Missing: virginity.
Last seen, high school parking lot.
Stolen, no. Misappropriated might be better. No, stolen. Heisted. Internal and external forces, ego and social pressure.
Can’t be a virgin.
Just can’t, unless you want to lie. God forbid they find out, call you on it. There is no Canadian girlfriend. There was no one time at camp.
Can’t be a virgin.
Just can’t, unless you want social oblivion. Your virility compromised, questioned. Your sexuality, a topic of derisive whispers, and giggling behind cupped hands.
“Wait for it. Wait for someone special.”
“Shut up, heart. Shut up, soul. This isn’t about you. It’s about them.”
“But you only get one. You only get one.”
“There’s only one first time for everything. Why is this special? Why is this above compromise?”
Sweaty, skin sticking to fake leather. A first moment lost in a thrust. Ten years down, what was her name again? Worth it.
Worth it? Where’s the profit? Where’s the haul? Where’s the certainty that comes with wealth? Is your ego any richer? Are you higher in the social stratum?
No. Ill-gotten gains are quickly squandered when you’re an addict.
Drug of choice, a false notion of acceptance.
