My first solo orgasm happened quite by surprise. I was wearing tight corduroy pants, and the zipper pushed hard into the front of my crotch no matter how many times I tried to adjust it. As I lay on the living room floor watching television, I wriggled from side to side in an attempt to get comfortable.
As I wriggled, I noticed that the seams and zipper between my legs were creating a massaging sensation that sent tingles through my body. The more I moved, the better it felt. So I moved more, pressing my pubic bone down against the floor to create more pressure and friction.
I found my rhythm, shifting my hips from side to side without lifting from the floor, and I was rewarded by a pleasurable explosion between my legs that I still haven’t forgotten decades later. I didn’t know it was an orgasm; I wasn’t even familiar with the term.
Bolstered by my surprise success, I repeated the process from time to time. I shifted and wiggled on the floor in front of the large blocky television set in the living room while hoping no family member would make an appearance. Even if someone had entered the room, they wouldn’t have suspected. Would they? Fortunately, no one ever did.
My first orgasm with a partner happened on an air mattress. I was dating a young man I’d met in a movie theater, and he’d invited me to his home. He had more siblings than I could count, but they each had their own bedroom in their parents’ house.
His bedroom was on the top floor, across the hallway from the single bathroom they all shared. He didn’t have any furniture except for a bare air mattress on the hardwood floor.
The very first time we were alone in his bedroom, he told me he loved me and forced me out of my sweater and bra. I said I loved him, too, but the words tasted funny in my mouth. Later, he told he that he’d only said it to “see what you’d say.” Nonetheless, we kept dating, and we said, “I love you” often.
We spent hours kissing and dry humping on his air mattress. I noticed one very important thing. If I wore a skirt and pantyhose while we rubbed our bodies against each other, the sensation of build-up and release between my legs felt 1,000 times better than it had back in my family’s living room wearing my corduroy pants and grinding my pelvic bone against the carpeted floor. I still didn’t know it was an orgasm; I only knew that it felt amazing.
I bought my first car when I was 18. It was a red two-door Mercury with torn bucket seats in the front and the tiniest back seat I’d ever seen. That car was the setting for the first time I had an orgasm with a partner during vaginal intercourse.
My future ex-husband and I had sex face to face in the front passenger seat of that car at a park near the harbor, and I had my first orgasm through penetrative sex. It was intoxicating.
I memorized the exact position necessary to make it happen again, the slant of the seat, the position of my knees.
Sex anywhere other than the cramped front seat of my car didn’t have nearly the same excitement. I couldn’t get the angle quite right, although we did come close a few times on the bench seat of his old Ford truck.