This is not an advertisement.
This is not a plea.
This is not a bitter plaint.
It's just a part of me.

In anticipation of a brisk afternoon in late April, a puma clears his stony throat.

Or legend has it so.

I still have hazy memories of a drowsy beefcake in a yellow poncho who, under a warm July rain, led my orientation group around the University campus.

His rocky shoulders were, as I recall, cause of some salacious whispers amongst the female half of the audience. I don't remember much of what he said, but I do remember that he pointed to a pair of statues outside the Natural Science Museum and said this: "Legend has it, every time a virgin graduates from the University of Michigan, these pumas will growl." At this, I heard some muted snickers emanating from beneath a few umbrellas - mostly male laughter - snickering, presumably, at the very thought - a virgin? Post-college? How ludicrous an idea.

In my bitter little mind, the laughers were the lucky males who, at age 16 or so, had lured the local pony-tailed floozy to a secluded hammock somewhere, had sighed a few sweet nothings into her tiny porcelain ear, and had consummated their boyhood dreams, then and there, in sweet and sweaty triumph. I hadn't done that. But I laughed too. A little.

I didn't want them to know.

At 22 years old, and as a senior, I'm a little reluctant to admit my virginity. So why publish this in The Michigan Daily, you ask? Because fuck it. I'm graduating.

Much of my reluctance stems from the fact that some of the people that are "in the know" choose to, for lack of a better phrase, be dicks about it. One dude, for instance, has opened a betting pool about who will lose his virginity first out of a group of three gentlemen from high school. I am one of these gentlemen, and, while this may sound somewhat arrogant, my company isn't very flattering.

That said, my friend has still bet against me (as it turns out, smartly). "Man," he drunkenly stammered one evening, "you could lose your virginity tonight, if you really wanted to, if you would just grow some balls. You could just go to a frat party and point. And I know (contestant one) couldn't do that. But I bet on (contestant one), because he isn't a pussy. He would take an opportunity. Just be a goddamn man. Jesus, (contestant two) is going to get laid before you."

I don't know why I let this hopelessly intoxicated schmuck get to me that night, but I did. His words still echo around in my cranium every now and then, and occasionally, his ideas are compounded by someone else.

My co-worker, for one, actually laughed in my face when I told him a few months ago. He tittered and said, "Are you kidding me? You dated this last girl for how long? Like over a year, right? You must have some unearthly patience, man. If I'm not in her pants in 72 hours, I am gone."

I get this reaction of disbelief quite a bit. I tell them that "the situation has not presented itself," which might be a little bit of a lie. But then comes a series of questions:

"Are you like a super-Catholic or something?"

No.

"Are you really awkward in private?"

No.

"Do you have bad breath?"

Only in the morning.

"Are you gay?"

No.

"Did you make some promise to your grandma before she kicked the bucket?"

No.

"What the fuck, then?"

Well, two reasons: First, I screwed up my first kiss, and I don't want to screw this up in the same way; and second, I've been pretty terrified of asking. Let me explain.

I kissed my first girl at 18 years old. It was my best friend's older sister. Did I have romantic feelings for her? No. But she was 20. And she was OK-looking. And she allegedly found me attractive. So I figured, why not? Let's get this over with; I am fucking 18.

So, one night, my sleepy best friend heads upstairs to his bedroom, and the two of us decide to stay in the basement to watch "The Mask of Zorro." About midway through (about where Catherine Zeta-Jones looks around the wall in the low-cut dress with her boobs all pressed together), she grabs my hand. This is it.

Then, after Zorro has done his thing - after all the swordplay and the flipping and the swinging, with the credits rolling and the flame-bursts bursting and a Latin guy crooning about how he wants to spend his lifetime loving "you"- she turns to look at me. And she says "you know, I don't bite." How nice it is of her to reassure me, I think, and she jams her rubbery tongue into my unsuspecting mouth.

For years prior, at idle times of the day, I'd been making out with the back of my hand in anticipation of this moment. But I'd never used tongue. I'd romantically presumed that my first kiss would be soft and slow - with warm, moist lips that would stick a little bit when you would pull away like the caramel strands of a broken Twix. Well, kind of like that. Yeah. I know.