The story of my worst sex experience with my ex-boyfriend. I felt like a whore.

I did not go to his house that evening with the intention of ruining our already fragile friendship. But what was supposed to be a fun, memorable night turned into a complete disaster and vomit on my favourite pair of jeans. A lingering thought crossed my mind that day, what if it happens again? Life had recently been dragging me by the foot through harsh, cold lessons and how foolish I was to think I would get a night off. For what it’s worth, this one is going to stick.

Arriving at the house earlier that afternoon, I was immediately overwhelmed with flashbacks from the previous year. Memories that had been pushed to the back of my mind, unwanted and neglected. The brisk image of us lying in bed flooded my head and the exciting, rebellious idea of staying at his house to have a fun night vanished. Gone. I was merely left with the familiar sensation of guilt and a bad feeling in my gut. This is going to be a mistake, I thought.

But, my ignorant, impulsive side took control and brushed the pitiful doubts aside and made way for fun, reckless party thoughts. Anna turned to me as we waited for him to unlock the door. She smiled, and I smiled back. The universe’s way of telling me to shut up and stop worrying. Enjoy the powerful blast of fresh marijuana, soak up the alcohol and turn up the music. What could possibly go wrong?

It was a Friday night, we had been released from the pits of hell we all call school, and the anticipation grew enormous inside us all. The plan was simple, constructed by none other than the lying, careless teenage girl, me. Go on the bus with him and Anna, tell parents I am staying over at Annas but really go to his house. Anna will come over for a bit too and get totally and utterly fried, but then she’ll leave, and I’ll be left to deal with the consequences of spending a night alone in a house with my ex-boyfriend. It was fine. I could handle myself and nothing was going to happen, because that would confuse things. It had been a year, after all, and we were good friends. That’s what I told myself, at least.

The night began, and a self-made plastic bong was passed between the three of us like a new-born baby in a hospital. It was great, we were laughing and singing and all the things we had planned. I turned up the music multiple times, but each time he got up and turned it back down.

What the fuck?

Then it hit me. The host always get anxious when people aren’t supposed to be doing something at their house, because almost always the parents “could come home at any moment” and that boring, annoying thought bothered him from the moment we walked inside. Anna and I, still on a pleasant buzz, followed him around the house and tried to calm him down, reassuring him we’d be fine.

“Relax, your dad won’t be home for ages!”

“Yeah, Anna’s right. Just enjoy it while you can! Your mum doesn’t always go away, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

He was pacing back and forth, searching for an excuse to bail out on the whole thing. I wasn’t going to let our night get ruined by an anxiety-attack, and I tried desperately to untangle his thoughts. Eventually, he was fine. Anna had scavenged through the pantry and consumed whatever food-like substances she could find, and then went home with blood-shot eyes and a happy, bubbly mood.

As it was nearing 5:30pm, I got comfortable in the makeshift blanket bed in his closet. This was my least favourite part of our plan, I had to sit in his closet for a few hours when his dad arrived home until he left again.

“Are you sure your dad is going to leave tonight? What if he stays?” I said, dangling my leg out of the doorway.

“Nah, he’ll leave. He doesn’t usually stay, not after the split with mum. He’ll just check in on me, eat some dinner and then bugger off to his own house.”

And for the most part, he was right. His dad came, brought Pizza Hut and watched the rugby game airing on tv. I was snuck in a few slices of pizza and whatever was left of the cold, soggy hash-bites. But it wasn’t until 10pm that his dad left, and I had begun to get cold feet. It didn’t feel right, being there in secret. We weren’t together anymore, and the atmosphere was awkward. But the doubts were shoved aside and as we lit up the bong once again and I was reunited with peace and tranquillity.

I suggested we bring out alcohol, for extra fun. “Cross-faded” is a term used for someone being intoxicated and high at the same time, and as I cheered him on as he downed a lot of vodka, I felt a sense of karma coming back to bite me in the ass. I tried to level the playing fields and drink what was left of the vanilla flavoured poison but was unsurprisingly slapped in the face with reality as my undeveloped taste buds fought WW3 with the furious, red-hot liquid that set fire to my internal organs.

And that wasn’t even exaggerated. From the point where I was bent over a sink, spitting and rewashing my mouth out with water repeatedly, I vowed never again to touch a bottle of vodka. Horrifying, to say the least. As I entered his room again, I felt a little embarrassed that he had just swung back a heap of it without hesitation, and I could not even keep down a cap full.

My eyes met with his, and a grin crept up on his face. The body language, the facial expressions, the movements, it was all very familiar. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said he was absolutely shit-faced. My throat was still tingling with the after-taste of weed, and my buzz was kept alive with the vibrations of music bouncing around the room.

As all teenagers under the influence do, we tumbled over each other and giggled. The lights turned off, the speaker turned up to max volume. Everything was slowed down, and it was just him and I, moving free in captivity of our inevitable end-game. Clothes were strewn across the floor, lips met skin, and I fell to the mercy of his touch.

He was on top of me, his warm body pressed up against my racing heart. A lot of feelings were being tugged at in my mind, but I did not expect guilt to suddenly lie next to me, a part of myself that watched as my dignity and respect were snatched away, yet again. I turned my head to the other side of the bed, in denial of the truth.

I am a whore. A piece of trash. I’m not even attracted to him and I let it happen anyway.

I felt shameful, and I tried to make the pitiful situation into a pleasant experience for the both of us, it was the least I could do. But I couldn’t. I am not one to judge, I understand that people grow at different rates, and we all come in beautiful shapes and sizes. But that night, he struggled to keep momentum as it kept slipping out. And every 30 seconds or so I would sigh, awkwardly giggle and try for re-entry. It was hopeless, his penis was too short and curved for the pleasure we both desired.

I looked down and tried to see what was going on, only to find his cock was... soft. How embarrassing for him, I thought. I didn’t want to make him feel as bad as he looked, so I got up to attempt a different position and start over. As I was about to lean in, I heard something revolting.

Oh god. Oh shit.

A waterfall of red, plump vomit splashed on the ground and up the wall. The pungent smell of vodka and pizza filled the room quicker than I could get up and turn on the light. I stared at him with my mouth wide open as his dinner was regurgitated. And to make matters worse, my favourite ripped-jeans and white crop top was drenched in it.

I cannot fucking believe this.

I blinked back my tears and held my nose tightly. Shaking, I gathered up my clothes and grabbed whatever I could. I wasn’t angry, it wasn’t his fault. I was traumatized. He got up and we both stood either side of the bed, I could see in his eyes that he was searching for words. But as we sunk in the depths of despair and embarrassment, I gagged and ran for the bathroom.

I was still incredibly high, but now there was no buzz. Just anxiety, shame and disgust. I sat on the spare bed, helpless. I couldn’t go home, my parents thought I was at Anna’s. I had to stay over, and that was okay. Until he got in the bed next to me.

“No. I can’t. I’ve got to sleep alone. I can’t sleep next to you,” I said sharply. I didn’t mean for it to come off rude, but the words fell out before I could filter them. “I’m sorry- my mattress is soaked, I have to-“ “I’ll sleep in your mum’s bed,” I said, cutting him off.

My head was spinning, and I felt awful about everything. I should have spoken less harshly, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I sat in his mum’s king bed and had one of the worst panic attacks I had ever experienced. My heart was thrusting against my chest and I was sweating and breathing as if I had just run a marathon. I got up for water but fell to the floor as my knees gave out.

It was only then that I realized this was one of the life lessons I was being dragged recklessly through. I curled up in a ball and rocked myself back to a calm state. I cannot describe how out of balance I was with the world at that moment. I was zapping in and out of universes, it seemed. Floating through a galaxy of new sounds and the feeling of touch was absent. I was just, there.

The next morning, I woke up with a splitting head-ache and a dry, dehydrated mouth. My lips made a smacking sound and I desperately yearned for a cup of coffee. It was 8 o’clock, but I wanted to get the hell out of there as quick as I could. Before that night, he and I had a good relationship. We had gotten past the cliché fighting-after-a-breakup-thing and had maintained a friendly bond. I wasn’t so sure this was the case anymore, it was weird now and every time I looked at him I was reminded of the sins I had committed.

I quietly made the bed, packed my things and borrowed a t-shirt from his closet. After all, he had just completely ruined my one. I kept my words to a minimum, I was sober now and could make appropriate decisions. I had a hunch he was just as miserable as I was and didn’t feel like speaking either. I left at exactly 8:16am and set off for a place to drown in my sorrows. I arrived at my sisters house some time later and collapsed into a spare bed where I sat and thought.

I thought a lot. What do I do now? Should I tell someone? Should I call him and see if he is OK? I still felt like a whore. It stuck with me from the moment I left, following me as I walked the walk of shame. I took out my phone and aimlessly scrolled through Instagram, trying to find peace with the previous night. As I pondered over the uncanny thought of sleeping in his mum’s bed that night, I realized when I was getting dressed that morning, I had left my underwear under the sheets.

Fuck.

Submitted May 18, 2019 at 06:38AM

I did not go to his house that evening with the intention of ruining our already fragile friendship. But what was supposed to be a fun, memorable night turned into a complete disaster and vomit on my favourite pair of jeans. A lingering thought crossed my mind that day, what if it happens again? Life had recently been dragging me by the foot through harsh, cold lessons and how foolish I was to think I would get a night off. For what it’s worth, this one is going to stick.Arriving at the house earlier that afternoon, I was immediately overwhelmed with flashbacks from the previous year. Memories that had been pushed to the back of my mind, unwanted and neglected. The brisk image of us lying in bed flooded my head and the exciting, rebellious idea of staying at his house to have a fun night vanished. Gone. I was merely left with the familiar sensation of guilt and a bad feeling in my gut. This is going to be a mistake, I thought.But, my ignorant, impulsive side took control and brushed the pitiful doubts aside and made way for fun, reckless party thoughts. Anna turned to me as we waited for him to unlock the door. She smiled, and I smiled back. The universe’s way of telling me to shut up and stop worrying. Enjoy the powerful blast of fresh marijuana, soak up the alcohol and turn up the music. What could possibly go wrong?It was a Friday night, we had been released from the pits of hell we all call school, and the anticipation grew enormous inside us all. The plan was simple, constructed by none other than the lying, careless teenage girl, me. Go on the bus with him and Anna, tell parents I am staying over at Annas but really go to his house. Anna will come over for a bit too and get totally and utterly fried, but then she’ll leave, and I’ll be left to deal with the consequences of spending a night alone in a house with my ex-boyfriend. It was fine. I could handle myself and nothing was going to happen, because that would confuse things. It had been a year, after all, and we were good friends. That’s what I told myself, at least.The night began, and a self-made plastic bong was passed between the three of us like a new-born baby in a hospital. It was great, we were laughing and singing and all the things we had planned. I turned up the music multiple times, but each time he got up and turned it back down.What the fuck?Then it hit me. The host always get anxious when people aren’t supposed to be doing something at their house, because almost always the parents “could come home at any moment” and that boring, annoying thought bothered him from the moment we walked inside. Anna and I, still on a pleasant buzz, followed him around the house and tried to calm him down, reassuring him we’d be fine.“Relax, your dad won’t be home for ages!”“Yeah, Anna’s right. Just enjoy it while you can! Your mum doesn’t always go away, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”He was pacing back and forth, searching for an excuse to bail out on the whole thing. I wasn’t going to let our night get ruined by an anxiety-attack, and I tried desperately to untangle his thoughts. Eventually, he was fine. Anna had scavenged through the pantry and consumed whatever food-like substances she could find, and then went home with blood-shot eyes and a happy, bubbly mood.As it was nearing 5:30pm, I got comfortable in the makeshift blanket bed in his closet. This was my least favourite part of our plan, I had to sit in his closet for a few hours when his dad arrived home until he left again.“Are you sure your dad is going to leave tonight? What if he stays?” I said, dangling my leg out of the doorway.“Nah, he’ll leave. He doesn’t usually stay, not after the split with mum. He’ll just check in on me, eat some dinner and then bugger off to his own house.”And for the most part, he was right. His dad came, brought Pizza Hut and watched the rugby game airing on tv. I was snuck in a few slices of pizza and whatever was left of the cold, soggy hash-bites. But it wasn’t until 10pm that his dad left, and I had begun to get cold feet. It didn’t feel right, being there in secret. We weren’t together anymore, and the atmosphere was awkward. But the doubts were shoved aside and as we lit up the bong once again and I was reunited with peace and tranquillity.I suggested we bring out alcohol, for extra fun. “Cross-faded” is a term used for someone being intoxicated and high at the same time, and as I cheered him on as he downed a lot of vodka, I felt a sense of karma coming back to bite me in the ass. I tried to level the playing fields and drink what was left of the vanilla flavoured poison but was unsurprisingly slapped in the face with reality as my undeveloped taste buds fought WW3 with the furious, red-hot liquid that set fire to my internal organs.And that wasn’t even exaggerated. From the point where I was bent over a sink, spitting and rewashing my mouth out with water repeatedly, I vowed never again to touch a bottle of vodka. Horrifying, to say the least. As I entered his room again, I felt a little embarrassed that he had just swung back a heap of it without hesitation, and I could not even keep down a cap full.My eyes met with his, and a grin crept up on his face. The body language, the facial expressions, the movements, it was all very familiar. If I didn’t know any better, I would have said he was absolutely shit-faced. My throat was still tingling with the after-taste of weed, and my buzz was kept alive with the vibrations of music bouncing around the room.As all teenagers under the influence do, we tumbled over each other and giggled. The lights turned off, the speaker turned up to max volume. Everything was slowed down, and it was just him and I, moving free in captivity of our inevitable end-game. Clothes were strewn across the floor, lips met skin, and I fell to the mercy of his touch.He was on top of me, his warm body pressed up against my racing heart. A lot of feelings were being tugged at in my mind, but I did not expect guilt to suddenly lie next to me, a part of myself that watched as my dignity and respect were snatched away, yet again. I turned my head to the other side of the bed, in denial of the truth.I am a whore. A piece of trash. I’m not even attracted to him and I let it happen anyway.I felt shameful, and I tried to make the pitiful situation into a pleasant experience for the both of us, it was the least I could do. But I couldn’t. I am not one to judge, I understand that people grow at different rates, and we all come in beautiful shapes and sizes. But that night, he struggled to keep momentum as it kept slipping out. And every 30 seconds or so I would sigh, awkwardly giggle and try for re-entry. It was hopeless, his penis was too short and curved for the pleasure we both desired.I looked down and tried to see what was going on, only to find his cock was... soft. How embarrassing for him, I thought. I didn’t want to make him feel as bad as he looked, so I got up to attempt a different position and start over. As I was about to lean in, I heard something revolting.Oh god. Oh shit.A waterfall of red, plump vomit splashed on the ground and up the wall. The pungent smell of vodka and pizza filled the room quicker than I could get up and turn on the light. I stared at him with my mouth wide open as his dinner was regurgitated. And to make matters worse, my favourite ripped-jeans and white crop top was drenched in it.I cannot fucking believe this.I blinked back my tears and held my nose tightly. Shaking, I gathered up my clothes and grabbed whatever I could. I wasn’t angry, it wasn’t his fault. I was traumatized. He got up and we both stood either side of the bed, I could see in his eyes that he was searching for words. But as we sunk in the depths of despair and embarrassment, I gagged and ran for the bathroom.I was still incredibly high, but now there was no buzz. Just anxiety, shame and disgust. I sat on the spare bed, helpless. I couldn’t go home, my parents thought I was at Anna’s. I had to stay over, and that was okay. Until he got in the bed next to me.“No. I can’t. I’ve got to sleep alone. I can’t sleep next to you,” I said sharply. I didn’t mean for it to come off rude, but the words fell out before I could filter them. “I’m sorry- my mattress is soaked, I have to-“ “I’ll sleep in your mum’s bed,” I said, cutting him off.My head was spinning, and I felt awful about everything. I should have spoken less harshly, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I sat in his mum’s king bed and had one of the worst panic attacks I had ever experienced. My heart was thrusting against my chest and I was sweating and breathing as if I had just run a marathon. I got up for water but fell to the floor as my knees gave out.It was only then that I realized this was one of the life lessons I was being dragged recklessly through. I curled up in a ball and rocked myself back to a calm state. I cannot describe how out of balance I was with the world at that moment. I was zapping in and out of universes, it seemed. Floating through a galaxy of new sounds and the feeling of touch was absent. I was just, there.The next morning, I woke up with a splitting head-ache and a dry, dehydrated mouth. My lips made a smacking sound and I desperately yearned for a cup of coffee. It was 8 o’clock, but I wanted to get the hell out of there as quick as I could. Before that night, he and I had a good relationship. We had gotten past the cliché fighting-after-a-breakup-thing and had maintained a friendly bond. I wasn’t so sure this was the case anymore, it was weird now and every time I looked at him I was reminded of the sins I had committed.I quietly made the bed, packed my things and borrowed a t-shirt from his closet. After all, he had just completely ruined my one. I kept my words to a minimum, I was sober now and could make appropriate decisions. I had a hunch he was just as miserable as I was and didn’t feel like speaking either. I left at exactly 8:16am and set off for a place to drown in my sorrows. I arrived at my sisters house some time later and collapsed into a spare bed where I sat and thought.I thought a lot. What do I do now? Should I tell someone? Should I call him and see if he is OK? I still felt like a whore. It stuck with me from the moment I left, following me as I walked the walk of shame. I took out my phone and aimlessly scrolled through Instagram, trying to find peace with the previous night. As I pondered over the uncanny thought of sleeping in his mum’s bed that night, I realized when I was getting dressed that morning, I had left my underwear under the sheets.Fuck.