“Never read”

Monday, 15 June 2009

A typical college freshman, sophomore conversation. Then he remarked to her, and the room, that one could usually tell if another was a virgin or not. It’s really just carriage. At that age it lights you up in neon. A corona: shame, vitality. Either starkly bare for anyone unafraid of eye-contact.

She was all doubt. Already a lurking desperation to derail this boy. Get through what had to be sham. People weren’t like this. She said, “What about me? Am I a virgin?” He hadn’t given it a moment’s though though they were half-dating already and he didn’t have to think about it now.

He said, “What? Well, no. Of course not.”

To which she replied, “I am.”

And this moment climbed up on the boy and fairly shrieked: Understand me now and life becomes candy and rainbows for you and you alone! The kings of the world bow at your feet. Your seed will fill the bellies of the 999 most beautiful women in the world. Hearing me frees you. Be this thing!

He didn’t. He believed her. He discarded obvious and perfect insight into other humans, again, and believed her over himself. Because the issue didn’t matter. It was unimportant. Unworthy of conflict. The idea of lie still inconceivable after 20 years of lessons.

The moment whispered from the ground where he left it: The matter isn’t a prom-queen’s cherry; it’s th…

Her patience and quiet cruelty never made any sense. Her complete but receptive passivity in his arms another contradiction. More offspring of the parent of the lie. A role she was attempting to bring out of literature. A stone carved deep with a female name hung on her and her sister. A bruised woman with a broken lip, shaking violently in the complete confusion of orgasm after a virgin rape.

He didn’t rape her. He didn’t sleep with her. He came to suspect only yesterday in the real world that it was what she had wanted.

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