Dad Pops Sons Cherry
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Dad Pops Sons Cherry
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I will never forget the day I lost my virginity. I helps that it was on a national holiday.
The summer after I turned 18, I had recently graduated and it was just starting to dawn on me that the half-assed, hastily put together, public education system I had just stepped out of had ill prepared me for the “real world.” I was an adult now, by legal standards – a grown up. I was going to need a job and start thinking toward my future. I had spent most of my childhood trying to blot out the assholes around me, I didn’t know what was in store for me by dinner time, let alone next year.
In the months up to my departure from school, I met K and we began dating. To say she was well experienced sexually was understatement – K had lost her virginity at 13 and never looked back. And she was incredibly patient with the fact that I was still a virgin. Because it was the summer, I spent many a day at her house in various states of undress going just far enough without committing to the final act – like a marathon where everyone has to halt suddenly when they reach the finish.
July rolled around and my parents had decided to spend a week with our extended family in eastern Washington. However, Mom and Dad realized that my brother and I were of the age where we had friends of our own to do things with for the holiday week, and wouldn’t burn the house down while they were gone. So the parents left us a phone number where we could call them and bid my brother and I goodbye for a week. Their car had just left the driveway when I was already on the phone making plans with my girlfriend.
On the day of the Fourth, I arrived at K’s house and was immediately greeted by her mother and two sisters – all of whom knew I was probably going to crash for the night, and all of whom didn’t seem to mind about it. It was an attitude so totally dichotomous from my parents’ “keep it in your pants until you give her a ring” morality that it made me pause. While they didn’t point-blank ask me if I was going to fuck their sister/daughter, it was pretty much already assumed that was why I was there.
After a brief dinner, K and I piled into her mother’s car and we drove to a local park where we watched the fireworks display that was set off at a nearby fairgrounds. I remember my head in her lap as I watched the many-colored explosions filling the night sky. Occasionally I’d notice that K wasn’t looking at the marvelous feats of pyrotechnics crackling above us, but at me with a warm smile on her face. Eventually the show ended and we filed back to K’s home.
Her mom bid us goodnight and locked herself up in her bedroom, K escorted me down to her own quarters. As soon as her door was closed, we doffed garments and collapsed on the bed in a confused tangle of limbs – kissing with the kind of intense, bewildered passion that only the teenaged can muster. As with previous outings we had moved beyond the realm of “heavy petting” and into “for God’s sake, just do it already!” Finally, I looked down at K – right in her eyes – and said, “Do you have a condom?”
A mixture of surprise, joy, relief, and confusion played about K’s face: “Are you sure?” she asked me.
I nodded, “Yeah, I think I pretty much am.” I hoped I sounded nonchalant.
“Because I don’t want you to think I’m pressuring you-” she continued.
“I want to do this,” I interrupted with real confidence.
“Okay, then,” she smiled. K reached into a wooden box by her headboard and, without looking, produced a prophylactic. She even helped me put it on. I kissed her deeply and as K guided me inside of her, I looked at the time.
The next few hours were a blur to me. Even having experienced it first hand, what I remember is a fragmented, abstract recollection of events. The whole experience felt to me like an orgiastic pagan ritual, tinged with the kind of adrenaline rush one gets by hunting a boar with a spear. It was like the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and the Perfumed Garden as reenacted by an amateur wrestling league. The rasping distorted guitars of some mid-1990s grunge band serenaded us from K’s clock radio – only to be squelched by her own moaning. Wisps of incense would reel in my nostrils, only to be washed over again with our mingled musk. My muscles began to ache and my breath was starting to burn in my lungs. I finally withdrew and collapsed next to K – pie-eyed exhaustion written across my face.
K was equally stunned. “Wow,” she said barely speechless.
We both lied there, too dazed to say anything. My mind was buzzing in my head, desperately trying to sort out the flood of new sensations I had just been exposed to – it was as if my conscious floated above my corporeal body in some kind of near-death experience. K brought me back down to earth by saying the words I’d never thought I’d hear after my first copulation: “There’s no way you could’ve been a virgin.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’ve heard of guys lying about not being a virgin, but this was the first time I someone had made an accusation of the opposite. “I don’t know how to impress upon you that I am,” I stammered, “C’mon, the first time you invited me to have sex with you, I turned you down.”
K turned to look at me, “You’re not the first guy I’ve deflowered. I was all bracing myself for a 30 second bout followed by a few hours of me showing you how to avoid cumming so quickly. But, I mean…” The recollection of what we had just done rendered K unable to form a complete sentences again. She glanced at the clock.
“HOLY SHIT! IT’S THREE IN THE FUCKING MORNING!” she cried out in shock.
“What, is something wrong?” I was worried that I had overstayed my welcome.
“You just fucked me for almost 4 hours straight!” K looked at me, deadly serious.
I didn’t know how to react to that statement, “…Is that a bad thing?”
K kissed me deeply, “The longest I’d been with a guy was maybe an hour tops. And that was once .” She laid her head on my chest, “Still can’t believe you were a virgin.”
“I don’t know what to say. I mean, who would lie about that?” I said.
She laughed and laid there, curled up against me. Finally she looked up at me, “Nobody is going to be up right now, you want to take a shower?”
The feeling of dried sweat had only just began to register with me, “Actually, I think I’m going to stay here and think about what just transpired.”
K smiled, kissed me again, and got up. “Okay, I’ll be back.”
After she closed the door behind her, I laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind still percolating the events that had only just happened. I fell into a bizarre egocentric argument with myself, like a debate in a Greek forum.
“No. Sex occurred. That was sex that we had back there.”
“The basic fundamentals of everything I had been educated about sex in health class and pornos confirm that I just experienced full-blown intercourse.”
“My penis entered K’s vagina: that’s sex.”
It was a reckoning of sorts. My subconscious was having a difficult time handling the fact that I didn’t have the kind of transcendental enlightenment that I was led to believe would happen after casting aside the mantle of virginity. The heavens did not part and a band of angels did not herald my ascendency into manhood. I didn’t spontaneously grow a beard or chest hair, nor did I feel any more proficient at attracting or pleasuring the opposite sex than before. Finally, my hindbrain sighed and gave in with a Woody Allen-esque quip: “The reason why people make such a big deal about sex is because they can’t figure out the rules to baseball.”
10 years later, K passed away in her sleep. She was 28.
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In the past few years Cherry Poppin’ Daddies have become the kind of band that you would want to book if you were throwing a soiree at the Gatsby mansion. Penning elegant, lush, pitch perfect arrangements of much of the great American songbook, from Cole Porter to Frank Sinatra, the Daddies have surprised many- likely familiar with them from the early 90’s- whose limited exposure to the band undoubtedly consists of an image of spray painted vans careening across the US as an iconoclastic, misfit part of an already marginalized punk/ska scene.
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