On February 12, 1995, I lost my virginity to a girl I called a friend and nothing more — at least not until that February night. Jackie breathed deep. And the quickened rise and fall of my chest went without saying. R. Kelly played in the background. Your Body’s Callin’ to be specific. I couldn’t take my hands off her, and she couldn’t take her hands off me, and somehow we stripped nude, lying on her bedroom floor. She quivered and giggled as my fingers ran the length of her sides.
I didn’t have a condom.
And she didn’t have a condom.
A puddle gathered beneath us. Jackie said she squirted, but I had no idea what that was or how it happened, or even what that meant for our relationship. I only know her eyes rolled back, and I thought I’d killed her.
We were scared to death, but we did it anyway.
And her mother walked in mid-thrust.
I thought for sure I was dead, but she said she didn’t hate me.
I choked back a lump and spit when Jackie winked (out of her mother’s sight) and bit her lowered lip as her mother and I had a heart-to-heart.
I was scared.
My stomach tied in knots, and she talked, but I couldn’t hear her words. My ears rang.
Her mother patted my shoulder and went to her bedroom but slipped midway on her daughter’s puddle.
Her mother sprung to her feet and said she’d call the roofers to see if we had a leak.
It wasn’t that kind of leak, though.