If you tell me some guy is “a dick”, I will inform you that

no, his name is Charles.

If you go on to say that Charles is “happy to see me”,

I’ll wonder how you know.

His roll of mints,

the pencil,

his sausage …

my, that boy carries around some interesting things in his pockets.

 

My friends call me a virgin unicorn.

“Virgin” because I am one;

“unicorn” because I’m that, too.

I belong to the elusive breed of adolescent who has no interest in sex beyond the scientific.

Who has never been out past midnight,

whose idea of a wet dream involves an overly full bladder

(or water balloons)

Who still thinks of kinks as the snags in the garden hose.

 

“Pot” is what you make soup in and grass is the stuff in the yard.

Joints connect two bones.

If you told me to go get high, I would run to climb a tree,

I wouldn’t think drugs.

I am the girl people fly to with their problems and fears because how could I possibly have any of my own?

 

To me, a blowjob is something you get at a fancy salon,

ditto a handjob.

“Crap” and “piss” are the extent of my swearing

(and only when I’m alone in my room)

If you say to me, “That’s what she said,”

I’ll reply, “Yes, I did.”

 

Maybe you think it’s wrong for someone my age to be sheltered,

I need to “grow up.”

Maybe you find my innocence comical like a bad joke.

You think I should change.

But I am not Sandy Olsen,

or the ugly duckling

and my life is not “A Walk to Remember”.

I don’t need to transform

or “go bad”

to please the yous of the world.

 

Perhaps I’m doomed to spend my life confusing jerky guys

with men named Richard.

The designated driver,

the square,

the kid.

But life is too precious to me to lose in drunken stupor

There are too many memories to be made, not forgotten in a fleeting, artificial high.

 

I will forever remain the innocent child, the dumb blond

If only because we’re a dying race,

we virgin unicorns.