Each Thursday I will ask you to tell a story about a specific topic. You can write about the actual event as it happened in real life, or you can create a fictional telling of that event. It’s your call. There are no rules. Your post can be as long or as short as you want. Prose, poetry, whatever.
Once you publish your post, create a pingback to this post, or paste a link to your post in a reply if you’re not on WordPress.
This week’s prompt:
Tell the story about what led up to the time you lost your virginity.
Write about how you ended up in the situation that resulted in losing your virginity. Please don’t give any graphic details about the act itself. Keep it PG-rated. If you’re still a virgin, well, maybe next time.
To get you started, here’s my story.
It happened during the summer between my junior and senior years of high school. My two best friends worked part-time at the local drugstore back in the day when drugstores had soda fountains. You could get hot dogs, sandwiches, ice cream sundaes, root beer floats, milkshakes, and coffee at the drugstore soda fountain.
I would periodically hang out at the counter with them when they were working the fountain and, because they were my best friends, they would often give me a free milkshake and hot dog.
One day, while I was sitting on a stool at the counter drinking my milkshake and chatting aimlessly with my pals, an attractive redhead walked into the drugstore, sat down at the other end of the counter, and ordered an ice cream soda.
After she got her soda, my buddies and I were huddled at the other end of the counter admiring the young lady. I saw her pull out a pencil from her purse and write something down on a napkin. Then she looked toward the three of us and asked, “Who wants my cherry?”
It was all the three of us could do to keep from going completely nuts. Egged on by my two friends, I sheepishly responded, “I do.”
She got up off her stool, walked over to where I was sitting, and put the cherry from her ice cream soda into my mouth, which was conveniently gaping open.
She handed me the napkin with the writing on it and, in a very matter of fact way, said, “Pick me up at 8 on Saturday night.” Then she turned around and sashayed her way out of the drugstore.
I looked at the napkin and saw, scratched out with what appeared to have been an eyebrow pencil, an address and phone number, along with the impression of her lipstick covered lips.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Now it’s your turn.