So far we’ve heard about Birch and Sequoia, but if we’re going to talk about sex and how I came to be the way I am, then it really should start with Oak. Because that’s where this story really begins, after all…
I think it might have been a Tuesday. I don’t remember the date exactly. I guess in hindsight I should’ve scribbled it down in my diary or kept some memento of it in my hope chest where I’d kept all my firsts and other important things like the four-leaf clover that I picked in my backyard when I was seven or the gold-plated heart-shaped stud earrings they crookedly pierced my ears with at Claire’s the summer before I turned nine. But I had no way of knowing when I woke up that morning or even through my boring school day or after-school gymnastics practice that it would be a date so worth remembering that I’d be writing about it more than 20 years later.
On that soon-to-be auspicious afternoon, I parked my little red car in front of Oak’s parents’ house. I was extremely apprehensive about whether or not he would like me. We had only talked on the phone once or twice.
I looked down as I turned off the ignition, acutely aware of how silly I suddenly felt wearing a white t-shirt and purple jean shorts. The shorts were quite slimming and showed off my tanned, toned legs, but the shirt suddenly felt billowy and sloppy. I had changed my clothes four times that afternoon, so I was kicking myself for not deciding to change back into the red sundress. That would have been mad cute.
Cute was the only positive word that I ever used to describe myself in those days, as my lexicon was still equivalently lacking to my sexual inexperience, meaning that words like “hot” and “alluring” were not terms that came to mind when deciphering what to wear or judging my appearance. At seventeen, I still wasn’t at all aware that certain items of clothing that I chose for their “cuteness” factor had a direct causal effect on teenage boys’ erections.
But there I was, feeling less than cute in the presence of this 6-foot 4-inch, 18-year-old vision of masculinity as I approached him for the first time. He stood before me in his driveway and he did what I least expected my crush to do — he yelled at me. He grouchily demanded me to move my car so that his nosy neighbors wouldn’t be able to report back to his parents that he had a girl over. There were to be NO girls over when his parents weren’t home, a rule that he had quite obviously disregarded.
After he scolded me, I got back in my car and stealthily moved it across the street as he ordered me too. For some reason his tone made my panties wet in some sort of twisted Freudian fashion, like I had been bad and I wanted him to punish me. I don’t know why it turned me on, but it did.
My arms felt heavy and awkward and I was still trembling from the way he reprimanded me as an initial form of greeting, so I was relieved when he pulled me into a weird, magical hug that made all of my extremities tingle. After our bumpy introduction, this somehow began to feel right.
He murmured something under his breath along the lines of ‘Yeah, you’ll work fine.” Then he turned around and expected me to follow. I did.
Moments later the bossy yet handsome stranger had mysteriously charmed me into his bedroom and suddenly he was kissing me. All my sweetly naive little brain could think about was that I hoped he would ask me to the prom or to be his girlfriend, or maybe even both.
But he was thinking of neither of those things.
He tried to take my bra off over my head without unfastening it, which certainly wasn’t out of the ordinary for Catholic boys who were still confounded by lingerie, but I was neither comfortable enough to unhook it myself nor did I dare speak up to tell him the right way to do it. So I let him fumble clumsily with the lace contraption while I tried to figure out whether the feeling I was experiencing was sexual desire, pure terror, or both. Finally, somehow, my breasts achieved freedom.
It was 4:00 in the afternoon and all of my perceived imperfections were well-lit. I yearned to hide from him — to flee from all the bright light that apologetically bathed my flaws in my own self-consciousness. But he didn’t see a scared little girl, he saw a young woman whose terrain was exciting to explore.
It’s funny how we spend so much time as adults trying to put titles and labels on what and whom we identify with sexually, but how many of us really examine how we came to be that way?
What’s your “first time” story? Here’s mine, with additional adult content and photos: http://www.onlyfans.com/ggvvddvv
