Visiting the Dairy Queen Parking Lot in which I Lost my Virginity

I pulled up to Dairy Queen for more than a subpar burger and Dilly Bar that early fall evening. In fact, I had zero interest in mediocre comfort food and a quick dessert. What brought me to that eastern Pennsylvania Dairy Queen parking lot was nothing more than a necessary urge to rid myself of the shameful label that is “virgin.” I was determined to moisten my johnson within a confused woman for the first time, and that experienced, sweaty broad who shall remain unnamed (Katherine) was on a mission to make it happen in the backseat of my Mazda Tribute. She wanted her sexual fill, while I wanted a label removed; one of us met our goal.

It’s not a rough life for a moderately attractive, 17-year old white man from a wealthy family, but he might fabricate a little hardship when he’s surrounded by sexually active ladies men and yet to “do the deed.” By that I mean pork a lady. Once high school is underway, a young man begins feeling the societally-imposed pressure to have his first genital-to-genital experience with a willing, excitable party. Not all of us are lucky enough to be molested throughout youth and have our sex game groomed by an experienced, mentally ill adult. Most of us receive an introduction from someone similar in age; a person we wouldn’t ordinarily have interest in, and aren’t necessarily even attracted to. Love and romance aren’t a concern, nor is chemistry. Young men reach a point in virginity where we simply want to be distanced from it. Once we’ve arrived at desperation, we’ll take virtually any gal with a set of teeth, and many fellas are even lenient on that.

Let’s face it — Virgin is almost synonymous with “loser.” As sophomore year of high school rolled around, I felt like quite the gork. I was 90 pounds, squeaky-voiced, pube-less, and at a real loss for confidence. In terms of intimacy, I had experienced little beyond an uncoordinated make-out session with a slightly drunk chesty girl in my friend Collin’s basement, and that was merely the result of a dare. In my defense, she whispered a request to Collin for that very dare in the midst of an unexciting truth or dare session. Lotta truths, if you know what I mean. She wanted a little tongue from your boy (me,) but before the days of early alcoholism I had no ability to make a move. A dare was the only means by which I could muster up courage and convince myself a girl wasn’t entirely disgusted by the idea of my thin lips meeting hers.

Fortunately for my ego, that short, sloppy make-out sesh spurred a slew of other kisses from various gals. Additionally, hard liquor entered my life, and through a series of consistently inebriated states I learned to be under the false impression I was a stud whom every woman wanted. My alcoholism and subsequent destruction of my life is a story for another day, though, and we’re here to focus on the fact that booze brought me a deluded sense of sexual prowess that eventually led to me getting freak nasty (emphasis on the nasty.)

With a few finger blasts, tug jobs, taint tickles, and nipple tweaks under my belt I was finally ready to freak. All I needed was a partner in the freaking, and there was one candidate who stood above all others (purely based on eagerness to be a part of this mess.) She was a year younger than I, and somewhat of a local legend for being loose. Sure, she wasn’t the sexiest gal in the county, or even very attractive for that matter, but she was notorious for having low standards. Rumor had it she favored the dark meat, but I dressed cool enough to catch her fancy. We met through mutual degenerate friends, and she took a liking to my quirkiness (nothing more fuckable than that.) My very non-threatening physical stature also could have drawn her in. Whatever it may have been, she took to texting me — aggressively, with a highly sexual agenda. Prior to her, my only experience with cyber sex was in Yu-Gi-Oh based AOL chat rooms, where deviant older men pretended to be teen girls and tricked me into thinking I was horny. This, however, wasn’t a stranger I met in an online forum full of dweebs and lonely Luciferians. This was a real life gal from a broken home.

Following one group setting hangout during which we snuck off to kiss and feel each other up in the unfinished portion of a friend’s basement, we were both prepared for the jump from 1st base to The Taint Tango. I was understandably fed up with getting slightly stroked in musty basements, and more than enough suspense had been built over the course of several weeks, receiving vivid and graphic texts about what this strumpet wanted to do with me.

On an early Saturday evening my buddies and I were at a movie theater awaiting the start of “Meet The Spartans,” a parody of the film “300,” and easily one of the most atrocious comedies ever made; the second most shameful comedy I was personally aware of, next to “Norbit,” which I also saw in theaters. As the previews came to a close, I received a text from Katherine. “What r u doing ;)” she inquired. This was before the days of emojis, when you had to manually type out a winking face, which seemed either hornier or more innocent depending on how you look at it. In this moment, I interpreted her mood as nothing less than hungry for my strangely shaped, slightly functional pud.

We exchanged a few texts throughout the early minutes of the movie. I was only half-paying attention to this bullshit film, while half-immersed in her impassioned luring of me, though I gathered two vital pieces of information: 1. This movie seriously stunk, beyond anything I had ever seen, and 2. Katherine was at the very outdoor mall where the movie theater was located, and she wanted my ass to come see her. Seemed like a win/win to me — I wanted out of this god-awful attempt at Mel Brooks-style comedy, and Katherine wanted me, at bare minimum, to spank her feet in the backseat of my car.

After a less eloquent version of “I want you to experience things you never have,” popped up in my text messages, I was out of my seat, shuffling through the aisle towards any near exit like “The Messiah of Evil” arrived (obscure 70s horror reference that’ll hit with nobody and was better off unused.) “Where are you going?” my friend Collin whisper-shouted. “Pussy calls,” I murmured proudly, amidst a side-look like Kevin McCallister breaking the 4th wall.

Katherine and I met with a sturdy hug outside a panini place. She clenched my absence of an ass as I peered into the café, looking longingly at a man munching on a turkey, bacon, and cheddar panini. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but it looked appetizing. In that moment, eating struck me as a safe activity; an old comfort. It was a lot more comfortable than the idea of my first time being inside of a woman. More specifically, a young woman I wasn’t attracted to physically or otherwise. However, whatever was to be done, presumably intercourse, had to be purely for the sake.

We walked side by side, yet at a safe distance, to my silver, somewhat effeminate SUV. She hopped in the backseat, and I followed, trembling. We shared shaky kisses, as she applied force to my arms and pressed me against the seat. In little to no time she was already unbuttoning my shirt and pecking down my bird chest. As her head dipped to my groin, a person approached the car parked next to us, which left enough shadow and sound to startle her upright. “We can’t do this here,” she stated. “Would you like to go elsewhere?” I asked, buttoning my shirt back up with relief. “Let’s drive somewhere,” she suggested, with a determination that led me to believe she had a pork spot in mind.

I felt immediate solace exiting that parking lot, as I was granted a moment to consider what exactly I was getting myself into. “Is hopping over this virginity hurdle worth the immediate shame I’ll feel knowing such a special event in the timeline of life was wasted on someone I wouldn’t take a second look at on the street, unless it were to comment on the rise of interracial couples?” After all, there was no way Katherine viewed sex with me as meaningful or extraordinary. If she were to be excited, the sole reason for that excitement was her further satisfying that “taking a young man’s V-card” fetish. Did I wanna be a fetish? Would I really allow myself to be a pawn in some manipulative gal’s perverse sex game?

After just a few seconds of internal debate, the “let’s get this over with” side posed a winning argument. Besides, we were rolling down the interstate in search of a less populated parking lot with one sticky (and probably gamy) duty to uphold to, and there was no turning back at this point. We drove for a matter of minutes in mostly silence, cruising by woods and few establishments. If a not overly shady but shady enough parking lot (or cemetery) didn’t present itself soon, we were gonna have to pull over on the side of the road and take our love thrusts to a shallow, wooded area, Czechoslovakian-style.

It was then, presumably through divine light, a gargantuan Dairy Queen sign materialized in the close distance, flaring red as if to say, “STOP, and fuck here.” I wasn’t hot about the idea of knocking boots where my mom eats Blizzard sundaes, nor a notoriously white-trash fast food joint being the backdrop of my first time, but sex meant a lot less to Katherine. After all, she was 16 and had been with somewhere between 5 and 42 dudes; not convincingly all in different sessions. “Pull over here,” she instructed me, without an ounce of uncertainty. I abided.

We crept in carefully, surveying the lay of the lot. There were enough cars to detract attention from two teens, drastically different in body type, going hog wild in the back of an SUV, but not so many as to have no privacy. A public sex act requires a little privacy, otherwise it’s grounds for immediate arrest or a crowd of cheers. With that being said, it’s wouldn’t be a public sex act without a small amount of risk, considering that’s where thrill derives. If we wanted complete privacy we would have made our way back to a musty basement.

I pulled into a space at the far end of the lot where gravel met woods, absent of cars in neighboring spots. “How’s this?” I asked Katherine, who was eyeing me with glowing wide pupils; clearly as amped for the big game as she was the moment we hugged outside that panini place. “This works,” she noted through short breath, following some hasty peering about. I led the way, hopping through the driver and passenger seats with quickness, and plopped down on the spacious backseat. Katherine followed, with far less agility, wedging between seats like a carnival prize stuffed animal being shoved through a hula hoop. Before any useless conversation could commence, the aggressive making out again ensued.

The graphic details of this sad, short excursion aren’t to the benefit of anyone, but some key points are essential to story: I initiated nothing, and sat back in fear as this sex hound pushed every bit of progress. When it came time to sport the rubber, I couldn’t even unroll it without assistance. She slid it on for me, and I mean slid it on. My dick looked like a boy wearing his older brother’s hand-me-down first holy communion suit. It was baggy and straight up unpresentable to anyone who wasn’t already riled up and in the moment.

Katherine took the liberty of getting on top, in an act that felt and probably looked like the role reversal of Santa and a child at the mall. My thighs were being flattened like a cartoon character getting run down with a steamroller, and my hips and torso felt squashed beneath her weight. She grinded her hips into me, gliding on my barely-hard wang, and I struggled to experience any sensations aside from the physical pain my bony frame was in. We’re honest adults here — She was loose. Shockingly so. I wasn’t bringing impressive genitals to table myself, but my dick might have well just been hanging out in a steam room, because that’s what it felt like. I wasn’t entirely sure it was in for the 14 second duration, and she couldn’t have been certain either. Regardless, she thrusted like a trooper for no more than 20 seconds. At around that mark, a car pulled up in the space directly next to us, despite a wide, mostly open lot. In near terror Katherine shrieked, “Oh my god,” as she pressed atop my shoulders and propelled herself off of me. She sprung and spun to the seat beside me with more athleticism than I believed her to possess. We sat panting heavily, embarrassed by more than being seen, and poorly tried to act casual. Whatever mood there may have been was deadened. The saddest fact about this underwhelming session being cut short was, even if a Dairy Queen patron hadn’t interrupted us, the flesh friction wouldn’t have continued any longer, for I nutted as she projectiled off me.

We drove back to the outdoor mall in mutual, unspoken shame. Neither of us shared disingenuous comments like, “That was great,” or “I was impressed with your privates.” Neither of us really said much. I bumped some ’07 Gucci Mane at a moderate-level — loud enough to drown the most cutting silence in all my years, but not at a thundering height that might convey I was happy. I allowed enough quiet for conversation, although there wasn’t destined to be any. Both Katherine and I were stuck within our heads, toiling over the questionable sex we had in a laughable location. It wasn’t admitted verbally, but I could sense through that disappointed silence we were done seeing each other. At the very least, I was put off by the notion of any further contact.

We arrived back at the panini place and hugged our goodbyes. “Thank you,” I told her, and sincerely meant it. While I was disturbed by everything I had just done, and already guilty about the selfishness of the distance I was soon to create, I really did appreciate her attraction to me, her desires, her eagerness to be intimate, and the strange connection between us. I suspected I used her, but she likely felt at fault for the same action.

In positive news, I missed “Meet the Spartans” nearly in its entirety. Upon reconvening with my friends, they had all sorts of questions about where I was and what happened. I reported nothing. The braggadocious manner with which I predicted I would return was simply not present, and unattainable. I wasn’t proud of what went down. I held no sense of accomplishment. I felt both used and like a user — a measly-cocked, minuteman user who was just cowgirl ridden by a gal twice my size in a Dairy Queen parking lot. That was the introductory act I chose. It’s the one I’m eternally forced to live with.

I ignored subsequent, bi-monthly “hey” texts from Katherine, and was ultimately a bad person for doing so. As Facebook indicated, she moved forth to exclusively seeing black guys. Every couple of months her profile picture changed to her hugging, kissing, or being held by a new black dude, until that avatar stayed the same for more than just a few months. I presume she’s still with him. I also can’t help but assume my sex game was so atrocious she swore off white men entirely. We can’t place perceptions, wants, or needs in another’s head, but I don’t think I had the swagger, bravado, and 11-inch black weiner she was looking for. Who’s to say or speculate?

I’ve since been through college, experienced cross-country moves, had more recreational sex in less pitiful locations (save for a janitor’s closet,) sobered up, been in relationships, and gone through the highs and lows of all those ventures. I never returned to that Dairy Queen, at least not physically, but it’s in that parking lot where my sexual innocence will always remain. When folks inquire, “You ever been to Dairy Queen? ”I respond, “Buddy, I KNOW the Dairy Queen.” Her and I formed a spiritual connection, and forced a very grotesque physical one. She could take my youthful naivete, but I still have my heart and soul. It’s with them I’ve recounted this tale for your betterment.