I was fifteen, it was me, eleven older guys, and the van we so aptly dubbed as The Mystery Machine. Misfits, the dozen of us. We found solace in each other's company, and needless to say that The Mystery Machine was our home away from home. It was a place we felt free to say what we wanted to say, a place secrets were kept, a place we felt safe, it was our safe haven. We twelve lost souls faded into the night, and by three a.m. hazel eyes started driving everyone home. He drove me home last because I lived the farthest from Elysian Park. He turned off the van when we pulled up to my apartment. I could have invited him up, we could have finished the bottle of bourbon I opened up the night before, but I was scared, and even more scared of him leaving me there alone in the morning. I didn't even have to say it... He understood that. He could sense my uneasiness, so he went for my weakness and started tickling me. He grabbed my hand, led me to the back of the van, and pulled me in close. He let me rest there in the safety of his arms for what seemed like an eternity. He was so still, that after a while, I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then all of a sudden he pulled me in for a kiss while his hands made their way up my dress. He knew I was a virgin, and he promised to take things slow. He knew exactly what I needed. He knew that I needed to be loved. And in that moment when we were together as one, I was loved, I was safe, I was his, and all else was forgotten... Even if for only a night. Six years later, and here I sit writing this at a carwash, and there's a song playing in the background that reminds me of him, of us, of the rebel fifteen year old girl that I was. I'm transported back in time, and I'm wondering if he still owns our home away from home... Here's to The Mystery Machine, and all the memories it holds.

I was but a lass at the age of fourteen,

When my head was first turned silly.

By a dashing young lad,

whose name was Chad…

But us girls all called him Little Willy.

I heard it from my best friends sister,

She'd heard it from her best friend.

“Little Willy's little nub,

Looks like a toe stubbed!

That's why he can't keep a girlfriend!"

I gasped in shock, in outraged horror.

"It's not important," is what I reply.

"I'm not going to pick

a boy for his dick!"

Even if his parents call him "Small Fry!"

One week later, late summer night,

Desert sky, in the bed of his truck…

Kissing under the moon,

My young body in bloom,

Always charming, Willy says "Wanna fuck?"

He's cute, he drives, I think he likes me,

At fourteen, my reasons were dumb.

"Willy, you'll be the first…

My cherry you'll burst!"

Fourteen, already seeking the numb.

He fumbled me out of my bikini top.

My daisy dukes, thrown on the ground.

First we got faded,

Then we got naked.

Then Little Willy took a trip downtown.

He kissed me where no one had before.

He used his tongue and teeth and lips.

Oh my, he's licking!

Oh my, clit flicking!

Oh my, I like his hands on my hips!

Then he slides my legs far apart,

He positions himself in between,

I've heard how it hurts…

When a penis inserts…

I close my eyes, I'll take this penis unseen

Then I feel my body open beneath him.

I'm pretty sure Little Willy slides inside,

I find it perplexing,

and so I start flexing.

Could it be that the older girls lied?

He's jerking and smirking above me.

He looks like he just hit a grand slam.

It feels like a finger,

It's for sure not a zinger!

Little Willy, what'd you put in my clam?

He finishes with a triumphant holler.

I smile and try to stifle my yawn.

Then onto my belly,

He squirts hot, white jelly!

And my eyes, to his willie are drawn.

I'm blinking as I stare at his boner.

Uncanny resemblance to a big toe.

Three inches long,

It's a ding, not a dong.

Quickly I dress, say "Hey, I gotta go!"

Little Willy is looking crestfallen;

But also like he's heard this before.

He blows me a kiss,

Says "Come on back for all this!”

And that's when I bolted for the door.

Not much to do in Nowhere, USA.

Nothing changes, but people sure talk.

Little Willy was cute,

And had money to boot…

But was cursed with the tiniest cock!

I did not lose my virginity; I tortured it slowly and dispassionately until it broke.

From first kiss to final gasp, it took seven years to wear it down, but in the end, my fall-back boyfriend ground the last shred of mystery from my pussy in England as I lay underwhelmed and supine on my dorm room bunk bed, thinking about another boy.

At 21, I knew intuitively that I had waited a long time by earthly standards to smash the mythic champagne bottle against the hull, so, I’ll admit, I expected a memorable, if not unprecedented, initiation into no holds barred carnality.

I pushed my vagina face first into fornication, broke all the rules of engagement a Seventh-day Adventist girl is supposed to abide by until her wedding day, and wound up annoyed because I had to get myself off in a chair stolen from a dumpster in London.

There was no blood, no nervousness, not even the promised, “It’ll hurt real bad the first time.” To my deep disappointment, there was only a mild sense of accomplishment similar to having remembered to pack your toothbrush.

After that I abandoned the artistry of a long and painful interrogation. The payoff did not match the investment.

Ex abundantia enim cordis os loquitur.

He seduces me on Latin tongue and Turnarounds

Or Blackbirds,

Or whatever the kids are calling those pills now-a-days.

He calls them Aimies, just for tonight.

We consume

Lines from the nightstand Bible-

Little broken Aimies,

Tiny crippled Blackbirds.

He says he wants to make me come.

I'm thinking of going until his mouth traces,

A pedibus usque ad caput,

And I'm overrun with Amens.

He expends every drop

From canister,

To thigh,

To thigh,

And back again

Like he's doing whippets for the queen.

Hail Mary, shield your face...

There's blood on the sheets-

Little blood drops on the sheets.

One thousand fingers, veiled and humble

Search for warm places-

Sacred spaces

To ignite,

To rest.

"God, you're beautiful."

"Jesus, you're amazing."

And every word he says,

I think I should write down

For the nights when I'm less divine,

For the nights when I'm revolting.

Tomorrow is The Day of the Blessed Virgin.

Tomorrow, we won't lay communion in our mouths.

Tomorrow, we'll toast with Tabasco and tomato at the dawn of a Holy Day.

But tonight we'll fuck.

And like good Catholic boys

And sweet Catholic girls,

We'll make promises that will

Die in the sun.

This is a memory

I don't like to visit often

I was only 14

When I lost my innocence

But the story doesn't start there

It doesn't start that day

Or even with that boy

It starts when I was real little

Not knowing much about the world

Not yet knowing it's cruelty

Or it's people

The perves and creepes

The disgusting hands

That liked to touch me

I didn't know it was wrong

I didn't know to say "Stop"

I didn't like it

But I thought it was normal

Doesn't that thought make you sick?

All those boys who touched me

Telling me it was okay

I can't believe I couldn't see

All I could do was pray

I was abused

Physically, sexually, mentally, emotionally

No wonder I'm so used to getting used

Then I met this boy

He was nothing special

I swear

He just wanted what they all do

And he knew I was vulnerable

So one night

At 3 a.m

We did it

Unprotected

I was scared I might be pregnant

And when he heard this

He left me

My parents were pissed

But I  was alone

Cuz I got myself into this

The tests all came back

Negative

Which is good

Because I couldn't live

With his kid

Two months later

I met a boy

We fell in love

I was just a used toy

But he didn't care

Until he left me

Now I'm alone

Again

But who needs a heart or home

When you have a pen

i.

I remember the night

After we told my parents

That we were together

We stayed the night

In your little bed

Because your parents were out of town

It was the closest I'd ever been

To another boy

And you held me in your arms

That entire night

Because you knew I was seven thoughts away from falling apart

I cried because my parents didn't want me

But you smiled and wiped my tears

Held me closer and said

That I was the only one that needed myself

And although my world was falling apart with every shooting star

You did your best to keep my pieces together

Even if you were fighting your own black holes

You were my secret garden

That I climbed down the trellis of

Away from every accusatory glare and disapproving stare

And my fountain of youth

ii.

Months went by

And I was supposed to learn how to fly on my own

But the only thing I learned was how to lean on you harder

iii.

Soon came a night

Where I couldn't take it any longer

I was going to end

Every shooting star

Every aurora borealis

Every solar flare and asteroid belt of my solar system

I relished the feeling of having the fate of the world in my hands

But I couldn't implode

Without telling you goodbye

I called you up

At 4am

And we snuck out to the field behind the church

Where we had bled our sins so many times

And had dared god to defy the stains

I pulled out the condoms I had bought in the gas station bathroom

For a buck fifty

And you clenched your fist around mine

Knowing the final pieces of me were slipping through your grip

And getting sucked into the vortex known as life

And there, under the open sky

Where I knew both god and lucifer could see us

You sodomized me

In full view of the cross and the lamb

iv.

You still find fragments

Of me between pages of

Your favorite book

And still hear the lyrics

Of my favorite song

In the wind

I never thought I’d lose my virginity to a flute player in band class, but here I was, in Savannah Clapacky’s living room with my dick out. An hour ago, we were in class, glancing at each other during the middle of  "Pomp and Circumstance"—B flat major. But now it was 3pm. After school. Monday. My black skinny jeans were on the rug and my high tops by the front door. I was naked despite my cut-off, denim Dead Kennedy’s vest, which was covered in nails and spikes that impaled the leather couch. On top of me, Savannah closed her eyes and held her hand over her mouth as I slid in. If the synthetic marijuana I had inhaled an hour ago didn’t make me feel like King of the Jungle, this certainly did.

The key entered the lock, but I’m not talking about penetration—penetration deserves a better metaphor.

It was a key entering the front door of Savannah’s house.

“My dad and brother” she screeched.

I had a pretty good reason to shove the nearby fire poker through my neck. I could fade from existence on her floor. But no way was I going to let this euphoric burst of sin and exploration stop without an erotic ending. This dude would have to kill me. The careful, wooing words I had to type via Facebook Chat to get Savannah to like me would not go unrewarded. Plus, I didn’t care about her dad seeing. She told me her dad hated muslims. And I didn’t like that—my muslim friend from science class was pretty cool.

But Savannah pushed herself off of me, putting her ankles into the leg sockets of her yoga pants.

"Through the Kitchen," she said grabbing my wrist. I looked at the gushing stain on the patch of couch between my legs. Rad. I whipped my black skinny jeans over my shoulder and scurried.

But there was a problem: my high tops were by the front door, staring back at me, wondering why I was abandoning them.

"What about my shoes?” I whispered.

“Get new ones,” she said, pushing me towards the glass slider door that lead to the back porch.

Get new ones? New ones? The audacity Savannah had to belittle my anarchy-symbol high tops! They had been my foot’s best friend for three years—I couldn’t just get new ones.

But then Mr. Clapacky and Savannah’s mountain-man brother opened the front door.

Savannah rushed into the living room to distract her dad. Which was a good idea until I realized the slider door was locked, and that I was too high to figure out how to open it.

“Dad, you’re home early.”

My fingers scrambled, twisting and pulling random parts of the door handle. I was baffled by elementary problem solving, tethered to the limitations of a drugged-up consciousness.

“Why are the lights off?” he replied.

Savannah kept talking, but I couldn’t hear her. I could only hear blurry voices swarming around the room. I couldn’t tell if my alarming heart beat was from the rush of teenage lust, or the fact that Savannah’s family was about to see my penis. I panicked. I needed out. How had Houdini escaped chains, and Frank Lee Morris escape Alcatraz, but I could not flick a lock to a goddamn glass door?

Wait. Flick. Yes.

I flicked a small white switch, feeling catharsis from it’s soft snap. If anything was going to make me cum that day, it was that flick. But I had no time to celebrate.

I pulled the slider door open. The sensor lights turn on, shining on my bare ass as I dashed across the splinter-infested porch. There were no stairs. She didn’t mention that there were no stairs. I would need to jump. I hesitate. But it was a matter of escaping or getting my balls put in the kitchen blender. I jump, saying a prayer as I fall through the air, that there will not be an angry German Shepard waiting below, ready to bark and reveal my presence. My presence, which is already likely to be detected after leaving the breadcrumbs of shoes and gush stains.

Mercifully, there was no dog…but there was a wheel barrow. 

My ankles crunched. I fell out of the wheel barrow and onto the grass, feeling the New England dew wet my hairy legs. 

But then I saw the glorious woods beyond the backyard.

Faster than Usain Bolt, I sprinted. I salivated over the pearly gates of heaven ahead, where centaurs were dancing and God was waiting to welcome me into His arms. My ankle bones felt broken, but I was too high to tell, and I had no time to check. Mr. Clapacky probably had his rifle loaded, aiming to shoot me right in the ass.

I dived into the darkness, tumbling over sharp sticks and dirty leaves. A jagged rock scraped across my ass, but I ignored the blood and put my jeans on. I had no compass, but my heart told me to run east. I knew if I ran far enough, I would soon reach the emergency helipad where my Toyota Corolla waited. I may have been dumb enough to have sex in a Savannah’s living room, but I was not dumb enough to park my car in front of her house.

I didn’t know if it had been minutes, hours, or six months before I navigated through those woods to my precious vehicle—losing my virginity on drugs really fucked with my head.

In my car I shoved the aux cable from my stereo into the glory hole that is my iPod socket. Blaring “Holiday in Cambodia,” I peel out onto the street, shooting nitrous out of my imaginary chrome pipes.

Savannah’s dad will never forget the day he almost caught Jack Sparrow.

I laughed. I shouted the F word out the window. I lit a cigarette and drove faster than I had in my entire life. But the thrill stopped when I noticed my bare feet on the gas pedal. The texture felt unfamiliar. I didn’t just lose my virginity, I lost my favorite shoes.

And to think I didn’t even cum.

People are texture,

color.

Artificial blue raspberry.

Earthy and smooth

avocado meat.

Boring and brassy

French vanilla.

This dude is

the deep sienna of

light passing through

whiskey.

I'm a frosty glass,

sensitive to heat.

Frothy.

Filled with faceted ice.

I am inhibitive,

with the opacity

of earthworm flesh.

Underage.

Six legged and unsettling.

The shiny gulls

in the driveway

are as big as chickens.

Some feathers match

the shimmery spots

of oil in the gravel.

They open their beaks

in displeasure,

cawing in warning.

Try to peck me

from between.

I only see the

Pollock of white splatters

that drop from their

assholes.

I don't believe I belong

in the bellies of birds,

so I suck blood.

Swallow.

A mosquito

feeding the flailing child

inside her.

He burns on the way

down,

makes my ice glitter,

tink,

pop

as it melts.

My frost becomes drops.

It leaves a pool.

It is August and hot.

Our skin squeaks,

sticks

and sweats

on the exposed plastic

of an air mattress.

He panics and stops.

I am empty,

unfinished.

I go dry.

Alive as bird feed.

My head will hurt

tomorrow.

He says I was

his first drink, too.

Accuses me of corruption.

"You are a whore.

Why did you let me do that?

You let me defy God!"

He starts to cry.

I learn that men

are fragile.

Need a vessel

for their tears.

Still need to sleep

in the gulls' nest.

Women deal with

the hangover

so their men don't drip

off the edge of the table.

Or the edge of

the earth.

What starts as some

booze in a cup

ends up large

and full of fish.

Full of floating garbage.

I become the floor,

the sand,

a gull,

the moon.

A whore for

holding him together.

Innocence gone. Washed away by bloody sheets. Time. Deep breaths and a tinge of pain. No ecstacy as promised. Just bloody sheets. Bloody hands. And your skin against mine. 

Guilt shame. Bible verses and you and your browns eyes washing it all away. 

Timid. I reach out to you. Bury my face against your chest. This... this is teenage forever. Beautiful. unbroken, unbridled lust. 

You kiss my forehead. And Stroke my hair as I cry. Because we both know... 

two doors down your sister is crying. Brown eyes tortured by jealousy and guilt. Unnerved, drunk and holding a blade to her arm. 

Innocence gone. Bloody sheets. Bloody hands. As she tears the flesh on her wrist. She doesn't want death. Just relief.

You stroke my face as she cries. Ill always love you you say. Small tears gathering against the darkness of your eyes. But she'll always have your heart