Episode 7: FBI agent

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So dear readers, I think don’t know if you’ve gathered or not, but my sleuthing skills are incredible, unmatched. The FBI has heavily recruited me because of my God given skills*. I just wanted to tell you all a little story about my greatest feat of creeping yet. And this is how it all went down. It’s football time in [the state I live and attend college]. Our rivals to the northeast invaded the time-honored tradition of Gameday. This brought in hoards of fans, which in my head I had made to be hideously disfigured mountain people of the Appalachia. Since this game was such a momentous game, I came all decked out, including a homemade button that read, “Beat [rival].” The weather was reflecting my general mood being that it was dark, stormy, windy, and rainy. Since none of my friends share the necessity I feel to get to the stadium before kick off, I was looking at the very real possibility of sitting by myself because my shambly sorority little, Whisper** was tailgating with a dead phone. Being true to herself, I knew which fraternity she would be fraternizing with. Thank God, just this once, fraternity boys are loud and flashy because it didn’t take long to find the stench of beer and clatter of poseur cowboy boots. I spot Whisper** milling about the boys and was greeted, not with the typical shouts of “Who do you know???” but with a demand to “take off that button,” in a friendly banter that I was not expecting. “Hey, I paid good money for this,” I said stupidly, because what else would you expect from me. This guy in a rival’s shirt, standing at the tailgate, decided to indulge me by asking how much it was. “Three fifty,” was my answer, but in my defense it’s not easy to flirt about the price of buttons. “You paid three hundred and fifty dollars for that button?!” He was cute, but apparently the education he paid for didn’t include common sense. Being the clever, cool girl I am, I retort “No I don’t care about it that much.” If we’re being honest these few sentences are the longest conversation I’ve had with a man since the White Elephant in the Room episode. But wait, it gets better; and better in the way that benefits my love life and not this blog. During our conversation I was able to find out his age and where he currently lives. Why did you not ask his name? any person with a brain would ask. Well, I answer, his chest hair. Honest, his chest hair was pretty far up on the list of things I want to rub my face in. I think I made eye contact with his chest hair more than I looked at his face. Perfectly quaffed chest hair popping out of his button down is still ~doing it for me~. But alas it wasn’t meant to be because Whisper** made me leave to trek all the way across campus to basically go pee. Subtle, dramatic sighs are lost on her because she never suggested we go back. Any normal, sane person would say that this man was gone for the ages. However we all know I’m not ‘bout that life. Armed with the three facts about him, one of which was not his name, I sought him out on facebook. The naysayers said it couldn’t be done. It was just a simple case of looking up his alum fraternity, finding a picture of when he was active, looking at who liked the picture, and looking up every male who liked the picture until I found him. Cold case solved. Now I know his name and don’t have to refer to him as “the hot [university] guy.” But my soon-to-be ex-best friend Jess*** did what any true friend does and added him on facebook for me. I’m horrified and also depressed because he, surprisingly, has not added me back. Updates to come.

 

*that’s a lie

**def not her name, but close.

***also not her name, she watches a lot of New Girl tho

Episode 6: The Gold Digger

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Hello readers, long time no talk. I didn’t mean to be away for so long but my lack of a love life got too overwhelming for me to report on. Only something drastic and earth shattering could push me deeper in the hole that I’ve been in, and that’s why I’m here. So for the, like, two readers that don’t actually know me, I have had a long-term, extremely one-sided relationship with the most famous athlete to come out of Oklahoma since Mickey Mantle. It has been approximately 8 years of my life dedicated to this man. And if we’re being honest, literally all of my passwords are his name. Guys, I know his parent’s names and can recognize if they’re at a game of his. Meeting him was the first thing on my bucket list, and when I checked it off I just barely held off the sobs shaking my body until he turned around. I cried for so long the retired players in the game turned around to make sure I was okay. Shortly after our meeting, I found out it was all a front. I found out he had a child out of wedlock and completely ruined the dream I had that he, like me, was still a virgin (this was before he came out to say that he fucked a stripper his rookie season). When I found out about this illegitimate little child, I cried to “Gold Digger” on my way to school because, let’s be honest, no one could love him more than me. Even though I don’t want children of my own, I had now resigned myself to the fact that I would one day be a stepmother to his child. The said athlete didn’t put a ring on the baby mama’s finger, like any self-respecting rich athlete would do, so naturally I assumed it was a toot-it-and-boot-it situation. From my frequent and very skilled investigating (some say it is borderline stalking) skills, I was under the assumption that he’s been leading the single life for three years. But boy howdy are my investigating skills rusty. As I was sitting in my bed, sipping on a cookie dough milkshake, scrolling through twitter, I see this man’s beautiful face on my timeline. Which is nothing new since I follow him, his NBA team, and a few of his teammates. And then I get to read the caption “[love of my life] welcomes his second child with longtime girlfriend.”

EXCUSE ME?

HOW DARE YOU.

THE CHILDREN’S NAMES EVEN GO TOGETHER BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT FAMILIES DO.

A once, fragile me would have immediately burst into tears. But my hardened, tattered heart only managed to muster up disappointment. Good for them, I thought like an adult. Maybe it’s now to change the background on my phone… and maybe all of my passwords.

Episode 5: The White Elephant in the Room

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It’s about time for a Christmas themed blog! And by Christmas themed I mean wearing red panties to be festive with my green shirt and taking pictures in front of Christmas trees decorated with beer cans because college. This night started (and ended) innocently enough. My friend Jane* invited me to a White Elephant gift exchange (which has a surprisingly cool history so google that when you’re done reading) with the fraternity brothers of her boyfriend. One of these brothers is refreshingly cute and so let’s be honest, he’s the only reason I hauled my ass to Target to get a gift. Dressed up hella fly in my borrowed Goodwill Christmas vest, we make our way to the frat castle to be chauffeured to the apartment complex. Earlier in the night I was telling Margaret* about “it would be my luck that this party is at Joe’s* house and he’s not there.” I should have knocked on some wood because as soon as Jane and I get into his car, Joe mentions he won’t even be there because he is the new default DD. My heart sinks for the fact that no one is going to see that I have festively color-coordinated my underwear but I think I hide my disappointment well. We discuss my gift (a 96 box of crayons, sharpener included) and he slightly judges me because I still own a coloring book and he is a self-proclaimed “coloring novice”- strike one. After escorting us into his apartment, he quickly leaves, and so do my hopes of awkwardly getting to stare at him all night. Not to worry though, I quickly drown my sorrows in kicking ass at rage cage and team domination in flip cup. Again, in some twist of ironic fate, the White Elephant gift I chose is “kinky sex dice” and a veiny penis straw with lopsided balls, essentially useless compared to the 96 pack of crayons I brought. After wearing our stay too long, it was time to head back to the frat castle for a happenin’ party there. How am I going to get there, you ask? After all, I am a little tipsy from too much beer, and I don’t have a car. Don’t fret little one, DD Joe to the rescue. Fantastic. Now I get to be the drunk bitch that he is resenting so much. By this point I have taken up the job as mom and wrangle the three drunker bitches into Joe’s car with me riding bitch in the back. Aka perfect position to breathe hot and heavy into his ear and occasionally touch his shoulder (which was v muscly and I may or may not still be dreaming about it). We arrive at the destination and he takes a seat with his laptop to be studious. What’s that sound? Pitter patter goes my heart. The party was popping downstairs and my penis straw was a hit, but my heart wasn’t in it. So what does any logical person do? Ask approximately seven people if I should go crash Joe’s studying. With a resounding “yes” I head upstairs. He welcomes my input with, what I took as, open arms. I distract him and show off my penis straw and tell him what a hit my crayons were (but are we surprised???). Then I mentioned that the girl who ended up with them quite possibly left them at his apartment like an ungrateful bitch. His response? “I’ll tell you what. If they’re still there, I’ll make sure to give them back to you.” Is that a marriage proposal? Are those wedding bells I hear? You’re telling I might end up with kinky sex dice, a dick straw, AND crayons? Whata night. So within the two hours I sat with him we accomplished: 15 minutes for me to read his essay prompt, 103 words added to his essay, one good sentence from me according to him, two DD calls, one “creativity” break (read: smoke break that I did not partake in), three drunk people falling into the wall, five shackers making the fateful voyage upstairs, and, most importantly, two arm touches. See the progress? ‘Tis the season.

 

 

*names all changed to my friends’ alter ego

Episode 4: That *One Person*

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Reliving the Raymond Chronicles (trust me, they get a lot more embarrassing and is a continuing saga) got me thinking about what a shitty person he would be for me to actually date. Then I realized that everyone has this person, and even the 20 year old virgin is not excluded from this. It seems that every human has that one person– relationship, crush, FWB, whatever, that they have to justify to everyone. But here’s the thing: you shouldn’t have to justify it to anyone because, face it, you spend most of the time justifying the “relationship” with yourself. No amount of your friends saying “you could do better than him*” seems to penetrate your thick skull. Now before you go off on me in your mind, I have been on both sides of the game. I’ve been the one lecturing “he’s a shitty person and you shouldn’t go back to him,” then the inevitable “why the hell are you still texting him,” and I’ve also been slapped in the face with the reality that “he’s a deadbeat doing nothing with his life and you could do a lot better.” I’ve been pretty open with my justification about Raymond, and most of it stems from the fact that he’s one of the only people that I have liked that have ever reciprocated, however little. Your one person might have a nice truck, a nice ass, a big penis, a dazzling personality (probably not though, let us be honest), or something else that apparently keeps you coming back for more, despite what everyone says. I’m not here to judge, I am just trying to be that voice of reason that you and I have grown to hate and ignore so often. Realize that it’s convenience that is keeping you around. I realize that Raymond only shows me attention when it’s convenient for him. You might only make your booty call when it’s convenient for you. And don’t worry, while I’m lecturing you I realize that I need to take my own damn advice. I am not okay with being convenient but at the same time, I realize I really don’t like the idea of being alone forever. This defiance is all fine and dandy to tell ourselves, but in all honesty as soon as you see the one person’s name on your phone, the charade starts all over again. I think the sooner we realize everyone has that one person, the quicker we can all dismiss our judgment because the heart wants what it wants, and we are all signs of that. Now go off and make your own questionable decisions with the silent judgment from your friends.

*or her, because I’m all about inclusion, boys and girls.

Episode 3: 11 Things Not to Say to a Virgin

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Speaking on behalf of all virgins nationwide, I have compiled a list of things of things not to say to virgins you just met.
1. “That’s so cute.”

This list is in no certain order AFTER this one. It’s número uno for a reason- because we hate it. This shouldn’t even have to be written, but still people think it’s an acceptable response. I’ve gotten this response from guys and girls alike and I just don’t understand it. “I think that’s cute!” normally accompanied with pity in their eyes. I’m halfway to the 40 year old virgin. I guess people think it’s supposed to make me feel better? Well newsflash I’m not ashamed to begin with??? This sounds like you’re going to pat me on the head like a three year old after they said they finally shit in the toilet instead of their pants. My virginity is not puppy with a bow waiting under the Christmas tree for you. I don’t need your sympathy because I like to throw my own damn pity parties.
2. “You’re not missing much.”

Again, another pathetic veil to try to make me feel better. I get it, your sex life sucks, but that doesn’t mean you have to rain on my parade. My mom always told me that I can do anything I put my mind to and I’m pretty sure she was not talking about sex but it works. This statement is like telling an 18 year old alcohol isn’t that great, because we all know it’s a damn lie. It might not be exciting because there isn’t a firework show being conducted from your nipples, but I’ve heard pretty special things happen.
3. “I wish I would’ve waited.”

Kewl. At this point it’s not like I have an option on waiting, no one is really offering themselves. It also seems I only get this from girls who have slept with seventeen guys. Like wow it really seems that way considering you still have sex hair from when you did it approximately three minutes ago. There’s obviously no remorse. This line might be accepted if, and only if, you’ve only had sex a total of one time and in fact regretted it.
4. “What are you waiting for?”

*cue Ellie Goulding*

Maybe I don’t jump on anything who potentially has a penis. Maybe I’m saving it for marriage. Maybe I haven’t met a guy decent enough to give it up to. Maybe I panicked and had cotton mouth the one time. Maybe I want to be the 40 year old virgin because I don’t half ass anything. You don’t know, and I probably won’t tell you. For me, I’ve waited this long so it might as well be with someone who would actually text me back.
5. “Have you ever done anything?”

Honestly what kind of question is this? No I haven’t skirted around my vagina by doing butt stuff, if that’s what you’re getting at. Personally I haven’t done much and that’s why I’m writing here, but that doesn’t go for everyone. Teachers always say there’s no such thing as a stupid question but apparently they hadn’t been around people who feel the need to ask these questions.

6. “You must think I’m such a slut.”

Nine times out of ten this is spewed either before or after number 3 because, ya know, you sluts show such remorse. Breaking news: I’m not the judgmental whore you must think I am because I could honestly care less how loose your vagina is.

7. “You’re a virgin, you wouldn’t understand.”

This statement hits me deep down on a personal level. I am probably the most perverse person I know, and this may or may not be related to my virginity. Still, virginity does not equate ignorance. It’s the 21st century, there’s this thing called the Internet. Don’t assume I don’t know things, if I don’t I will sit in silence until I can google things. And I highly doubt you sloots knew what truffle butter was without looking it up on Urban Dictionary (if you haven’t, go do it because some people are truly disturbing).

8. “I can change that.”

Ew you creep. The guys (or girls, whatever you’re into is cool) who are saying this are probably sweaty and have greasy hair and a porn mustache (girls included). Normally I have no judgement when it comes to who people chose to sleep with, but for the love of god don’t fall into the sheets after someone says this smooth line.

9. “Oh maybe you’ll find another virgin!”

Not saying virginity is a deal breaker because I’m no hypocrite, but speaking from experience (very little, but you’ll read about that later) virgins don’t know how exactly to go about initiating anything sexual (or nonsexual things like hand holding, see Episode 2). In my mind I’m imagining two virgins fiddling with their nether regions until the magic moment happens.

10. *look of shock*

Oh because you know how to look at someone and tell their history? What are virgins supposed to look like? Does it look like I have penises thrown in my face on the daily? Should I be offended?

11. “So do you ever get turned on?”

Hahahaha. Haha. Hahaha.. Just because I’ve never had a penis inside me doesn’t mean a girl can’t dream. They say men think about sex nearly every seven seconds.*** Am I a man? Definitely not, but I don’t want you checking in on my mind every seven seconds.
So let’s wrap up what we’ve learned. Don’t ask people questions about their sex life. Upon hearing that you are sexually active, you don’t hear virgins automatically asking your number, your favorite position, or get to the nitty gritty of what you’ve done.

Acceptable responses:

1. “Cool.”

And move on.

Episode 2: The Raymond Chronicles- Part 1

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So I promised a series featuring a reoccurring guy and in this chronicle my dear readers get to see the true extent of awkwardness. Now to introduce: the Raymond** Chronicles. Since this is the first installment, you’ll need to know some background before we jump in prematurely, (bare with me because it might get a little bland and even I couldn’t make it funny). It was senior year of high school and my best friend, Blaire**, walks into first hour wearing actual pants and makeup, so obviously something was sketchy. This legendary day was the first time she was going to hang out with the guy who had been subtweeting her for a while and finally slid into her DMs. All went well with that and she informed me of the attractive roommate at the shady apartment. After a few well-planned run ins with Ralmond assisted by Blaire and her man-friend, Axel, and a lot of favoriting of tweets on both of our parts (but honestly who can blame him because my tweets are straight *fiyuh*) we finally made plans to hang out and go to the movies like the children we were not. Something to mention is that Raymond is five years older, so do the math for yourself, but *I ain’t got no type*. We decided to see a certain scary movie, one that will go unmentioned because I don’t know how lawsuits work and I don’t particularly want to find out. All you need to know about this movie is that it might only be scary to children who conveniently have a diaper to shit into. After he paid for my ticket (which makes it an actual date, right?) we take our seats in the movie theatre. There’s this nifty new improvement to movie theatre lounging where the arm rest goes up to make it “more comfortable,” read: “easier to get the hands in the pants.” The arm rest magically disappears into thin air. The movie starts rolling and Raymond leans to me. What happens next is the most awkward conversation to take place in the history of ever. When I go to sleep at night and wonder why I’m alone, my reply brings me back to reality. Raymond says “If you get scared you can just hold my hand.” Nothing too forward, right? Wrong. I panicked. Honestly I’m surprised I could sit through the entire movie after I replied “I’ll keep that in mind.” I’LL KEEP THAT IN MIND?? I shudder. I’m shuddering right now. He was trying to put the smooth moves on me and I rejected him like a bad job offer. I never stood a chance and I’m currently wondering how this chronicle manages to have more episodes, but God makes miracles happen everyday. So after I brutally murder his proposition, I quickly covered myself and think Oh I’ll just wait until it gets scary. But here’s the problem: it never got scary. I’ve watched Sesame Street episodes scarier than that shit. Finally, after nearly an hour and forty-five minutes of waiting to put my clammy hand in his and my horrific responses not on repeat in my mind, it was over with as much sexual activity as one of those Sesame Street episodes. I am a disgrace to back row movie seating everywhere.

**Names changed to protect their identity. Lol not really, my friends just wanted to pick a pseudonym. And also, no one has actually named their child Raymond since Everybody Loves Raymond.  Read More

Episode 1: The Pilot

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To start off my career as a blogger, I should tell you why I’m here. What got me to this point? How can one person be so painfully awkward with men? Well buckle up boys and girls because it’s a hilariously bumpy ride. Everyone has that one friend that is always single in the friend group, right? Well, no matter what friend group I’m that girl. I don’t think I’m still single because I’m  horribly disfigured (because even those people find love deservingly), I don’t have the personality of toast, I know my sports pretty well, and I can bake. So inevitably I am left to wonder why I am still single. I’m not single in the way that like supermodels are in that they just don’t want to be tied down to anybody, I’m single in the way that guys don’t acknowledge me. Like ever. And sometimes it can get discouraging. So maybe through me sharing my exploits I’ll figure out why or just learn to be okay with being that single friend. I guess the story should start with how I got to this point where I’m crazily starting a blog when I should be studying for my physics exam. My 20th birthday happened recently. It was at that point I realized I am officially halfway to being the 40 year old virgin (you know, the one they made a movie about). In college, I am the last of a dying breed, I’m essentially a unicorn. All my friends have taken the penis plunge, and then there’s me. I should also say that I’m insulted if you think I have no clue what’s going on in the sheets, because I consider myself fairly knowledgeable. It’s like I’m doing a report and I have a lot of second-hand sources and absolutely zero first-hand (hehe see what I did there) experience, which as our English teachers would tell us, it’s just sad. So stay tuned my faithful readers, I’m about to be the next Carrie Bradshaw (LOL). This blog is going to be filled with filth, tips, an entertaining series involving a guy, and a lot of stories featuring my best friend, who is mainly getting me into these situations. Promise me you’ll stay forever and I’ll promise to let you know if I ever get to change my twitter handle from @20yovirgin.