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In-and-out: V-card swiped

It was a sweaty summer in Queensland, and I was enjoying the uni break by going for a swim most days and getting pretty drunk two to three times a week. I had two of my friends over for an all-day bonanza where we swam, posted over-filtered pics for Instagram (it was 2013), and drank Passion Pop. After we had put away more than our fair share of $2 wine, we decided to hit the local uni bar and invited a few more people around for pre-drinks and to get ready. My best friend Nadia and I were trying our best to apply makeup through our hazy double vision. After getting into questionable outfits to match our questionable makeup, we were ready to call a cab (these were pre-Uber days).

Photo by Jason Leung via Unsplash

It was a standard night at the bar, with 2000s hits pumping through the venue and sweaty 19 year olds flailing around on the dance floor. The place was full to the brim and we were having a blast, as we always did. Two of our friends headed off, but my best friend Nadia and I partied on. We hadn’t known each other for very long, but we were fast friends, having bonded over being the only ‘virgins’ in our respective friend groups. We had both been on our own ‘missions’ to pop this cherry, so to speak, but when we met, it had morphed into somewhat of a joint venture. At this point, we were heading into our thirteenth hour of drinking, and still going strong. We turned to each other and declared that tonight was the night.


Low by Flo Rida blasted on the main dance floor and Nadia took the opportunity to twerk into the heaving crowd to find us a pair of suitors. After about 2.3 seconds, she spotted a guy about our age and leaned in to shout “do you have a friend for my friend!?” indicating to me. The guy reached his entire arm into the sweaty crowd and pulled out a second guy. Nadia and I danced with the two for a few songs before indicating that we all should head to the bar. With vodka raspberries in hand, Nadia and I chatted to the two guys, who happened to be roommates, and really very personable. After hitting another dance floor with my guy, we shared a very romantic first kiss under the pulsing green lights and surrounded by the fragrant smell of BO and beer breath.


We all returned to the bar for a split second before Nadia and I ‘went to the bathroom,’ ie. went around the corner to confer, only to return 20 seconds later. “Shall we all go back to yours?” They thought that was a good plan. In a maxi cab, joined by their other roommate, his brother, and another woman who was friends with one of them, we headed across to their suburb. They lived in a sharehouse with a big-ish living room, where the seven of us sat and chatted for god knows what reason. Nadia and I made polite conversation and patted their cat. The brother stripped down to his Bonds boxer briefs and walked around the living room, loudly accusing Nadia and I of ‘looking at his dick’ (we were), while very purposefully showing off his dick. We later referred to him as ‘the dick guy,’ not because he was a dick, but because we saw a very clear outline of his.


After some painful and forced conversation and Nadia gulping down a few warm mouthfuls of cheap rosé, we finally left the living room and entered the respective bedrooms, which, coincidentally, shared a wall. The bedroom I entered was minimally decorated with a bed, lamp, one set of shelves, and a deadmau5 poster. I won’t go into the details, because this is a tale of friendship rather than a porn search term, but as far as first times go, it was quite good. The guy was thoughtful and it didn’t hurt much. It was pleasant, bar the few weird minutes I spent looking right into the eyes of deadmau5.


After we wrapped things up, I announced that it was time I headed home, and that I would be taking Nadia with me. In what I think was a bro-code move, he suggested I not bother Nadia and his roommate, that she could get home in the morning. But he wasn’t the only one living by the bro-code, and I insisted we would be going home together and tonight. He went to scope things out and quickly returned to report that Nadia was in the other bedroom alone. I went into the room, and lightly shook her awake. “Did you have sex?” she immediately asked. “Yeah, did you?” “No, he couldn’t get it up.” “Okay, we’ll talk about it when we leave. Let’s go.”


We headed out through the living room, where Nadia’s mate was attempting to sleep on the couch. We called a cab, patted the cat goodbye, I exchanged numbers with my new friend, and we ventured out into the night. It was around 3:00 am, and the guys, being perfect gentlemen, asked if we wanted them to wait with us for the taxi. “No thanks, we’re good.” We went down the front stairs and sat on the curb in various states of undress. Nadia only had one strap of her dress on. My skirt wasn’t buttoned. Our bums were touching the rough pavement, and our clothes soaked up some (very) early morning dew.


While we waited, Nadia recounted her experience in the bedroom next door. Her guy had had a bit too much to drink and his machinery wasn’t quite up for the job, she’d said. While in later years we would approach such a circumstance with empathy and eagerness to work around it, we were young and Nadia was admittedly disappointed, even annoyed that things hadn’t exactly gone to plan. She explained in detail her valiant effort to manually get things going, which was to no avail. It wasn’t until the taxi arrived that we realised the guys were still standing on the balcony waiting for us to leave. We waved goodbye and got into the taxi, and provided the driver what I’m sure was an interesting ride across town, as we exchanged details.


Nadia and I still reflect on this night with fondness. I later ventured into the city to join her for her walk of shame* when she successfully popped the cherry a few weeks after this. My bond with Nadia has outlasted my bond with the first man who was inside me. I saw him a few more times, but nothing can beat the bond of a friend who heard the bedsprings when you’re getting it on for the first time.


*there’s nothing shameful about it, but the English language lacks a sex-positive term for the post-sex trek home