Like anyone’s, my younger school years were met with a lot of angst—partially because I couldn’t fit into Abercrombie clothing, and partially because of the people I was surrounding myself with. As soon as my best friend and I hit puberty, she suddenly had a boyfriend, and never hesitated to rub it in my face, saying, “You’d be pretty if you lose weight. You might get a boyfriend then.” Thank you, because my formative years weren’t depressing enough already.
My first kiss didn’t come until my freshman year of high school, in the PG-13 cliché that is spin the bottle. How romantic. Meanwhile, my friend was having sex with her boyfriend in between biology and soccer practice.
Out of spite, or perhaps envy, I decided I needed to catch up with her. As a result, throughout my high school years, I took full advantage of the epicenter of adolescent sexual tension that is summer camp. I was a counselor, and the prospect of summer promiscuity without the subsequent rumors was just what I needed.
If I was correct, and I’m pretty sure I was, my friend had had sex with approximately 6 guys by that time. While others may have seen that as a sure sign of nymphomania, I saw it as a challenge. I wanted— no, needed— to catch up with her and exceed her if I could.
My first was one of my closest friends. We decided one hot summer night that we both needed to get it over with. Next came the cute (albeit much older) coworker who I probably should not have been hanging around with. He told me we had to wait until I turned sixteen because of those pesky statutory rape laws. In the meantime, I felt like I shouldn’t just go throwing my cat out to someone else. I mean I wasn’t that desperate. Right?
That summer I discovered just how wrong I was about there being no rumors at summer camp. The word about my new reputation spread almost as quickly as my legs. Afterward, achieving my goal became easy. The next series of men ranged in age, race, and experience – and I came to be particularly hell-bent on achieving my goal.
Lucky number seven, let’s call him Andy, was really the only one I confided in about what I was doing. He was an old friend that I had only recently begun speaking to again. We had hooked up in the past, so I figured he was an easy target to complete my mission. Approaching him in the middle of the day was out of the question, I mean we were camp counselors, and this wasn’t Wet Hot American Summer. Instead, I sent him a sly text during lunch asking him to meet me after work. I guess he had heard about the reputation I was getting, because he was there waiting and with a goofy smile said “You look really hot.” Whether he was trying to be sexy or just referring to the sweat I had rolling down my face after a long day in the sun, I’ll never know. Hell, I didn’t care. All I cared about was getting it done.
We snuck into the back of the theatre and started going at it backstage. I guess I was being particularly aggressive because he asked me “What are you in some kind of race?” I guess my response of “You could say that” was alarming (though not alarming enough for him to stop), because afterwards, we went outside and shared a post-coital cigarette. I told him about how crappy I had always felt being so behind my best friend, and he understood.
It turns out, he was just coming out of a long relationship with a girl that took his virginity and then dumped him to see a bunch of other guys. I guess he wanted to prove that she wasn’t the only one getting some. We laughed about how ridiculous we both were and decided we both needed to re-evaluate our sex lives, but not before climbing into the back of my car for one last victory bone.
The next time that my best friend and I hung out, I ever-so-slyly brought up my exploits, and suffice to say, she was not as jealous as I had expected. Instead, she actually sat me down and asked if I was depressed, because “promiscuity can be a sign of that.” Oh, the irony! I texted Andy fuming about it and he told me not to worry about it, jokingly asking if I needed any consoling (along with a super-sexual winky face). Looking back, I think I was a bit overdramatic, but, like any good sport, it’s all in good fun.