Sunday, November 18, 2007

Virginity Poem!

I have the original poem in a journal which, if you
like I can scan and send you a copy. I wrote it when I
was 18 in France, just after losing my virginity.

Mary B.

I saw you and my heart said yes
My mind said no
We are two strangers in each other's arms, walking
along cobbstone medieval streets
"How beautiful,"I remarked staring at my feet
"I prefer the ocean," you said looking in my eyes

And then we were intense and alive in a flash of
lightening as one
I was safe in the darkness
As I cannot see myself -
my sins
And before I could flee you said you loved me
Once inside you said that you would love me - but only
Penetrating for love that was never there and never
will be there

Let's be honest with each other
And admit who and what we have done
our insecurities
But let us lie about the fact that this act has
nothing to do with love

It is a search in emptiness
A long search to satisfy our burning hunger for
To pretend we are not alone, this is what we do
And the next day nothing more is said about the night,
because in reality it was

Inside me there are aching cramps for the return of
what you took from me
My innocense and trust
I want to go back, I do not want to go forward into
Not knowing how to really show love

Because I have never made love!

By: Mary B.

Back Story:

I slept with Gautier Rowe because I didn’t want to go
to university a virgin. My mother sent me on a five
month ‘cultural immersion’ trip to her native France
where my aunt - the funky carmelite nun - was
homebase. It was February1992 and university started
that September so I needed to make significant
headway. I had already tried, unsuccessully, to have
sex with a boyfriend a few months earlier. Lack of
attraction to the acid-wash wearin’ guy made
penetration too dry and too painful so we gave up,
broke up and moved on.

After two weeks writing melancoly poetry at the
nunnery, a family friend invited me for the weekend to
medieval Dinan in Brittany. Their 18 year old
daughter, Maiwenn, wore fitted cashmere cardigans and
styled her hair in a loose bun looking impeccably
elegant. On Friday night Maiwenn took me to her
boyfriend Pierre’s party.

Pierre buzzed us into the 16th century wooden pillar
facade apartment. I adjusted my blue silk scarf,
having tossed aside a bulky Gap sweatshirt. Grunge
America had not reached these parts. At Pierre’s,
candles flickered a top tables garnished with
baguettes and blue cheeses. Olives marinated in
ceramic dishes alongside half filled bottles of
Bordeaux and Burgundy red. The harmonizing voices of
Simon and Garfunkel provided the musical underscore. A
brown haired, blue eyed and mature 21 year old Gautier
approached and offered me a glass of merlot. I never
looked back.

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