Love & Sex

My First Time: Female, 17, Serbia

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Female, 17, Serbia

The first time was an ordeal. We had been together for two years, were madly in love, and could both come just rubbing against each other on a park bench while midnight strollers walked unsuspectingly by. Yet when it came down to doing it, we couldn't. He was just too damn big.

I was fifteen when we met. He was twenty-two. I was starting high school. He was finishing up college. He had never stepped foot in my neighborhood. I never stepped foot in his. We could have gone our whole lives without meeting. But we did — on the internet.

How I bounced in my chair as I listened to the sweet symphony of our prehistoric modem laboring to connect!

Before anyone judges my parents for letting their daughter browse the internet unsupervised, consider these facts. This was 1995 in Eastern Europe: the internet was still practically in beta, and chat rooms were populated entirely by geeks and entrepreneurs. (And a few of their little sisters.)

I don't remember what my username was, but his was "Ron Jeremy." In hindsight, obviously, that should have been a clue. But at the time the name meant nothing, and I couldn't Google it. What set Ron apart in the faceless, constantly bickering online crowd was his dry sense of humor and worldliness, atypical of the engineers who comprised the majority of users. He referred to Dostoyevsky's Notes from the Underground in one line and quoted Pulp Fiction in the next. (I remember listening to "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon" for days after he casually mentioned it in a chat.)

It wasn't long before Ron and I got ourselves the internet equivalent of a hotel room — email accounts — and commenced a feverish correspondence in which we dissected every feeling and thought we ever had. Oh, how I rushed to get home from school every evening and how I bounced in my chair as I listened to the sweet symphony of our prehistoric modem laboring to connect: the high-pitched screech of a connection being established, and the blessed silence of getting on. And then some soulful, witty essay about the nature of desire or the meaning of faith or the relative advantages of being high versus drunk.

By the time Ron and I met six months after we first started communicating (never having seen a picture of each other!) we were knee deep in love. The transition from digital to physical reality was smooth. We easily traded nightly chats for long strolls by the river, quickly discovering physical reality's one major advantage — touch. We soon kissed and took it from there. We were in no rush for a home run but neither did we intend to put off the ultimate act for some distant special occasion. We were content with letting things happen at their pace.

After months of making out in parks and bus stops, we were forced inside by the weather. One evening, we found ourselves in Ron's room watching Oliver Stone's The Doors. While our eyes and ears stayed focused on the movie in front of us, our hands ventured in a pursuit of their own. The feel of his penis turning hard in my hand and pushing against the fabric of his sweatpants electrified me. It wasn't long before I was on top of him, my pelvis gyrating against his. As the long instrumental section of "Light My Fire" picked up speed, so did our bodies, and when the music reached a dramatic crescendo, so did we. Exhausted, happy and amazed, we lay next to each other marveling at the fact that such pleasure was so reliably within our reach. And if dry humping was this great, just how amazing would the actual act be? We were certain we'd find out soon.

Over the next several months, this became our routine: I'd come over before school, we'd get naked, and in a couple of hours, we'd make each other come one, two, three times. At some unremarkable moment, we agreed that it was time to actually do it. But to our surprise, this was easier said than done. We would start to make out, take our clothes off, and rub each other until we were out of our minds with excitement. But the second he tried to penetrate me, the fun stopped. The thought of him entering me felt as likely as me swallowing a basketball. There was nothing natural about it. But it had to be done. So I tried to act stoic and cover up the pain, but he always detected it and backed off.

This went on for several months. Usually, after yet another failed attempt, we resorted to our reliable method of pleasuring ourselves. But after a while, the situation started wearing on us. In utter desperation, we made an appointment with a gynecologist. We wanted to make sure that we had the mechanics right and that there wasn't anything wrong with me.

Apparently there wasn't. We just had to suck it up and do it. So we did. The sharp pain eventually subsided and became hot friction and pressure. It felt like my internal organs were being rearranged.

I had just turned seventeen. As far as I was concerned, intercourse was the lamest part of sex.