I Lost My Virginity To A Fuckboy


“I’m always gonna be that guy to you, aren’t I?”

“Excuse me?” I said, drawing back at his words. Offended and indignant at his insinuation, I was annoyed in .5 seconds flat. But my reaction only went so far, because he was right. He was always going to be “that guy” to me. He was my ultimate fuckboy. The guy I openly considered losing my virginity to, even though I knew we both knew that he’d only end up hurting me. The guy I spent months obsessing over because he fascinated me and intrigued me and, God, I just had to figure him out. The guy I eventually tried cutting out of my life because he was turning me into a psycho bitch and I just couldn’t deal anymore.

After not speaking for ten months because he slept with one of my sorority sisters when I was studying abroad – and this was five days after he told me he wanted to be in a relationship with me, mind you — there we were, standing in the kitchen of the frat house, and he was already pushing my buttons and making me want to simultaneously scream in frustration and fuck his brains out.

Why was I so attracted to him? Was it his good looks and his undeniable charm? Was it the fact that literally every single one of my sorority sisters had warned me about him and told me to run far, far away? Was it the fact that one of my best friends, who I had met when studying abroad, and I had bonded over his fuckboy behavior because they had hooked up too and she also warned me that this was a bad idea? Did I just enjoy not doing what I was told? Why did I have all of these internal questions and no answers?

Why was I doing this to myself for the second time? Hadn’t I learned my lesson? Apparently not, because I was standing with him in the middle of this party during what was forecasted to be the winter’s worst blizzard. Why was I even there? Oh, right – because I knew he’d be there and, even after all this time, I couldn’t stay away.

“I’m always going to be that guy to you. It’s always going to be me,” he repeated with a sly smile. And, because he has that effect on me, I couldn’t even lie and say no. Suddenly, my frustration faded away.

“Yeah, you are.” I kind of laughed uncomfortably, because I hated admitting my weakness to him.

“I really want to kiss you but I’m kind of afraid you’ll hit me,” he said, grinning, unsure of how I would react. Honestly, I was unsure of how to react to that statement, too, until suddenly I felt myself shaking my head. I growled “Shut the fuck up,” before pulling his face to mine and kissing him deeply, in the middle of the party. Drunk, turned on, and ever-fascinated with him, he somehow proceeded to convince me that going back to his place was simply the greatest idea. Next thing I know, we were grabbing our jackets and walking out into the snowstorm.

“Wait, this looks bad. I don’t think you should drive in this,” I said to him as we slid into his car.

“Well then I guess you’ll be snowed in with me,” he said.

My heart dropped into my stomach – or maybe it was the alcohol. Being snowed in with the king of the fuckboys? Did I want that? It was only 2 a.m. That meant that I would be spending all night and possibly the entire day tomorrow with him. The snow looked really bad, and it had only just begun. But he started his car (dumb, I know. Don’t drink and dive, kids), and the decision that I had really already made was just finalized as he pulled away from the curb and drove us back to his apartment.

What ensued was one of the most strangely satisfying yet aggravating nights of my life. Upon arriving at his apartment, we drunkenly stumbled into his room. After fooling around for a little bit, we heard his roommate and girlfriend come into the apartment, in the middle of a huge fight. After the happy couple spent an hour screaming at each other and throwing things while we laid wide-eyed and giggling in his bed, the landlord came downstairs and threatened to call the police. Following almost being involved in a domestic dispute, we decided that it might be time to go to sleep.

We spent the entirety of the next day in bed, which was pretty wonderful, to be totally honest. I enjoyed his company, despite the absurd remarks he kept making about banging my sisters and how crazy I am for getting annoyed at his desire to fuck all of my friends. We agreed that we’d start talking again and that this would be a “no feelings” type of deal. He was graduating in May, and I had just gotten out of a series of bad relationships after being metaphorically screwed over by this idiot, so I was just looking to have a little bit of fun here and there.

Around two in the afternoon, we both received emergency alerts on our phones, saying that all cars were required to be off the roads because the snow was actually that bad. We got up to check the damage done. He opened the door to his basement apartment and we were greeted by a wall of snow. We looked at each other, shut the door, and went back to bed.

After hours of additional cuddling and canoodling, we eventually decided that I should go home and he walked me there in the literal blizzard which, considering how he’s treated me in the past, was really nice of him. We didn’t have sex that night, or that day we were snowed in, so I took everything as a good sign that there was more to come.

Eventually, we did have sex, and it was pretty much what I expected it to be: fan-fucking-tastic. I didn’t see him for a few days after that, but when we did run into each other on campus he asked me the ultimate fuckboy question, because his fuckboy behavior doesn’t cease to exist even when walking from class to class: “Isn’t it funny how we’ve done such barbaric things to each other and now we have to act normally in public?”

Surprise: there wasn’t more to come. We didn’t fall in love and live happily ever after. We didn’t even go on a date. Even after we had sex, he’s still a fuckboy, and a huge one at that. But he’s my fuckboy. I don’t regret sleeping with him. He’ll always be that guy to me — that incredible, confusing, special guy who I just can’t let go of. And forever more, he’ll be my first.

Image via Shutterstock

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Conductor of the struggle bus. I have no idea what I'm doing.

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