Deflowering the Virgins

A very special pause to talk about the virgins.

We remember the first time we have sex. Our body remembers. Our untouched flesh grows a skin, a pale white shell, delicate, and yet unbreakable unless you press it in just the right direction.

I have yolk on my fingers.

A delicate yellow, the colour of a buttercup held up to a child's chin. I am careful with this gift they have given to me. A once and never to be repeated offer. I unwrap them like the present that they are, they have made themselves a gift to me and I am grateful.

A virgin will not be judging me against their previous lovers. I am free to focus on our pleasure without the little voices telling me that I am not as thin or energetic or exciting as the other lovers that have trudged here before me.

I approach the virgin lover as one might a blank canvass, ripe with potential, a space where we might create a masterpiece which is not derivative of any other work. I am careful with my initial brushstrokes, sketching out a pattern that we might follow at a later time. This is just a study for what will become a lifetime of practice.

I am careful to avoid the usual traps, the selfishness that comes with inexperience, the clumsy rush, the lack of creativity. I hold their hands in mine and we explore the potential of the work together, drawing out the form and colour and the shape of it.

There is an art to deflowering a virgin and I am well versed in it. I keep a watchful eye out for the complete body of work, tracking my virgin lovers discreetly through their later pieces. I see my successful beginnings filling out and bearing fruit with all the pride of a teacher who watches a favoured student stride out into the world.

So to you, my students in the art, a quick salute and a bon voyage. May your work be large and bright and energetic.