It was the summer before my senior year...Fourth of July, in fact. My boyfriend and I had been dating for all of a month after a year of flirting and friendship. We were madly, passionately, in teenage love. It was the kind of love where we would just lie around and stare into each other's eyes. It was the kind of love where we would make out for hours and I would be slick and wet and wanting. It was the kind of love where I wasn't afraid to have sex.
So, when we were away for a day trip to an amusement park, just the two of us, and the sky opened up on us, it wasn't such a stretch that we would end up...making other plans. In my mind, I knew what was going to happen, but I still was nervous. There's no reclaiming one's virginity. Once it's gone, it is something of a done deal.
Still, we stopped at a pharmacy. He double parked in his frustration to get our day going. He ran in and picked up snack food, a rose, and condoms. I knew what we were in for once I was handed the rose. It was a lovely gesture. He was great with gestures. No one has quite measured up since, except for my man. The difference is that my first, his gestures were all monetary. And my man, his gestures are all actions. I think I prefer actions.
Our next stop was at a cottage rental place. And when he hopped back in the car, we drove to a cottage on the lake. Pretty freakin' perfect, huh?
Then we went inside. He sat on the bed. I was...circling it nervously. He took my hands in his and looked me in the eye.
first: Listen, we don't have to do anything. I just didn't know what else to do since it's raining. We can just watch tv if you want. No pressure.
So, naturally it was on after that. He was the first guy I slept with. He was the first guy I gave my heart. It was special and good and right.
We undressed. He undressed me. There was plenty of awkward fumbling, even though I wasn't his first. And there was a lot of kissing and touching. Then it came the time that I most feared...penetration. He eased his way in after plenty of fingering and stretching. There was that painful tearing part. It burned. It hurt. Some.
He did want I had asked, what we had planned. He just stayed there in me for a moment, letting me adjust to his presence. Then he started moving slowly, and before I knew it, my hips were rising to meet his thrusts. Then, it was over. No, I didn't cum. I was too busy feeling and analyzing and thinking my way through it. I wanted to remember everything.
He let me sleep, all nestled against him. It was bliss. And when I woke...it was on. Actually, it was on two more times. He bought a three pack of condoms and naive innocent that I was, I thought we had to use all of them or they'd go to waste. I came the second time, on top. It's still my favorite position. And I came the second time, too.
After that, I came pretty much every time. I was a horny little thing. Is it any wonder that guy wanted to marry me? We didn't, of course. Not many people marry their high school sweethearts. I thought I would. I probably should have, but I broke up with him a year or so later. Long story. Best saved for some other time.
What matters is that I had an amazing first time. I felt so loved and connected. And I guess I still associate sex in a relationship with being loved and connected. And that's why I miss my man sooo much. We're three weeks into the drought. He still holds me. He still touches me. I'm hanging in there.