Photo of the author at the resort where she met Brad.
People always ask, “So what was it like growing up on an island?” Well, it was a pretty fucking small place—especially when I was young and horny. My class consisted of barely 40 students, and my sexual exploration options were limited. As a teenage girl, I’d prey on the tourist boys who visited the island, sneaking into hotels and on rented boats with my bitches, dodging and running from security that would try to shoo us off the premises. (Local white chicks are easy to tell apart from tourists for our unintentional grunginess.)
Right before I moved to what islanders call “the mainland,” a tourist caught my eye. (Because he’s a model now and I’m really not in the mood to receive nasty emails from a modeling agency, I’ll call him Brad.) He looked like Josh Hartnett, whom I had a huge boner for at the time, and lived in the same town I was about to move to. (Planet Earth is also a very small place.) Brad and I didn’t exchange contact information, but two years later we crossed paths again while both drunk in a Taco Bell parking lot in the mainland town I moved to. Shortly after, we began dating. Shortly after that, I realized Brad was lethally fucked up.
He had gotten himself kicked out of almost every school in town. He treated me like shit. Once, he took a pen and scribbled his name on my stomach and ordered me not to wash it off. I knew deep down I was nothing more to him than an object, that the new girl from the Virgin Islands made a nice addition to his collection of trophies. But I was 16 and insecure. Through my heart-shaped glasses, I adored the dark-haired predator, and I was down for the ride regardless of the danger involved—he scared me, and I loved that.
I was not a saint either. In retrospect, I used Brad too—I was more drawn to the adrenaline high Brad provided me than to Brad himself. He would drive to my school and bring me Taco Bell for lunch, although he wasn’t allowed on school property. The principal would see him, and he would get chased away, jumping into his black car and speeding off while classmates watched the scene unfold. I thought I was so fucking cool.
Photo of a Taco Bell that may be the Taco Bell the author frequented via Wiki Commons.
Taco Bell was a very big part of our relationship. Not only did we reintroduce ourselves there, but we also broke up a Taco Bell once. Fast food in general was a huge aspect of our love. After fooling around in the backseat of his car near a Buddhist temple, we went to McDonalds on our first date.
If your first date involves backseat blowjobs and the dollar menu, you can’t expect a classy relationship to follow. For example, the night I had sex for the first time, my mom thought I was spending the night at my friend Kelly's house, but really I was fucking Brad in the backseat of my car, which was parked in the woods on property Brad’s family owned. The phrase “lost my virginity” doesn’t seem fitting for what I did with Brad. I don’t think I’ve ever felt virginal in my entire life, and whatever pureness does exist inside me was not poked out by Brad’s penis. I was just in the back of my car listening to Linkin Park and trying to find fulfilling sex. Wild hymens can't be broken.
After Brad blew his load, we decided to go to the Waffle House. While dining, I remember the Bloodhound Gang lyric “I want you smothered want you covered like my Waffle House hash browns” played in my head. On the drive back to the property, we noticed the car in front of us was swerving across the road. The car smashed into a tree, and the driver flew through the windshield. We pulled over to help. The driver dangled out of his windshield covered in blood.
“Hey, is that you, Brad?” The driver slurred before he passed out.
He knew my boyfriend. Totally freaked, we called 911. An ambulance and cops arrived; he was taken to the hospital. But our trouble had just started. In our town, there was a curfew for teenagers; my boyfriend was old enough to stay out, but I was not. The cops breathalysed us, and neither of us passed. Thanks to the Good Samaritan law (we got caught in an effort to help someone else), neither of us were charged with underage drinking. The police called our parents, and they took us home.
I got in trouble but it was minimal compared to Brad’s punishment. After a few days, I still hadn’t heard from him. I assumed he was just being an asshole, but finally his friend called me. This incident was the final straw for his mother. He was sent off to rehab in Mexico--the kind where they come and grab you while you’re sleeping, throw you in a car, and ship you away before you’re even half awake.
I moved on. Months later, I got an unexpected call from Brad from a pay phone. “Hey, I’m back. I’m at a gas station. Do you want to meet up?” I picked him up, and we drove around. “Hate it or Love It” by the Game and 50 Cent played. He had a new tattoo on his chest and told me stories about Mexico. We briefly messed around but it was awkward. We didn’t have sex again. The first time we had sex would be the last.
After being “discovered” and becoming a model, Brad moved to New York City. I live in the city too, but I haven’t spoken to Brad in years. That’s right. I sacrificed my hymen to a male model in the making, who was lying and cheating on me the entire time. Being 16 is pretty twisted for everyone. To the sweet high school nerds of the world: These days I’m dating a computer programmer in the startup tech scene. Your days of pussy will come.