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Once hymen-wrecked, waves of the world's
sexual subcontext popped out perceptibly
in ways public school sex-ed
could never prepare me for.

I wanted to believe I wasn't as naïve as Monica.
Surely I could trust my friends,
as we braved the Gyno together
seeking out the Pill.
Oral sex tips from Cosmo
and the Washington Post whispered
in phone conversations
couldn't possibly be recorded
'cause it was just us –
girlfriend to girlfriend –
pondering the philosophic
limits of pleasing a man
(president or not).

No longer giggly,
not yet nonchalant.
We were froshy;
our non-virginity demure.
Couples still draped
arms lovingly around
each other in bed.
A semen stain wasn't damning,
just confirmation
that we weren't the only ones,
that we weren't doing anything wrong.

I listened to each Senatorial vote,
glad for every “not guilty.”
After all,
if they had asked me what I did in my dorm,
I would have lied too.