This story doesn’t have sex. If you’re here to fap, there won’t be much too really fap to. This happened to me while I was in college, some names, places, and of course species have been changed so… Well, I dunno, so they don’t sue, or something.

Why are we so fixated on our virginity? What is it? To some people, it’s a burden, something they can’t wait to lose, to say they are rid of it.

But for me, it was something I treasured. It was a gift you could only give once, to someone special. I didn’t want to lose it in the back of a car in an awkward position, and not in someone’s room and “We have to be quiet or my parents will wake up.” No, I wanted it to be a daylong event. I had the idea that it would start in the morning, my lover, and soon to have that title in more ways than one, would make me breakfast in bed. Today would be the special day, and he would treat me special. It would be delicious, or maybe he would be a bad cook, and burn the cheerios. I would say something like “Well this is a great start,” and we would laugh and laugh, because today is special.

And then, I would bathe. He would draw me a bath, filled with bubbles and bath salts. Oils, soaps, scents, my body and soul would be relaxed. I would spend hours in there, relaxing, reheating the bath as I needed, and all the while he is preparing the house. 
Making a fancy dinner, or hell, even just ramen with chopsticks, he would make a dinner, the last dinner of my virginity. Still, I would like it to be one of those day long cooking dinners, something that can be made while he’s cleaning. I know, here I am getting pampered, while he toils away. I feel guilty saying that, but I feel that if I am about to give you the greatest gift I can give you, it is going to be special, and you will treat my body like a temple. I want to look back on this day and think “Man, that was nice,” Not “Oh my God that was horrible.”

Of course, if I were to be with a woman, it would be the opposite. Her body is a temple, and I would be honored to be able to explore it. That’s my problem with women, a lot of them just want a good fucking, I want to make love. Candles, oils, snuggling, baths, she would feel like the most special girl in the world, and she would be, in my eyes. 
When I was done with my bath, I go immediately to the bedroom, mostly to have my freak out. In a few hours I will be losing part of myself, giving it to another person, and that scares the hell out of me. What if it isn’t right? I’ll be so worried that I’ll regret this, eventually I will have to tell myself to calm down, and eventually I will, just in time for dinner.
We will eat together, sharing food and wine, making nice comfortable chatter, to wait till it’s time. The food may be good, may be bad, I’m not sure. But it won’t really be the food, it will be the company. The person I’m eating with will be so much more important than there cooking skills. Maybe he’ll apologize for the slightly overcooked meal, and I’ll tell him it’s the best meal I ever had. The dinner will be happy, even if he serves something I detest, like roast (blegh).
Of course, you are probably waiting for me to make this juicy, to add dirty details of how the sex will go, but to be honest, it’s not over yet.
It’s time for another bath. I know, it’s stupid, but baths relax me, and it will have the oils and the bath salts and the bubbles. My body will be healed of any nervousness I may feel, and for the first time, I will know I’m ready for this. When I’m finally ready, I will put on nothing but a nice pair of undies, be it boxers, briefs, or whittle tighties, and open the door. Rose pedals will lead to my, or our, room, and I shall follow them. Cliché, but romantic. Candles are lit and strewn about the room.  The bed will be clean and made, and I will lay upon it. Eventually, there will be a knock on the door, and it will be time. I invite him in.

When I imagine this, I’m not sure who it will be. Sometimes it is a potential online suitor who I love, but the distance, and possibility we will never meet makes it hard to want to call us an item.  Sometimes it is a fleeting man I have met, someone who I only saw once and fell in love with their body, but when I do this I feel cheap. I don’t know them, why should I fantasize this about someone I do not know? Sometimes, I imagine one of my straight friends (As I have here lately, as his body has a way of turning me on like very few can) but afterwards I feel guilty, that I am doing this without their knowing, and also that I’m wishing for something I can’t have.
But usually, the man is chubby. I do not know why, but I love chubby and large men. I love bellies, and muscles. I do not want a small man; I want to feel masculinity in the air. Muscles, beer gut, large belly, something beside a small body with lanky arms.
He will approach me, sometimes wearing underwear, sometimes a loincloth for some reason or another, and other times he’s already naked. He’ll ask me, “Are you ready?” and I’ll nod, my mind and body clear of any jagged thoughts. I won’t freak out, I won’t be afraid.

I’ll be ready.

He will take off what articles of clothing he has, and for the first time I won’t feel bad about my body. I won’t be embarrassed of the stretch marks I have from the depressed eating problem I had after my mother’s passing. He will see my body as I see his, perfect.
Our bodies will be shined with sensual oils. We will kiss, touch, talk, and feel.  Well lubricated and ready, we will make love, looking at one another. I want to watch him, from the moment he penetrates me, to the moment he reaches the peak of his euphoric bliss. Rather or not I’ll reach my orgasm through touch or some other means is unknown, but I’ll get there. Maybe we will try again, and again, until we are both to tired, and fall asleep in each-other’s arms. We won’t have to say “I love you”, our whole day has been expressing that, by our actions and our sacrifices.
In my mind, it was perfect.

But then I got older, and even though my views never changed, I still hadn’t even experience my first real date, or kiss. And I realized, I simply wasn’t beautiful enough to have “the perfect first time”. All my life my brother has called me the ugly son, and no longer can I hide behind a shield of individual self-worth. The world doesn’t care who you are on the inside, it is the outside that matters. If it was the inside that truly mattered, I would have an easier time. But no, people first decide if you look good enough to even consider sleeping with, then they check your personality. I can’t have the perfect first time, simply because I’m the kind of person you have sex with out of pity, or just to have your own first time, to which you will never speak of, but you can just say it’s finally over. Even though I’m only twenty, I know I will never be the kind of person to have that special kind of first time.

And then, I began to hate myself, writhing in self-pity, I began to care less of my thoughts, my feelings. No longer did I look in front of the mirror in the morning after my shower and brushing and say to myself “you are beautiful, in body and soul” to boost my confidence, instead I simply woke up, got dressed, and went to class, on some days not even bothering to dress out of the clothes I had worn the day before.
I was never vocal about how I felt. I am the happy go lucky Cody. I laugh, I smile, but it’s true that the people who usually seem the happiest feel the saddest. Inside, I just wanted to crawl into a hole and wait to die. They didn’t give me the time of day because I wasn’t worth it. My friends saw nothing but a happy mask, regardless of how much I cried at night.
Time went by, and I cared less and less for my perfect first time. I just wanted someone, anyone, to hold me. To tell me I was worth something. Rather it be in their bed, their couch, or even in a public restroom with a wall between us, at least they would want me, even if it was just to get their load off. For a moment, I would be needed by someone else for something intimate.
That’s when I joined Mingle2, an online dating site, where almost everyone instead just looks for a quick fuck. There weren’t many people to choose from in my area, and most of them were just looking for a toss in the hay. At first, I pretended to have some civility, I tried to find people looking for something more, but I was rejected, time and time again. Either they replied telling me no, or they didn’t reply at all, and each time it was like the Senate launching their blades deep into the Cesar that was my ego, knifes burying deep into me. Eventually I stopped caring. I wanted contact, someone to at least hug me, forget sex! I wanted someone to say I love you, even if it was just a slip up during a rough fucking on their lunch break. I was desperate to feel loved.
That’s when he messaged me. His name was Rick, a chubby wolf who owned a lawn mowing service. He had good muscles, and was the body I wanted in a man. From Bear to a wolf who is the gay kind of bear, it was perfect. He only wanted a quick fling, but like I said, I just wanted something, anything, to make me feel like someone wanted me in a physical way, and maybe it could become an emotional way later.
We began to talk, and even though I wanted to know more about him, he was only interested on where and when we could hook up. By the time he told me he wasn’t interested in getting to know me, he just wanted a fuck; I was so depressed I didn’t say no. Months ago I would have told him he could go fuck his self, but at the moment, I was simply to down to even say anything besides Saturday, around eleven.
And when he replied okay, that was when it sunk in how low I had come. Like a terrible story, my perfect first time had fallen to practically yelling “someone please tell me you love me! Tell me I matter!”
The week was slow, and we didn’t talk after we set the date and arrangements. To be honest, I began to hope that someone, anyone, would just come up to me and start talking about dating, even just going out for pizza, anything to call it off, to give a chance at something better. I wanted Jackson to admit he was secretly gay, but couldn’t tell his girlfriend (Which he did joke about that at one time, but that was when Laura let it slip my sexual identity, and he has no clue how much I like him), and we would get closer, and there would at least be a chance. Maybe Curtis would finally come to visit, his fox senses tingling, and we could go somewhere, and even if it was just a quick fuck, it would mean much, much more than what was coming Saturday. I was pulling, grasping, trying to find anyone who would admit they liked me, that they would consider being with me. I hoped, prayed, that someone would say something, anything to get me to call it off, but it never happened.
Saturday eventually came and as I prepared, the knot I thought I would feel in my stomach over this was replaced with no feeling at all. Yes, he was sexy, but he didn’t like me. Hell, he probably didn’t even care to remember my name.  I was scared, but I had to go through with this.
When he picked me up, it was a green truck. Don’t ask me what it was, like brand and such, because I don’t know those sorts of things. I tried to introduce myself, start a conversation. In my depression I was searching for a silver lining. Maybe he was just quiet because he was the silent type, and needed this just as bad as I did. He had graying in his fur, but it only seemed to turn me on. I hate to say it, but I have a thing for older men as well.  Countless times, however, he made it evident I wasn’t supposed to talk. This was a quick fuck. No names, no foreplay, just to his house, the deed, then back to my dorm room to drop me off, though he told me if I was a good boy we may do it again next week. I was hopeful; maybe this relationship can go further. It would take time, but maybe he would grow to like me. The thought made me smile like an insane man.
It was during his stop at a gas station that I decided to do some sleuthing. He was inside buying a snack for his self, I knew he wasn’t getting me anything, and I searched some. 
I found a wedding ring.

It was old, and I didn’t want to think the worse. His relationship status had been single; maybe he is just recently divorced! I made myself think that, over and over, to chisel away the stone that was in my heart. It never did. When we stopped again while he got a few things from a friend’s house (I heard mention of a three way) I searched his cellphone, which he had laying on the Dashboard. I wrote down numbers mentally. I can’t do math worth squat, but I can remember numbers. Janine, I knew that was his wife from the inside of the ring had his and her name, and I quickly looked for the number. When I got it, I made sure I wouldn’t forget it.
We reached his home, and I made sure to be cautious. Would the neighbors see? Would they care? He told me to hurry my ass inside, and I did.
I don’t want to get into the aesthetics of the home, but I will say it started with a good size hallway. I looked at pictures, at anything, while he went upstairs to “get ready”. My eyes fell on a picture, of he and his wife, and the date on the bottom right said it was taken just a week ago.
I didn’t want to think about what I was doing. Adultery is something I despise more than anything. It was through my father’s cheating that he contracted AIDS, which he passed to my mother. I have always hated people who cheat, and I didn’t want to accept that I had given up my dream of a first time AND became the thing I hated the most in people. 
I was jumping to conclusions, I tried reasoning. This could be a friend, nothing more, but the evidence was thick. Pictures of them together, her pregnant, their child, their second child, the first child holding a degree. I still tried to reason. Maybe the marriage ended on happy terms. The kids off to college, they had stuck together for their kids, and were now able to separate, and remain friends. I tried to put him into a false sainthood, because I didn’t want to believe he was a cheating bastard, what’s more I was helping him do it.

It wasn’t until I went into the kitchen that I got evidence I could not ignore, three big juicy steaks. Maybe he was going to cook them for us afterwards? Why three then? No matter how I tried to reason it, I knew they were for him, his wife, and his daughter who still lived here.
I didn’t wait, I didn’t try to get his side of the story, I just left. I couldn’t do it. Even though I would never get the feeling I so desperately needed if I left, I had to do something. I left, slamming the door behind me. I pulled out my cellphone, dialed a number, and I didn’t even let her ask who’s number this was.
“Your husband’s cheating on you!” I blurted out, only then did I realize I was huffing. I didn’t just walk out of there; I sprinted, and was almost a football field away. Immediately I regretted it. They had a happy life, despite his secret, and I just ruined it. I ruined a happy family, even if the happiness came from being in the shadows.
“..Wh-what?”
“Your husband is cheating on you… I.. I met him on a dating site and he brought me back to your place.. To the house... And... I found out he was married. We didn’t do anything but I think there are others.” 
There was no noise from her end. She didn’t speak, but I heard a voice say “Mom, what’s wrong?” I hung up right then and there. What could I say? What could I do? All I could do was get back home, and OD on pills.
I had walked for what felt like hours, before I found a billboard for a Taxi service. I called them, and soon I was being whisked back to my room. It was my first time in a taxi, and part of me wanted to have that conversation they have in the movies, even though it never came. I was crying, and he knew not to speak.
I had completely forgotten, the last bit of my money, one hundred and fifty dollars, I had donated to someone who needed it more than myself (An acquaintance who lives off of his art who wasn’t able to draw at the moment.) At most I had about ten dollars on my debit card, and the toll came out to almost seventy dollars.
“I make a lot of tips, y’know?” the driver said. He didn’t know about my money situation, but he felt like trying to cheer me up. “This ride is on me.” I thanked him, in a sobbing, having to take a breath after each word sort of way, before going to my room.
I grabbed the bottle, popping the top. I hadn’t needed to use them, as I kept a good sleeping schedule, but everyone once and awhile I’ll have a night where I just cannot fall asleep. I rubbed my eyes, and a moment of Vanity hit. I wasn’t about to kill myself with puffy eyes and tear streaked fur. I went to the bathroom, washed myself off, and waited.
I got a phone call from Laura, asking where I had been and if I wanted to go to Spacey’s, a fast food place nearby. As I said, I’m the happy go lucky guy, so I sounded enthusiastic as hell when I said “Sure!” I was quick to recover, and soon I was on my way.

“You missed lunch, and dinner, so I was worried.” I shake my head, and tell her everything was fine. I was with a friend, I say. And I lie.

“Well, y’know I like older men? Well, we went to his house and... Y’know...” I wasn’t sure why I lied, but it helped, made me feel like I was covering things up. The waitress came along and I ordered a steak sauce burger, with extra sauce and cheese, large fries, large chocolate milkshake.
“Bullshit,” My friend said, “That’s not what really happened, tell me what happened.”
I didn’t tell her everything I told you, instead I just said I got on a dating site, found a man, got ready, and I found out the man was married. When I told her about the call, she took that at what I was upset about, and tried to convince me that was the right thing.

I nod, but that wasn’t why I was so down. How far had I sunk? I went from wanting the perfect first time to trying to ignore every single sign that the man was still married, and what’s more he didn’t even care this was my first time. I ate, and ate fast, before departing, telling her I wanted to get some sleep.
And there I was, alone, with the pills.
I’m not that kind of person. No matter how much I think about suicide, I can’t even try to convince myself to do it. It’s not in me, rather it be from my cowardess, or  my amazing skill to survive (Shot, stabbed, poisoned, shot again, gun fights, swordfights, shot again) but each time I confront myself with what I wish to use to end my pitiful existence, I always back out. Something tells me not to do it. Screams at me till I put my poison, whatever form it may take, down. I didn’t even want to shower; I just crawl into bed and throw the covers over my body.

I sing myself to sleep at nights I feel bad. Not nursery rhymes, but full songs. I began to sing, but I wasn’t even focusing on what I was singing till I got to my favorite part of the song. 
“Stop this train
I wanna get off
And go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But honestly, won't someone stop this train?”
I hugged myself and cried. Cried so loud I knew the rooms next to me could hear. I didn’t care, I had no one, and no one loved me.

And at that moment, I realized I didn’t love myself. I wasn’t worth that perfect first time. I wasn’t worth a quickie in a public restroom. I acted so happy, tried to pretend to be happy, so I wouldn’t stop and realize how sad I really was. I wanted to be loved so much I was willing to do anything for affection.
I was a slut.