How Not to Get Laid

I was a junior in high school dating a senior. She was a cheerleader and very cool. I was a good athlete, which helped my social status. But I also suffered from chronic dork-dom and occasional episodes of buffoonery, which didn’t. I knew it was only a matter of time before she realized this and dumped me.

I had to act fast.

Sadly, knowing I had to act fast and actually doing it are two very different things. The chance to finally lose my virginity was there, but the window of opportunity would not be open long. Weeks went by and so did the bases. First. Second. Third was discussed, which was pretty good for me. I felt that getting to third base pretty much made home plate a foregone conclusion (Years of experience would later prove this not to be the case, but I didn’t know that then).

One Sunday night, she casually suggested that I come to her house to study that Thursday, coyly tossing out the fact that her parents would be at the movies. I managed to coyly ask if there was a chance that we may do more than study and she coyly responded “Maybe.” We were both being very coy and, looking back, it’s a little nauseating. But at the time, it was riveting and totally hot.

Monday passed. And Tuesday. Each day there would be piercing gazes in the halls and evening phone conversations about Thursday.

Thursday. It shined like a beacon on a cold, virginal night.

On Wednesday, things did not go according to plan. I was in chemistry lab with Susan, the would-be class salutatorian. She was nice but too precocious for her own good. She’d recently broken her jaw while walking her dog and had it wired shut. This has no real bearing on the story – I just think it adds some interesting context. Anyway, we were doing an experiment that required putting something or other in a hot water bath. Susan, being too precocious for her own good, prepared the actual chemicals and I was relegated to hot-water bath duty. I put a large glass beaker on the iron stand above the Bunsen burner and started the flame going. Before long it was bubbling and ready to be taken off. I took a pair of tongs to remove the beaker. The pair I used was metal, as opposed to the rubber-coated metal tongs. I realized the critical importance of this detail when the beaker slipped out from the tongs and spilled all over my crotch.

A half liter of boiling water spilled all over my crotch. Boiling water, all over my crotch. (I say this twice because the pain and embarrassment involved cannot be over-emphasized.)

Susan was unsympathetic.

“Geez, Ryan, you should have used the rubber tongs. That was really stupid.” Only it didn’t sound like that because her jaw was wired shut. It really sounded more like:

“Sheesh, Shyan, you should shave shused she shubber shongs. Shat shas sheally shtupid.”

Too humiliated to go to the nurse, I hobbled to the bathroom and examined myself in a stall. I had second degree burns on my penis and they were blistering. It was disgusting and excruciating. I spent the rest of the day and all of the next wearing loose fitting sweat pants and walking very gingerly.

Thursday night came and I went to the senior’s house. I sat on her sofa in my Smurf-blue sweats and very delicately explained the past events that would prevent any hanky-panky that evening. As I talked I could see the interest drain from her face. She was looking at me less like a sexual Adonis and more like a train wreck in slow motion. We would not have sex that night or any other. It would be several weeks before my pelvic region was back to normal. By then, we had broken up.

I remained a virgin for two more years.

Submitted by Ryan Russo, Age 31, Bethesda MD

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