I was 13 when I lost my virginity. His dorm reeked of boy: dirty socks and sweat hidden under a thick cloud of musty cologne bought from a drugstore; cardboard boxes soaked with grease from a late night study session; unread books piled on shelves no longer dusted by mom. I sat down on his bed, legs crossed and shoes off, and watched as he rolled us a joint. I mimicked his demeanor, his posture, and his silence as we passed it back and forth - mimicking being a bad habit of mine in an unconscious effort to be liked. Each time our fingers touched, a strange feeling passed over me. It was like every prepubescent hair on my body was charged with electricity. The expression of his face as he lifted his chin up, blowing smoke to the ceiling, suggested that he didn't feel the same. Yet, when he leaned over and kissed me, I convinced myself that I was the only thing on his mind. His lips tasted as pungent as the weed we smoked and before I knew it, he was on top of me. The feeling of his erection against my thigh grounded me in that moment. It was like stepping off an airplane after a 12 hour flight - my back arched and my toes curled, relieved to be on solid ground once again.
It was over quicker than it began. He let go of me and rolled over, taking the blanket with him. When I pressed my body against his back, he sleepily pushed me away. I ached to be touched again but said nothing. So, instead, I pulled up my pants and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning down to slip my shoes back on. I sat there for a while, staring at the blinking red light emanating from his alarm clock on the bedside table. All at once, I felt used and dirty and complete and peaceful. It's a feeling that's stuck with me ever since. A feeling that I get to recreate each time I'm on set.