Lampert - Every boy I ever kissed: a memoir

Copyright Nellwyn Lampert, 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

Cover illustration: Sophie Paas-Lang
Printer: Webcom, a division of Marquis Printing Inc.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Every boy I ever kissed : a memoir / Nellwyn Lampert.
Names: Lampert, Nellwyn, 1990- author.
Description: Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190119586 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190119616 | ISBN 9781459745636 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459745643 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459745650 (EPUB)
Subjects: LCSH: Lampert, Nellwyn, 1990- | LCSH: WomenSexual behavior. | LCSH: WomenSexual behaviorSocial aspects. | LCSH: SexSocial aspects.
Classification: LCC HQ29 .L36 2019 | DDC 306.7082dc23

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Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. Lan dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de lart dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

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To the Boys

This is a true story. The events in this book are all told as they are remembered by the author, without invention or embellishment. In some cases, names, personal details, and slight chronological elements have been altered to protect the privacy of those concerned.

Growing up as a heterosexual woman, I felt that virginity loss for me would mean having penetrative intercourse. This understanding might not feel right or inclusive to everyone. I encourage you to define virginity however it feels best to you or to reject the concept altogether!

I COULD ALREADY SEE the morning headlines: Twenty-Year-Old Virgin Found Dead in Mysterious Field Five Minutes from Home.

It was dark, but not particularly late, on a spring evening as I followed my roommate Jess away from campus and toward unexplored avenues of urban development. If Id been back in my hometown, this would have felt completely benign, but this was the big city and our neighbourhood had a very bad reputation.

Just trust me, Jess said we walked deeper into an unlit field.

Whats in the bag? I asked, but got no reply.

At the time, the chance of us being murdered that night seemed about as likely as the chance that I would wind up an eighty-year-old virgin cat lady. Which is to say: Very Likely.

I followed Jess to where the field ended on the edge of a construction site. We stopped on a precipice and looked out over a deep cavernous gorge where back-hoes and dump trucks slumbered. My friend reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of white dinner plates.

I think you need this, she said, handing me an orange Sharpie. Youre going to write everything thats bothering you on these plates and then were going to smash them!

I almost cried.

I took the Sharpie and cramped my handwriting in tiny letters across the porcelain plates, worried I would run out of room. I wrote about every boy Id ever kissed and every ridiculous, unexpected, and shocking moment that had brought me to the edge of that cliff.

Ethan lies crying in the gutter at three in the morning, the back of his coat wet with rainwater that hasnt yet made its way to the sewer. His phone keeps ringing in my purse, but I know what his brothers voice would say on the other end. Its okay, I keep saying. Just get up and well go home. Well break up and youll meet a nice guy; you just have to get out of the street first. I want to scream, I want to cry, I want to drag him up by his collar and force his feet to walk, but I cant. I must be patient, patient, and more patient.

Something isnt right. Something always goes wrong. Its too dark to see, but I can feel the space between our naked bodies getting wider and wider until Ben is beside me instead of above. I hear his voice rise up out of the darkness and I know, both instinctively and from experience, that it will shake with the timbre of an identity crisis. I think I have a pornography addiction.

In the moonlight from the window, I can see Daves face above mine as I lie back in my bed and take off my clothes. His strong jaw, his masculine nose. His eyes full of tears. Im not surprised this time; I know what comes next. The whispered confession of a brand-new secret, the warm, sinking feeling of taking a young mans body deep into my arms, the gentle stroking of his hair and the assurance that, as always, Its okay. It will be okay.

I am the girl who will take your secrets deep inside her vodka-soaked heart at two or three in the morning and in the bright light of the next day, I know I will never see you again. I will turn on the water in the shower so hot that my skin flushes red all over and I will cry where I cant be heard. I will get back into bed and roll the blankets and pillows up against my back so it feels almost as if there is someone lying there beside me, holding me in his arms. I can almost feel his slow, quiet breath against my neck even though I can only imagine the feeling. I wonder how its possible to miss something Ive never had.