Happy birthday 36-Year-Old Virgin

I totally could have nailed this one if I had wanted to, but out of respect for the Virgin I declined.

On Labor Day, 2010 I sat down at my laptop to knock this post out and became sidetracked, which led to the whole Peabody & Sherman post (which no one has commented on, so I assume it was a huge flop. Oh well…) This is the post I meant to write that afternoon and the one that I now am busting out for you all to read.
This story happened about six years ago. I can’t remember exactly, but I’m pretty sure Drama Queen was fourteen at the time. Or maybe she was fifteen. Either way, it happened a while ago and it is totally true, fairly shocking and hopefully funny.
In the past I’ve written a couple of posts about the 36-Year-Old Virgin. Yes, she really was a virgin at age 36 and no, it wasn’t because she was hideous. She was cute. And sort of funny. And raised by a Mexican, Catholic mother who put the fear of God into her about having sex before marriage, which kept everything else OUT of her. If you know what I mean.
She was cool to date and as much as I respected her for the virginity, it did bug the crap out of me from time to time—mainly at night when I was horny.
These first few paragraphs were a history lesson for those not knowledgeable in the ways of the Virgin. On to the blog post.
As I drove to her house I knew this would be my last date with the 36-Year-Old Virgin. There was no doubt in my mind. We weren’t breaking up, but tonight was her birthday celebration and tomorrow she turned 37. This night had two possible outcomes—either she would stop being the Virgin or she would soon become the 37-Year-Old Virgin.
I’m not going to tell you right now how it ended and I trust that you have enough restraint to not scroll down to the end before coming back up to read the story. That would be lame and could be considered cheating. I’m just saying.
I headed down the 91 from Redlands to her house in Santa Ana. It was her last night being 36 and we were meeting a bunch of her friends at a place called The Crazy Horse at the Irvine Spectrum.
I never quite understood how The Crazy Horse ended up in Irvine, AKA Uppermiddleclassville. The Crazy Horse was a redneck joint, which for years had been located in neighboring Santa Ana. If you were a fan of country music this was your hot spot.
All the big names of the 70’s and 80’s played there while they were still big names. It was the place to be if you had a big ass belt buckle with your name on it or if you wore a cowboy hat. For some reason it closed and relocated in the Irvine Spectrum—one of the most non-redneck places I know.
The Virgin wanted to hit the Crazy Horse because it was Disco Night and they had a DJ and she loved to dance. She wanted to get her groove on and wanted all her friends to be there. Awesome…
I picked her up and told her that I had her present, but that I would give it to her later. Even after New Years Eve she wasn’t getting the implication there. I truly felt bad for her, but was hoping that she was ready to stop being the Virgin. Fingers crossed.
She gave me a hug and a kiss and said “OK, Bolillo. I can’t wait.” Oh yeah, she called me Bolillo. The word means “white bread” in Spanish. That was her little pet name for me. Nice, huh?
We cruised to the Spectrum and met her friends on the patio at Crazy Horse and began drinking and ordering dinner. It was the typical mid-30’s chick birthday get together, complete with all the drama and some douche who drank his ass off but somehow seemed to have no money when it came time to pay the bill.
It was a good thing the Virgin didn’t suggest I pay his portion because I would have recommended that I beat the $50 out of him in front of his friends, immediately following the meal. Someone else covered him but we had to listen to that story all night long.
The reality is that everyone else had to listen. I tuned out about 90% of the shit that was said that night. I didn’t care and I was determined that the Virgin was going to have a birthday she would never forget. That was the plan. The reality is that it would end up being a birthday she would barely remember.
The Virgin was pounding down the margaritas as we were eating and I tried to get her to slow down a bit, but she kept telling me that it was her birthday and she just wanted to have fun with her friends. I wanted her mostly sober so I could de-virginize her in good conscience before the end of the night.
We started dancing and having a good time. I’m not a big dancer, but I figure that disco is all about getting out there and looking like a dumbass, so I knew I would fit right in. I was driving home and was taking it very easy on the drinking and was trying to get her to do the same but her fucking friends kept pouring shots into her all God damn night long!
These douche bags were ruining my plan and I was getting frustrated about it. As much as dancing wasn’t my thing, I tried to keep her on the dance floor as much as possible, because when she wasn’t dancing she wasn’t drinking and was hopefully sobering up a bit.
Her BFF was one of these whiny bitches that fills her life with drama. About halfway through the night I was informed (not asked. Informed) that we were taking her home because, “the friend that she came with was no friend and she needed us to take her home.”
Come to find out a bit later, the reason the friend was no friend was because he was trying to put the moves on the BFF. Much respect bro. Much respect. I wish I had known that earlier—we could have worked in tandem to achieve our separate goals.
At midnight my girlfriend officially became the 37-Year-Old Virgin and I officially became really ticked off. The Virgin was flat out drunk. Like, hurl in the bushes drunk. Twice. Shortly after midnight I had to get two totally hammered chicks into my Sentra and get them to their separate homes.
The Virgin wanted to lie down in the car and she was completely and totally passed out in the back seat. BFF was not quite as trashed and spent most of the car ride home telling me how cute I was and what a great guy I was. I totally could have nailed this one if I had wanted to, but out of respect for the Virgin I declined.
I eventually found BFF’s home and when I arrived I found her mother and father in the driveway very upset at the condition their daughter was in. Yeah. She still lived with her parents. And was almost 40. Sweet.
I explained to mom and dad that I was not the dude she had her date with and that I had a drunk Virgin in the back seat to take home. “Hasta luego papi,” I said as I climbed back into the car.
As much as I should have been pissed, I was more frustrated and upset. The reality is that there was no way in hell that I could even try to have sex with her. Not when she was in that condition.
Think of me what you will, but I do have some morals. I may be hard on the outside (pun partially intended) but I’m sweet on the inside—like an M & M. Not to be confused with Eminem. That dude’s kind of cool, but a bit whack too. As usual, I digress…
I took the Virgin home and as I pulled into her driveway, her mother came out to meet us. The Virgin owned the house that she grew up in, but her mother still lived there. One would argue that she still lived at home while others would argue that she owned the house and her mom lived with her. I often argued the former, while she argued the latter.
I helped mom get her inside and was thanked many times. This lady LOVED me and totally believed me when I said I tried to keep her from drinking so much (though I wasn’t giving up my reason for limiting the alcohol consumption.)
I drove home and pondered my evening. I left home hopeful that I could have sex with her and didn’t. Her friend wanted to have sex with me, but I couldn’t. In case I wasn’t totally clear earlier, BFF straight up said she wanted to pull over and have sex with me while the Virgin was in the car. Classy, huh?
In case you didn’t figure it out—she became the 37-Year-Old Virgin and if you actually scrolled down to see how this ends—you suck! Now go back and read what you missed. It’s shocking, informative and entertaining.