Illustration by Thomas Pitilli
Female, 17, Connecticut
When I was fifteen, I decided it was about time that I had sex. I had been exploring foreplay with my longtime high-school crush for several months already, and I just felt ready. My crush, on the other hand, didn't. He made grand plans for it to happen, but never followed through. As we grew apart and began fighting more, I knew it was time to move on.
I had told myself going into high school that I would hate myself if I graduated a virgin. I didn't really hate myself on graduation day, but I did replay that proclamation over and over again in my head. I had met and made out with a few guys since sophomore year, but, as cliched as it sounds, the situation never felt right.
Then I met John. After graduation, five of my friends and I went on a weeklong beach trip. At a party thrown in the condo unit below us on our first night there, a group of guys invited us to play a drinking game with them. John immediately caught my eye, and I felt him growing closer to me on the couch as the game continued. Soon he suggested all of us go down to the beach. Somehow, as soon as we were on the beach, his hand found mine, and then we were making out. I knew this was it. Aggressively, I worked my way around the bases, and he gladly followed my lead, pulling my dress down and softly kissing the skin in between my breasts as he worked his hand up my dress.
After I had gotten his pants off, I attempted to throw him down into the sand. He resisted. "We don't have a condom, I don't even know you…" he continued sputtering out excuses. Finally, he sighed and looked at me. "How am I supposed to know that you're clean?"
The answer was simple: I was a virgin. I couldn't tell him, though. With all of the excuses he had already put out there, I worried that he would say no completely if I told him that. "Trust me, I am," I said. Then I tried to muster up my best sexy voice. "Plus, I want you inside of me soooo badly," I purred in his ear before I kissed him. That was enough.
As he climbed on top of me and penetrated me, I was no longer aware of the sand getting all over my hair and my new dress, or even the fireworks (so cheesy!) going on in the background. I had to stop and ask myself if it was really happening or if this was just a drunken dream. Nope, it was definitely happening. As I began to realize it was hurting a little, I suddenly heard "fuck" as he pulled out of me.
"I'm too drunk for this," he said as he quickly found his pants. He started muttering excuses and even attempted to show me a picture on his phone of his erect penis. I didn't really care. Even if it hadn't technically finished, I was no longer a virgin, and that's what mattered to me.
When we headed back to the party, he held my hand and gave me a hug goodbye when I found my friends. We all went back upstairs to hang out on our balcony, and at one point I looked down to see what was happening at the party. John was on the balcony below, looking up at me, and he smiled. That was all I needed.
Most people think that I must regret my first time: not knowing his last name, not finishing, getting way too much sand in my hair, but I don't. John was gorgeous and fun and I had been ready for two years. I have had better, more meaningful sex since then, and I don't compare it to my first time. I got what I wanted, and having your first time on a beach makes for a good story, as long as you leave out the details.