappled sex scene is pretty magical, we have to admit. Sebastian, ever the gentleman, asks if Annette is okay (um, she seems great) while Counting Crows' "Colorblind" plays in the background... but it was 1999, okay? Don't lie and say the whole thing didn't stir your loins.
Poor McLovin. He only got in one thrust before being rudely interrupted by his cockblocking cop friends, scaring away his lady friend and driving him to his inhaler. But oh, what a thrust.
Lux Lisbon is living the Platonic Ideal of the American teen experience: she’s a beautiful suburban blonde who is crowned homecoming queen before losing her virginity to her king under the lights of her high school’s football field. Unfortunately for Lux, she’s in a Sofia Coppola movie, which means that she’s going to wake up the next morning near the 50-yard line, that teen dream quickly replaced by the cold light of day.
When Di accidentally drives on the freeway, the fear of death drives her and Murray into one another's arms (beds). Like Cher says, "Boy, getting off the freeway makes you realize how important love is."
"I think if we fuck, you would love it." So says Telly, the self-proclaimed "virgin surgeon," as he prepares to relieve another barely-teenage victim of her innocence. This is cherry-popping as an act of unthinking existential desperation, a way for the unloved Telly to leave his mark on the world. How the girl in question feels about it is, rather cruelly, left unexplored.
Unless you also lost your virginity in a seedy baseball dugout while Jackson Browne crooned "Somebody's Baby" on the soundtrack of your mind, you can't even begin to understand the psychic trauma endured by Jennifer Jason Leigh's Stacy. Also, that bench has got to hurt. But it's the poolhouse sex (pictured above) that everyone remembers... we wonder why?
Ben and McKinley's romance is by far our favorite subplot in Wet Hot American Summer. And while the hippie wedding scene is magical, it just doesn't beat sweaty man sex in a sports shed, complete with tube socks and loose balls (we mean soccer balls, perv).
Loathing turns to lust when former childhood friends Denise and Kenny are locked in a bathroom together all night. And Kenny's creepy love backpack comes in handy after all.
A sun-warmed coming-of-age film concerned with popping cherries (and the odd peach), Call Me By Your Name’s abashed-but-sincere virginity scene shows that it’s possible to express and repress your desires at the same time. When 17-year-old Elio (Timothée Chalamet) hooks up for a roll on the lawn with Marzia (Esther Garrel), its pleasures can’t mask the fact that his stronger urges are for studly American Oliver (Armie Hammer). Bonus points for doing the deed ’80s-style in double denim.
This is arguably the most heartbreaking loss-of-virginity scene in cinema, as a gang of bored Texas teens round up slow-witted Billy and drag him down to the corpulent local hooker to make a man of him. He comes too soon, she punches him in the face, and another hapless kid loses what little innocence he had left.
Three bored band-aids (note: no Penny Lane) strip and deflower William for fun. Maybe not the most romantic scenario, but we can think of worse entrées into manhood.
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Booth at Video Lovers. (David Covucci)
Underneath the Gowanus Expressway, in an area generously included in Sunset Park but really not much more than a detritus-strewn, completely forgotten, and rarely traversed stretch of 3rd Avenue, sit a curious collection of shops, glass windows and brick walls routinely rattled as 18-wheelers hurtle by just 10 feet above. Along on a stretch between 39th and 24th Streets, there are eight of these shops, a rate of nearly one per block. Sunset Video, Video City, Candy Hookah Love, Golden DVD—the names are different, but they're all the same inside.
They're sex shops, like the ones you could once find in Times Square. The kind that advertise private viewing booths for when the laptop is busted and the WiFi is out and the lock on your bedroom is broken and the bathroom is in use and your imagination is unable to conjure up anything and… you get what I'm getting at.
Who the hell uses these things in 2016?
More importantly, how do these places, with a clearly dying business model, sustain themselves? And why did they all wind up so close together?
I spent a week trying to figure it all out.
It's a matter of zoning: In 1998, when the city's new regulations for adult shops went into effect, the businesses were banned from residential areas. This sent many of the shops in Manhattan to areas zoned for commercial and manufacturing, including this part of Sunset Park. There were a number of strip clubs not far off—most of which are now gone—so they had a bit of a seedy community thing going on.
Many of the shops are owned by immigrants from Sri Lanka. Indeed, two stores include Sinhalese in their names. The clerks, too, when I went, were almost exclusively of Sri Lankan descent. The largest Sri Lankan population in the city is in Staten Island, which makes for a quick commute back and forth over the Verrazano.
The owners are elusive: I figured this wasn't like walking into a Starbucks with the expectation of seeing Howard Schultz. These are small, independent businesses, and you'd think at one point in seven days, making regular visits, you'd have one encounter with the head honcho.
But in trips to all of them, talking to dozens of counter workers, not a single one professed to know the owner. The answers ranged from the plausible, "This is my first day," to the laughable. "This is my first day," said the same employee the next day when I popped in.
"He'll be here at 10 tonight," a clerk at Jayoda Video told me on a Monday morning. When I arrived that night, another said he always came in at "10 a.m." The next morning, the clerk from the previous day said he was there last night.
One shop was closed at the appointed hour I was set to meet the owner, despite a sign attesting to its 24-hour nature. On my third trip, the clerk at Golden DVD ("best prices in 3rd Avenue"), said the owner had "just" told him the shop was going out of business "tomorrow," after two days of my hectoring him. It's still open, though I wouldn't be shocked if it did close tomorrow.
With the redevelopment of this area of Sunset Park, these businesses may all soon be gone.
In 2000, when streaming video and online purchasing didn't exist, people couldn't get their porn any other way. The technological innovations of the past 15 years have obviously not been kind to the adult video store industry. At almost every shop, the people I spoke to said they averaged fewer than five paying customers a day. Whether changing hands to avoid paying taxes or rent, or rebranding to be more appealing, the businesses constantly turn over. What was Blue Door Video in 2005 is now Video City. Nilwala Video in 2011 became Candy Hookah Love, with the exact same signage and colors, just a different name.
Customers are few and far between. In the eight shops I visited over seven days, I saw scarcely more than 30 patrons total. I never saw more than one person in a store at a time. Only once did I see a patron make a purchase—a lone DVD at Video City.
The customers aren't in the mood to talk: "I don't know anything about that," said one man, when I asked him why he had just been in a private booth, as he waved me off. "I don't know anything about them." Not a strange reaction, really.
Speaking of those booths: They are always "out of order," though nothing seems to be broken. When I asked about the booths in the back, how many people used them, or how they worked, I almost always got the same answer. While each store has a sign out front explicitly advertising booths, the clerks all denied the booths were there. At one shop, after being told there were no booths, I walked back to see the booths, then returned to the counter and said, "I thought said you didn't have them." The clerk continued to forcefully deny they existed. That may have been because because the booths have a reputation as a spot where people can very discretely hook up. I must have seemed like a horny 16-year-old, inquiring whether this was where I get the sex.
After a while you start feeling like the pervert: At Sunset Video, when I asked why anyone would still use a public-private masturbation booth like that, one clerk said maybe people can't do it at home. What had initially struck me as odd (why leave your house to masturbate?) made a lot more sense. If you have a family or share a room with someone, you can't exactly come right home and have a quick jank to calm yourself down, like us single masturbators like to do. Swinging by one of these shops isn't that odd a thing to do if it’s your only chance to rub one out in peace.
You might even think it's strange that other people have moved away from this model of self-gratification. If you masturbated for the longest time in the privacy of a locked room far away from family and roommates, in a spot where no one bothers you, why would you switch to using your own device at home. Why risk dirtying your computer when someone else's screen will do?
What's to be ashamed of? Indeed, the few patrons I saw didn't give me sheepish glances or avert their eyes. The only person who was embarrassed was me. Perhaps there's a lesson in that.
Still, I have no clue how they make rent.
David Covucci is a freelance writer living in Brooklyn.
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