The Last American Virgin

When I was young, just staring to go into puberty, HBO showed the movie, The Last American Virgin on TV. It was a weekend. My parents and brother had already gone do bed. I should have gone to bed, but I had always been a night owl; preferring to say up to the wee hours of the morning and sleep late into the day. I had been like that since birth.

Back in the days when we had analogue cable we didn't even have a remote to our cable box. We had to walk up to it and flip the switches manually. (God this is making me sound SOOOOO old.) Channel 17 was HBO. I flipped the switches to HBO and saw a man and a woman kissing. I could tell it was a Rated R film. My parents didn't let me watch those types of films, but since they were fast asleep I was going to watch it anyway.

I vaguely remember seeing the kissing couple disrobe. Nudity. Female nudity at least had always made me feel self-conscious. That particular day, I felt curious. The man in the film soon got naked as well.

The man was laying on top of the woman grinding himself into her. My little pre-pubescent mind couldn't figure out what he was doing.

"Can you feel that?" asked the man.

'What is he doing to her? What is she feeling?' I kept thinking. Is he farting on her? Does it feel good when men fart on women?

At that age I hadn't realized that I had a vagina. I've always been uber tight down there, but as a kid I must have been so tight that I hadn't realized that I even had a vagina. I thought women were like barbie dolls down there; sewn up to the seem with only a clit and a hole for peeing.

The man in the film kept rubbing himself against the woman. Then I started touching myself. I put my hand down my pajama bottoms and started rubbing my clitoris.

It felt good and wrong at the same time. Even though my parents were sleeping, I decided that I should continue my frolicking in the privacy of the powder room. The floor was carpeted so I could easily lay down.

I crawled on the floor of the powder room and started rubbing myself. It felt nice, but I needed something bigger. I stood up and on the counter by the sink was my little pink hair brush. I grabbed and thrust it between my legs. I furiously rubbed the non-bristles side against my clit.

It was then and there that I had my first orgasm. I let out a little girl sigh and fell asleep.

The next morning I was awoken by my mother. She asked why I had fallen asleep in the powder room. I told her that I had a leg cramp. She believed me, I think.

From that point on I masturbated frequently. Even though I've forgotten most of those self-servicing times, I never forgot my first; all thanks to the Last American Virgin.