END UP LIKE THIS

We watched a woman tear off a rose petal and let it fall to the auditorium floor. “Every time you have sex, that piece of yourself can never be recovered. And if you continue to have sex,” she attacked the rose. Petal pluck. Petal fall. Petal pluck. Petal fall. Torn petals. Floating petals. Blood red speckled floor. “You’ll end up like this.”

She thrusted her clenched fist higher, so every 14 and 15 year old blinking up at her would see what was left, because this woman believed what she meant. She wanted us to never forget her words. Never forget the indelible image of a stripped bare stem. “You’ll be nothing but thorns.”

How many times would that word ripple through our bodies? We already had brimstone and damnation to contend with. The Virgin Mary to follow. Godly idiots raised to identify temptation when offered as a joint or beer can, and yet so unprepared to find joy in the press of lips, so incapable of knowing how to hold the immensity of first love in our palms, of knowing what to do when the swirl of hot breath against our skin didn’t feel wrong or sinful, but made us believe that love might actually be as beautiful and precious as everyone had promised.

“Think of your future spouse,” the woman urged, and we would. We’d inflict ourselves with guilt and beratement, eating disorders and lies, better grades and new clothes with higher necklines, all in the hopes of atoning for betraying a man we’d never met.

“What do you want to be able to offer your future spouse?” The woman’s assistant handed her an unblemished rose to hold in her other hand.

“This?” Full rose.

“Or this?” Rose corpse full of thorns.

Two futures. Clear choices. Such a clear, clear choice.