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 10 months) 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 to work on two magazine articles 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 white people 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.