Mr. 10(A) High School Musical

Carrie –  For the past nine months, I have withheld my re-born again virginity from potential suitors in hopes that the next guy that I slept with would amount to something more. Not necessarily as in a boyfriend and not even necessarily more than one night (although ideal) – I’m talking about someone that I felt a connection with.

What was this weird self-imposed pressure to make it meaningful? Well, you see, the next guy I would sleep with would be my tenth. For someone who lost her virginity to someone she loved for five years after, I hadn’t ever envisioned myself having sex with more than one partner, much less eight others after that. Sex should be something more than lust, right? I started losing what sex had meant to me so I became infactuated with this idea that hitting double digits – the big 10 – should be something. Maybe 10 would even be my next One + Nothing (1 + 0) because everyone else before that didn’t really mean much.

Yet alas, the spell has been broken…

10(a) : Mr. High School Musical

            Upon heading back into the cesspool that is Ottawa from my May abroad, I felt hopeful my first few days of June. “Summer is the best season in Ottawa,” everyone boasted. With a best friend from the 6ix moving in with me for the summer and a good drinking crew, I was looking forward to Canada’s 150th anniversary in the capital.

With nothing but a mindless job to distract me, I begin my journey on Bumble. There I meet Mr. High School Musical, a 26 year old high school graduate attempting to make it as a singer-songwriter. He drops me his phone number almost instantly, saying he won’t be on the app much but to text him. Now call me a bitch but I knew this was going nowhere serious – I was getting my third degree in a professional program and this guy was moving boxes at a warehouse, telling me about his open mic nights. Allured by his gripping blue gaze, wavy hair, and a slight gap in his teeth like old school Zac Efron in his HSM prime, I thought this could be a kushy arrangement. I was not emotionally attached but I found him physically attractive. Not exactly a connection but something more sustainable.

We agree to meet up the next week. But this guy messages me constantly throughout the week with TMI texts – about his body dysmorphia as an ex-male model (lol), how I’m one of the four girls he swiped right to (lolol), his father who passed away, and his mother’s financial difficulties (not so lols). This guy was a keeper alright… So a bottle of wine deep on a Thursday, he asks to meet if we could meet that night instead. I agree and meet him at a pub near my place.

Now my server was sweet – the guy was late and she brought me a water and chatted with me. By the time he came, she definitely knew it was a first date and was super attentive to our table. We split a pitcher of this 9% beer and soon enough, he stumbled out of his seat to the bathroom. I was pretty blasted but expressed my concerns to the waitress of whether he would pay his half of the bill if I left to the bathroom.

The rest comes in pieces to me: the waitress comes into the bathroom to reassure me he’s paid his half and made sure I was okay because she saw him stumbling. I tried to say good night to Mr. HSM, adamant this was a bad idea. The guy follows me down my street. I say good night to him again. Soon I am home in my apartment, managing to ditch him. But I am drunk, the room is spinning, and I’m getting a call from his number.

Disclaimer: this part may be graphic

The next recollection I have is him in my room, making out with me and then trying to shove his penis inside of me with no foreplay, much less consent to do so. I say no, he tries anyhow. It doesn’t work (keep in mind, it’s been a while). When I ask him to work our way up to that, he turns his back to me, tells me there’s no point then, and passes out. I remember being naked and feeling disrespected, pulling the blankets while the stranger lay in my bed beside me, not facing one another.

The next day, I wake to my alarm at six in the morning. Still drunk, I send a snap of me alarmed at the naked butt beside me. I make breakfast and because I am a host extraordinaire, who doesn’t remember the not-so-consensual incident from the night before, I make him one too. We eat breakfast, doing the next-morning tip-toe around one another chit-chat and bid adieus when he walks me to my bus stop for work (obviously he’s not going to any job).

I don’t piece the memories together until my work break, when I go to the bathroom and see fresh blood. I continue to bleed for the next six weeks, freaking out about the possible cause. I am also devastated that my first sexual encounter back, the non-sex ‘sex’, caused me ongoing sexual health issues that I’d have to recount to walk-in doctors and gynos. Eventually, I was dismissed from all those doctors with a “come back if it gets worse” and the belief I am sexually cursed.

The guy messages me a couple of days later. I am in shock he has the audacity. I delete his number and haven’t heard from him since. Nevertheless, scrolling through Instagram the other day, his profile comes up as one of the Sponsored tab.

His original song: “Unhealthy Habits.” I’ll say…

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