from Peanut Butter, Figs and Swollen Lips

I never slept with a sixteen year old. When I was fourteen there was mild petting up against cold, brick walls in schoolyards on wet nights, but no penetration, except for clumsy attempts by anxious fingers. If a hand wormed down my skin-tight jeans, pulling various pubic hairs out of their sockets, then tried to ram its grubby digits up an opening that did not seem to exist, I would grab it and in a panic whisper, "That hurts, I'm a virgin," then look away. I was not proud of my virginity, it was just my weapon against total destruction. Some boys would withdraw, while others would try to hang their manhood around my neck, or tuck my virginity into their wallet to pull out and display like a lewd photo passed around the boys' locker room.