Trying To Lose Your Virginity To A Pint-Size Dildo

I took my first subway ride the same day I sort of lost my virginity to a midsize dildo. It was two days before my 18th birthday and I was one of the last virgins in my Manhattan private high school graduating class. Even the prissy girls from the posh Upper East Side all-girls schools were on their second and third lovers?I couldn't make it past super-plus tampons.

It's not that I didn't want to have sex; I dreamed about it all the time. My problem was physical. I was convinced I was too tight and that to "do it" I would have to undergo surgery.

Rachel, my most promiscuous friend, decided to come to my rescue. "We're going to the West Village," she said. "The Pink Pussycat has the perfect birthday gift for you."

I didn't know about this "pink pussy" business, but I was more afraid of taking the subway. I was the quintessential overprotected Upper East Side Daddy's girl who had never been below ground. My father, a Manhattan psychiatrist, had warned me: The subway is dangerous. It's filled with drugs and graffiti and homeless men who vomit on the seats.

That Saturday morning I took off my diamond earrings?a bat mitzvah gift from Aunt Rhoda?and put on thin black gloves to cover my Seiko and to protect my hands from germs. Rachel, the only girl in high school who'd had a boob job and liposuction, waited for me on the corner of 86th St. She had bleached-blonde hair and dark brown skin from her weekly trips to the tanning salon. Her tight black leather pants fit perfectly.

"I just have to return this toy," she said. "I'm not happy with it." She put out her half-smoked Parliament with the heel of her red cowboy boot, then pulled out a used, glow-in-the-dark dildo the size of one of the cucumbers from my father's garden in the Hamptons.

"You should be thankful," she said. "Guys love a tight pussy." I walked through the subway turnstile, disgusted by the thought of a porn shop with a return policy.

The subway was surprisingly painless, and before I knew it I was standing in front of the Pink Pussycat, eyeing a half-naked mannequin wearing fishnet stockings, a purple wig and leather tassels hanging from the nipples. I took a breath, shot a fake smile at Rachel and followed her into the store. The walls were lined with different shapes, sizes and colors. Rachel knew exactly what she wanted. She ran past me and grabbed hold of "The Sensation Station," a double-D-battery Mach 3 with special prong features.

I asked her to show me where the section for nice Jewish virgins was. Rachel was disappointed, but I wasn't about to buy an oversized penis through peer pressure. "Don't forget my problem," I said. "It's basic math. A small space needs a small object."

Then I saw it. Standing on the bottom shelf, proud but not cocky, was the Magic Thunder Bunder?a 5-inch vibrating double-A-battery-activated "friend" with optional applicators. I gripped the package in my hands to gage our compatibility. Rachel shot me a look of disbelief.

"It's a stepping stone," I said. "Now go exchange your thing so we can get out of here."

The woman behind the counter laughed at Rachel's attempt to exchange The Blue Banana for The Sensation Station. I was secretly glad they didn't do exchanges. The Thunder Bunder wasn't and never had been anybody else's.

"You have to be patient with it," Rachel said before stepping off the 6 train. "It's not going to be immediate ecstasy." She shot me a devilish smile, then handed me a Parliament. "Happy birthday. I want a full report on Monday."

I went back to my parents' apartment and put a chair underneath the doorknob. The Thunder Bunder was in a cardboard box with an illustration of a female superhero spreading her legs. I opened the package, put the batteries in and flipped the ON switch to the third level. The noise reminded me of my father's electric toothbrush.

The Thunder Bunder hurt like hell. After two minutes, I wrapped it back up in its plastic protector and placed it in a drawer. It's not going to be immediate ecstasy, I reminded myself.

I practiced for the next few days. It didn't get any better.

The poor, deprived sex machine sat helpless in my top drawer for weeks, and eventually months, and then a full year of college. When I returned home from my freshman year, I had a boyfriend with whom I'd lost my virginity. I'd completely forgotten about my discarded purchase.

"Consuela and I cleaned out all of your drawers," my mother said, walking into my still-pink bedroom. "We went through everything."

Everything? I immediately thought of The Thunder Bunder. Did they find it? Did they know? I imagined my mother and the housekeeper standing over my chest of drawers, half-laughing, half-nauseous at the sight of my little Thunder Bunder. I could picture my mother calling my father at the office, asking him for his psychiatric opinion, wondering if a healthy family would address the issue or burn the evidence in the incinerator.

I waited for my mother to say something, but she just told me to settle in and relax. Would she really repress this? She closed the door to my room and I ran to my chest of drawers. Socks, underwear, bras, old sweatshirts?nothing. The dildo was gone.

I never got up the courage to ask my parents about the disappearing dildo. And to this day it bothers me that they think I'm a pervert because of a sex toy I never really even used.