Mike (1995)

Copyright 2007 CKG

     Mike was the young man who took my virginity.  As we had engaged in small talk on only a few occasions, I knew very little about him, except that he was in his early twenties and enlisted in a branch of the armed forces.  He was very handsome:  Caucasian with jet-black hair (always parted down the center), brown eyes, and a lean, tight body.  One night, he approached me at Club 216, confessed to having too much to drink, and asked if I would give him a ride to his apartment.  To this request, I said ‘yes’.

      As we drove down West Main Street, he asked if I would have sex with him.  My head spun around towards him, and the steering wheel went with it.  As I asked, “Do you seriously want to have sex with me?”, the car careened up on the sidewalk, and Mike had to grab the wheel to put it back on the road. 

      “Easy there, pal; I don’t want to end up road kill before I get laid," he said, now more sober for the experience.

      Fortunately, a few minutes later, we arrived safely at his apartment.  Once inside, he immediately asked, “So, do you fuck me or do I fuck you?” And honestly, I didn’t know how to go about fucking another man, so I told him that I wanted him to fuck me, not quite knowing what that entailed.  

      He responded, “You should go to the bathroom before we get started.” 

      Assuming he meant I should first take a shower, I asked were the towels were located.  

     "No," he replied impatiently.  "You should go to the bathroom." 

      I had no idea what he meant.  What did going to the bathroom have to do with sex?  Not knowing why, I went in the bathroom, where I stayed a few minutes, just looking around and killing time.  

     When I emerged, Mike was naked, and he requested that I make myself the same.  Even though he wasn't endowed well, I still felt self-conscious standing unclothed before him.  To try and take his mind from the demand, I took off my shirt and started to kiss him.  

      As he pushed me away, he said, "No foreplay.  This is just a fuck." 

     At that point, I wanted to leave; making love with another man wasn't at all what I had imagined it to be.  Yet, I didn't have enough self-confidence to tell Mike 'no'.  In addition, I couldn't deny the fact that I was a nineteen-year old gay male; I felt I was overdue to have sex.  Everyone at Club 216 had been urging me to engage in intercourse since I first became a member.  Wanting to make them proud of me, I let the act progress.      

     Once Mike stripped me of my clothes, he started fondling me.  I was so nervous I couldn’t get an erection.  Mike said I was impotent and remarked that it was best we had decided that he do the fucking.  He then had me lie face down on his bed; a minute later, he had slammed his lube-covered penis, bareback, right into me.  

     Being a ‘bottom’ (or the one to get fucked) was a horrible experience.  I had been possessed of the naive idea that a man 'making love' to me would be some incredibly pleasurable experience; in reality, it was absolute agony.  I hated every second of it.  I quickly came to understand why I had been ordered to have a bowel movement; with Mike inside me, my body was fooled into thinking it was 'full'.  The urge to defecate was overwhelming.  To make matters worse, the ordeal lasted for over an hour.  Eventually, however, Mike orgasmed, rolled over, and was unconscious within minutes. 

     I spent the remainder of the night staring at his beautiful, lithe body, which was illuminated by a streetlamp adjacent to his bedroom window.  In more daring moments, I touched him, drifting my fingers and mouth over his naked flesh.  This gentle exploration of another male's form was more to my taste, and I regretted that it was not the physical experience Mike and I had shared.   

     When he awoke, he asked why I had not left after our intercourse; this remark was swiftly followed by him escorting me out of the apartment.  A higher power seemed to disapprove of this behavior.  The door shut and locked behind us.  Mike didn't have his key and was more than a little angry at having to call his landlord at such an inconvenient hour.  The morning was cold, and I invited him to wait in my car; he said he'd rather I just left.

     Before I did so, I confessed he had taken my virginity.  He replied that I was lying; by the way I acted and dressed at Club 216, he could tell I was experienced.  My lackluster performance in bed should have been adequate proof that I was being truthful, but he wouldn’t believe me.

     As I drove home, I could feel Mike's cum draining out of me.  I felt physically ill.  I stopped at a gas station and attended to myself, wiping away his semen and my blood, which had intermingled to form a thick, reeking substance.    Truthfully, it took about a week before I was fully over what had been done to me.  Thereafter, I swore I would never let anyone 'make love' to me again (though the act would occur twice more with other individuals). 

     The next occasion I was at Club 216, I told a friend I had lost, via unprotected sex, my virginity to Mike.  His face went pale with the news. 

     “Mike is HIV positive; you have to get tested right away!”

      I went to the emergency room, only to learn that three months had to pass before an accurate test could be performed.  To make it worse, Mike had been recalled to active duty, so I couldn’t question him about his HIV status.  In the end, either a divine act of protection had occurred, or I had been told a vicious lie (the latter not at all improbable), because I tested negative for the virus.

      The next time I saw Mike was years later, once again at 216, where I had become a member of the staff.  Feeling nostalgic for the man with whom I had shared my first sexual encounter, I immediately embraced him and announced to my co-workers that he had taken my virginity.  

      With a perplexed look on his face, he asked, “Who are you?” 

     As he had taken my virginity, I responded that surely he knew.  He said we had never met, and he certainly had never engaged in sexual intercourse with me.  I argued the point, only to be denied again, thrice in all, just like Christ by Judas.  I eventually gave up and walked away, remarking what a bastard he was. 

      Later that night, he approached me and admitted that he knew who I was, but he didn’t understand why I had to state that we had sex in front of other people.  He claimed that having slept with someone so effeminate was a discredit to his reputation.

      “You are a complete and total ass,” I said to him before heading into the office to count a register drawer. 

      Not long thereafter, a fight broke out in the poolroom, and Mike, one of the combatants, was brought in to meet with the manager.  His smart mouth had rubbed someone in a bad way, and he had gotten a busted lip.

      “That’s what happens when you deny you’ve taken someone’s virginity,” I snidely remarked to him.  He just glared at me, and we never spoke again.

      On a closing note, the last time I saw Mike was when he returned to Charlottesville many years later.  He approached the bar, behind which several of the staff members were standing; he was pursing his lips in a dramatic fashion, proud that he had recently gotten collagen injections in them. 

      “Just look at my beautiful lips,” he kept saying.  “Beautiful, just fucking beautiful, like the rest of me!” 

      All who heard him fell into a laughing fit at the sheer ridiculousness of his ego.  He got so mad that he stormed out of the club, and that was the last I ever saw of him.