The 37-Year-Old Virgin

“I want you right now,” she said in her best attempt at being seductive.

In September of 2010 I wrote about the 36-Year-Old Virgin turning 37 and remaining untapped. I planned on waiting a while (but not 2 years) before revealing the final installment of this epic “Quadogy”. A quadogy is kind of like a trilogy, but has four parts. I just made up that word, but I don’t give a shit.
It’s probably been a while since you read that post (if you ever read it), so I’m gonna throw you the final two paragraphs from that post. That way you can see why this is going in the direction it is.
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.
The day after the 37th birthday bash I received a phone call from the now 37-Year-Old Virgin. She told me she didn’t remember a lot of the night and wanted to know if anything interesting happened. I pondered that thought for a moment. Should I tell her that her BFF wanted me to pull over and screw the shit out of her while the Virgin was in the front seat? That probably wasn’t the best strategy, so I went ahead and lied. “Nah. It was pretty same ‘ol,” I said. “I had fun.”

She thanked me for being such a good boyfriend and said that she was really looking forward to our trip on Friday. I was going to Mexico for seven days and the Virgin was going as my interpreter. I was going to tour the original Dos Equis brewery, which was then known as Tres Equis. Her family was from that small town and I needed someone fluent in Spanish, so it worked out perfectly.
We were going to spend two days in Mexico City, then take a bus to Orizaba for three days, then back to Mexico City for two more. We arrived in Mexico City and as soon as we checked into our hotel on the Zocalo, I was off to get some tacos al pastor (my personal fav) and a Corona.
The first night there she wanted to take me to La Zona Rosa (the pink zone) and she assured me I would have fun. I did have fun, but I have to say that Zona Rosa doesn’t mean what I thought it meant. I’m not sure why they call it the pink zone, because there wasn’t one strip club in the area. The name is kinda misleading, if you ask me.
We came back to the room and I (of course) made an overture towards having intercourse. I was rebuffed as usual. I tried the ‘ol, “We’re in a different country so it doesn’t really count,” line, but she reminded me that God sees everywhere. I hated when she played the God card. Once she does that your response has to include some reference to burning in hell.
The second night in Mexico City we again went out and she once again was
drinking a bit, kinda drunk,
totally hammered. We got back to the room and all she could do was slur something about, “Tonight’s the night, baby. We’re gonna have sex.” You would think I would be thrilled to hear those words come out of her mouth, but I wasn’t. Not that night.
Many probably consider me a full-time pig, but I’m not. That night I told her no. I explained that we weren’t having sex because she was drunk and because I had respect for her virginity. I wanted to take it from her, but I respected her going 36 years without ever slippin it in. I told her that if this is what she really wanted, that I would have sex with her tomorrow, but not tonight.
I, of course, went to sleep frustrated as hell and completely pissed off at myself for having a conscience. The next morning we awoke early and caught our bus to Orizaba. The bus had a TV and played Disney movies, one in English with Spanish subtitles and the other in Spanish with English subtitles. Weird, huh?
Along the way we discussed the previous night’s adventure and she claimed that she knew exactly what she was saying. She reiterated that she felt like she was ready and that she wanted to, “Do this now.” I looked around at the bus full of travelers and asked if she meant, “Right here, right now.” She assured me, she did not mean that.
We got to the hotel just in time to drop our bags and walk across town to see her grandmother. I noticed that people seemed to be staring at me and about the third block down, I asked, “I’m guessing they don’t get a lot of americans around here, do they?” She told me they didn’t and wanted to know why I was asking. “Uh,” I said sarcastically. “Probably has to do with the fact that every person around is staring at me.”
As we walked, I looked at her and asked if she was completely sober. “Of course I am, silly,” she said. “You’ve been with me all day.” I then asked if she was still sure she wanted to be de-virginized, and she said she was sure she was ready. (I probably used a different word at the time, but I don’t remember.) I explained that I wanted to know, because if she was drunk again tonight and wanted to do it, that I was totally going for it. She laughed and said it was fine, but she didn’t plan on being drunk. She wanted to, “Remember this night.” I was pretty sure it would be memorable.
We went out with her grandma, two uncles and two aunts to some local joint specializing in sopes and we ate till we were stuffed. As I was paying the bill, someone asked if we had any big plans for the night. I refrained from explaining that I was planning on taking their niece/granddaughter back to the hotel to experience what many of her all girl Catholic school classmates experienced before they took their drivers test. You shouldn’t tell family that stuff. Your friends? Maybe. But not family.
We strolled back towards the hotel and stopped into a cantina for a couple Mexican car bombs (Dos Equis in a glass with a shot of patron at the bottom) and as we finished our second one, she leaned in and whispered, “Let’s go back to the room.” I walked as fast as I could without seeming too anxious. She seemed excited too and not at all nervous. I was a bit shocked by that.
As we walked, I had a thousand thoughts running through my mind. Was she going to cry and scream the whole time or would she get into it pretty quickly? I planned on pretty much doing all the work, but I wondered how good she would be. I wasn’t expecting much, but I was hopeful. “Fuck it,” I said to myself. “She’s finally giving it up, so stop whining like a pussy.”
She opened the door to the room, sprinted ahead, turned around, and proceeded to rip her shirt off. “I want you right now,” she said in her best attempt at being seductive. What happened after that? It’s not cool to tell. Suffice it to say that I stopped the clock on her virginity that night and that there will never be a story about the 38-Year-Old Virgin. At least not here.

Dating a 36-year-old virgin

“So. How did you manage that?”

I was watching TV Thursday night trying to decide what to write about when I realized that many of my newer readers probably haven’t seen any of my dating posts from the early days of the blog. Back in the day (late 2009-mid 2010) I blogged about some pretty memorable dates and I figured I would pull one out of the vault, touch it up and share it with you. Consider it an early Easter gift. Or Passover, depending on your religious preference.
I haven’t written about any crazy dating stories in quite a while because I’ve got a rad chick in my life (my Muse) and there aren’t crazy dating stories because she lives 3,000 miles away from my Southern California home. I hope you enjoy this totally true story about my first date with a 36-year-old virgin. 

The 36-year-old virgin
She had one of those perma-smiles on her face as she walked into my store for the first time. We met online and chatted a few times before deciding to go out and this was the night. As she sat down in our break room. I had no clue what a memorable evening it would turn out to be. Who knew that I would soon receive a slightly racist nickname as well as the shock of my life!
She’s from The O.C. and during one of our phone conversations asked if we could go to Downtown Disney to walk around, talk and grab some dinner. “Absolutely,” I replied. “Where would you like to meet?” She asked if she could meet me at my store, which was halfway between her place and the Happiest Place on Earth.
We climbed into my Sentra, headed towards Anaheim and grabbed a decent parking spot near the entrance to Downtown Disney. We walked around, bopping in and out of several stores and having typical first date conversation. After a while we decided it was time for dinner but couldn’t figure out where to go. There were a myriad of restaurants to choose from and she asked if I minded going to Tortilla Jo’s Cantina.
“Seriously?” I asked. “Yeah,” she responded. “Why?” I was trying to find a nice way to say what I had to say, but there was no way I could so I just blurted it out. “Well, you’re, uh, Mexican and  I can say with almost absolute certainty that this place will not have real Mexican food.”
“Oh bolillo,” (pronounced bo-LEE-yoh) she exclaimed. “I’m here with you and I want you to go Mexican tonight!” Wow! My expectations for the night just went way, way up. She was cute and I’ll admit that I had already wondered what it would be like to “go Mexican” with her. A couple of times, actually. But as it was a first date and considering I’m generally a pretty nice guy, I hadn’t put too much thought into it. Until now. For the record, “bolillo” means “white bread” in kind of a “yo, crackah” way.
We approached the hostess stand and were seated at a quiet table in the corner. It was a chilly Southern California fall evening (probably all of 50 degrees) and she wanted to avoid the patio and stay inside where it was “toasty”. After ordering a pitcher of margaritas we looked over the menu, trying to decide what looked good. The more I thought about her going Mexican comment the more I decided that she was looking pretty good, but I was still playing it cool and kept my yap shut.
After ordering we munched on chips and salsa and got another pitcher of margaritas while continuing to conversate. Dinner arrived and I honestly have no clue what was said to get her on this next topic because neither sex nor anything sexual was ever brought up. Right after I put a bite of chile relleno in my mouth, as if on cue, my date very casually mentioned that she was a virgin.
I somehow swallowed my food without choking, looked up and said, “No shit?” She looked a bit surprised at my response. I apologized and said, “Let me rephrase that. Seriously?” “Of course,” she said with a giggle. “I told you that I was never married.”
I’m far from a prude, but neither am I a man whore and I was more than a bit shocked at this revelation. I looked over at her with bewilderment and took a long drink of my margarita. Actually I drained the glass and was pouring another as I asked, “So. How did you manage that?”
The Virgin went on to explain that she had never been married, had been in only one serious relationship and that she was Catholic which meant that she knew it was a sin to have sexual relations outside of marriage. I tried my best not to laugh out loud and as I tried to suppress my laughter she asked what was so funny. I told her not to take my question the wrong way, but asked if she knew the reputation that Catholic schoolgirls have. The Virgin told me she had heard that some “engage in relations” before they’re married but didn’t know they had a reputation.
“Some engage in relations?” I asked, completely surprised by her answer. “I went to school near Aquinas high and we used to call them The Ho’s from Aquinas.” I know that I’m gonna sound like an ass when I say this, but the next thing that went through my mind was, “I guess I’m not going Mexican tonight.”
Somehow we managed to change topics and finish our meal. After dinner we walked around a bit more, grabbed some coffee and dessert and found a bench with a good view of the Disneyland fireworks. I was planning my next move when the Virgin reached over and took my hand. As she did I looked over and saw that perma-smile still on her face. I smiled back and after the fireworks were over we walked hand in hand back to my car. I gave her a kiss on the cheek as we departed the parking lot and we decided to go out again a couple nights later.
Back at my store I watched her climb into her Mustang and as I drove home had a hard time coming to terms with this new reality. I knew that statistically there had to be at least a handful of 36-year-old virgins in Southern California, but I never expected one to be cute. Or that I would end up on a date with one of them. I thought about e-mailing Match.com and suggesting they add a box on their profiles for “VIRGIN” but figured it would make me seem like a douche.
After arriving home I jumped online, checked a few e-mails and saw that my friend “The Kings Fan” was online. I shared my amazing tale with my friend and he quickly responded in typical dude fashion. “No shit?” He asked. “So…you gonna try and tap it?”