Perspective Fifty-Four
This guy is probably two years older than me. If he had manned up and offered to take me to his room, I probably would have said yes. I’m no slut, but this would be a nice place to get that whole virginity thing out of the way with no strings attached. I feel like I’m getting old. When my mother was young, a man who wanted to court her would ride up to her estate in a carriage and they would take a walk through the vineyard, supervised by her father. This would happen when she was thirty years old, and they would not so much as be in a room together alone until they were married. I have the history right on all that, more or less. But nowadays, kids are doing things with each other at thirteen, twelve, eleven years old. I can’t keep up! No one is going to want to be with an eighteen year old virgin. I think they made a movie about that, and everyone made fun of him for it. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I just got these new boobies. They’re not huge, but they look good in this yellow shirt. Maybe I should have worn a black bra underneath to get his attention. This was my one opportunity to get it over with. They put a giant circus tent over our house and are pumping gas into it. My parents are treating it like a vacation, so they’re not paying attention to me. I can do whatever I want, so if I can just figure out what that is, I’ll be set. Because sex is apparently off the table at this point. I shouldn’t have gotten off the elevator on the right floor. I should have followed him as far as I could. Or not. What does it matter? It’s over, and I’m being stupid. Sex isn’t all there is, and I have more important things to think about, like the fact that none of my friends has texted me in, like, an hour.
Perspective Fifty-Six
This guy is probably two years older than me. If he had manned up and offered to take me to his room, I probably would have said yes. I’m no slut, but this would be a nice place to get that whole virginity thing out of the way with no strings attached. I feel like I’m getting old. When my mother was young, a man who wanted to court her would ride up to her estate in a carriage and they would take a walk through the vineyard, supervised by her father. This would happen when she was thirty years old, and they would not so much as be in a room together alone until they were married. I have the history right on all that, more or less. But nowadays, kids are doing things with each other at thirteen, twelve, eleven years old. I can’t keep up! No one is going to want to be with an eighteen year old virgin. I think they made a movie about that, and everyone made fun of him for it. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I just got these new boobies. They’re not huge, but they look good in this yellow shirt. Maybe I should have worn a black bra underneath to get his attention. This was my one opportunity to get it over with. They put a giant circus tent over our house and are pumping gas into it. My parents are treating it like a vacation, so they’re not paying attention to me. I can do whatever I want, so if I can just figure out what that is, I’ll be set. Because sex is apparently off the table at this point. I shouldn’t have gotten off the elevator on the right floor. I should have followed him as far as I could. Or not. What does it matter? It’s over, and I’m being stupid. Sex isn’t all there is, and I have more important things to think about, like the fact that none of my friends has texted me in, like, an hour.Perspective Fifty-Six
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