I was fourteen the night I lost my virginity

On the dance floor of my funeral, he found his objectivity.

Other girls, I knew, lined up for such an opening,

While I was in the corner, apart from all the groping.

The gaudy dance kept me out long past my bedtime ritual

And social engagements always left me wishing I were invisible.

Though try, I might, this night was firmly no exception.

I was there, in part, due to a curious misconception,

Obligated to the boyfriend who desired my patience

In attending the charades of this awful occasion.

The DJ led with Howie Day. My pursuant wanted to dance.

Who was I to deny him in his deftly tailored pants?

To this extent, he grabbed my hand and pulled me to the floor.

As my eyes drooped heavier, lulled by the music, his drew a lustful roar.

We swayed and rocked in rhythm with his arms around my waist

Until the song drew to a close and, with it, my grace.

For, you see, that sneaky bastard wouldn’t let me go.

He held on ever tighter even though the music slowed.

Air pressed in as I suffocated in overbearing cologne;

The roughness of his touch, quite the contrast of my own.

On the final note, he raised an arm. I would not look his way.

And so, instead, he grabbed my chin to lift it to his face.

Those slimy, scummy lips were the first things that I felt.

His wandering hands would make one think I’d worn a garter belt.

A mouth of pungent filth drew my hands up in the air;

Quickly I subdued into a world of disrepair.

What was surely a few seconds felt like lifetimes of agony,

And while inside I writhed in pain, I caved to his brutality.

I detested that wolfish beast and his ravaging, empty soul,

But the room was full of people… and we hugged by the punch bowl.

I know, I know. I’m not proud of it. Though, what was I to do?

So, silently, I smiled like the good girls always do.