HOW I LOST MY VIRGINITY AT A TENDER AGE
 

Your shrink told me to open up some, and tell you about how I opened up some, at the raw age of 11.
Your shrink seems to think it's pure Sesame St. trauma material.  Pay him better.
Some may tell you I actually lost it when I was 8.  True, but I don't remember that.  It wasn't a real cherry-popping experience as far as I'm concerned, because those days I was still sure I'd develop a prick together with my pubes, had a boy's name and short hair.
I still do

But hell, who cares what happened in the mid-nineties?
I lost my actual virginity at 11.  And no, I wasn't playing it up to my Russian reputation, nor was it in an orgy with seven Afromen.
It was just one very unpleasant cherry-popping experience.  In the mid-nineties.

We lived in Canada, mid-west Canada, where ain't nothing but fields and Wayne Gretzky wannabes scratching their lonesome balls.  I was the new kid at school, so I never went to school.  My friend was the school's Jewish bully.  He's in YU now; the scum they admit, Jesus.
We went to a field to scratch our lonesome balls and listen to my recorded Metallica tape, in a walkman.
That's the funniest part of this story.

We found one of those wooden picnic tables.  They should come with a HEALTH:HAZARD warning, for fuck's sake.  We used it as our Worship-Satan stage.
There we were headbanging, strumming our invisible guitars and doing some goatish leaps when I suddenly stumbled.
My short 11-years-old leg could not reach the ground, hence the table corner jammed hard unto my crotch, with such vigor…well, with a vagina-crushing vigor.

The next few minutes I bounced and tried not to touch my groin, which worried my buddy.  But what the fuck, some girls just shouldn't listen to Master of Puppets.

I went home – I lived at some old man's house then – and he was quiet surprised to see my blood-drenched knickers.  He bought me a packet of tampons and never mentioned the issue again.
Neither have I.  Nor have I used more than precisely 21 tampons in my entire life.

It could've been worse.  I could've been a real guy, and smash one of my balls.  Now that would be 10 times more painful, and twice as useless.  Lose your jizz to Lars Ulrich.  Aw, fuck.
So that's the real jam about how I popped my cherries, and hopefully one day I'll marry some nice chick and it won't hurt so much on our nuptial night.
POP EM, BITCH.