Like a virgin

Months passed and the more I recovered, the more eager I was to rediscover what this whole sex thing was about. I wanted to re-lose my virginity. What an opportunity! How many people -- aside from born-again Christians -- get to lose their virginity more than once? And this time, I'd do it right. We'd have dinner first, at a real restaurant. I had my own home now. A great music collection. Candles. And no homework due the next day. Eric didn't want to rush things. He knew -- perhaps better than I -- the pain I was in, the trouble I had sleeping, the confusion I still experienced. Whenever we were in bed, not having sex, of course, and I so much as winced he would stop everything: "Are you OK? What do you need?"

Not having sex became a joke itself. "Want to go home and not have sex?" I said one day on our way back from our weekly trip to the neurologist.

I was looking forward to it, but sometimes I would get nervous. What if I wasn't any good? What if I had forgotten how? Was there a special way to do it? I hadn't forgotten how to chew food, go to the bathroom. Would sex come back to me instinctively? Sex was a different kind of learned behavior, rooted in experiences that, at the time, I wasn't able to get to. The high school sweetheart, the college soul mate, the trip-to-Rome soul mate, the mid-20s soul mate, the Brazilian guy, the other Brazilian guy. None of them existed. Was there a place in my brain where my memories and feelings were being saved in a box, waiting for me to access them once my memory came back to me fully?

One night Eric and I had -- slowly, carefully -- walked to a neighborhood restaurant for Greek food. It was difficult to sit up in the chair because of my back pain, so I tried to recline a bit in the booth. He let me have one very small sip of wine. I was happy to be out of the house and feeling very in love. Tonight was the night, I decided.

We came home, got ready for bed. I lit candles. I made a joke -- something about my parents being out of town, something about "going all the way." I put "Styx Greatest Hits" in the CD player and let Dennis DeYoung work his magic. "La-dy, when you're with me I'm smiling. Give me whoa-oa-oa your love ..."

"Are you sure?" Eric asked. Yes! We kissed and I felt alive with anticipation. What was it going to feel like? What was it going to be?

When we finally did make love, it was unlike anything I had experienced in my life -- as far as I knew. It was strange and new, and the sensations were overwhelming and intense but it felt like home. It was perfect. And I began to weep uncontrollably. I was quiet, with tears streaming down my face the entire time. "Oh my god, are you OK?" Eric panicked for a moment, ever attentive. "It's OK, it's OK," I reassured him. It was unbelievable. Indescribable, amazing.

Sex after forgetting awakened sense memories and desires in my body that I hadn't realized were there because I had been spending so much time trying to tap into my mind. This night it was a joy to be out of my head, to savor this state that had previously been frustrating, of only knowing the present moment, of not knowing what I would feel next. I completely gave myself over to my body.

We don't talk about it at all now, but I asked Eric recently how he was able to do it for all those months -- to take care of me, put all of his own life aside, to be completely patient and loving with his invalid girlfriend. "When I think of that time," he said, "I think of your injury. I don't think of what I had to do." I hoped that I would be so selfless if I were called upon like that.

"I wanted to take care of you," he continued. "I didn't really feel like there was a question. I was most worried about you immediately and also I was worried about the long term. I didn't know how badly you were hurt or how much you would recover. I was angry at the people who did this -- the producers. I was worried about how you were feeling, but I also wanted to reassure you because I could tell you were confused and disoriented." He continued in his classic deadpan, "I was also confused and disoriented but I didn't want to let on so I pretended I had it all together in order to trick you. Plus you were easy to fool because you were so dizzy."

Now, I try to look past the pain and frustration and confusion of that time in my life and reinvent it as a great, dramatic love story. Amnesia is the crafty plot device that renders the busy and sometimes demanding New York woman completely helpless, with no choice but to surrender all control. She's a virgin, of course. And it's her first love.

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