My First Time

Female • 18 years old • Wongaling Beach, Australia.

My first time was not glorious, or magical, or even poetic. It was, however, exactly what I wanted. I was nearing the end of my eighteenth year on the planet. I felt too old for my body and my skin was crawling with anticipation for what I could only imagine then was this thrilling world of erotic possibilities! I was on a trip to visit relatives in Australia. I'd had this inner sense that I'd be deflowered on this trip, yet I was nearing the end of the visit. I had recently graduated from high school and was too impatient to wait any longer. I had waited all through those high-school years, bypassing the obnoxious, eager puppies that passed for men at my age, and I was about to go off to university back in Canada. As far as I was concerned, uni was no place for virgins.

When I saw him I knew instantly. As the space between my ears slowly began to dissolve, I knew: this boy was no good. He was possibly the most immature specimen of the male gender I had ever met.

Illustration by Thomas Pitilli

At twenty-nine, this guy still worked in a bar, and more than that, he treated his job like it was a legitimate passion. And who could blame him? He worked the bar of a backpacker hostel in a hot, sweaty, small town in Queensland. This guy had landed himself a goldmine. Turnover was quick, and he had his pick of the litter every single night of the week. In short: he was perfect.

To be the girl he chose was easy. There's nothing like being eighteen and just coming into your own, especially when you're a late bloomer. You drip with sensuality that doesn't quite belong to you yet. I was ripe, and just discovering this power I had over the opposite sex. It was all too easy. That first night he gave me my first real beer, and his phone number. As far as I was concerned, the deal was sealed.

The next day, after an intense make-out session in his apartment, I told him that I was still a card-carrying virgin; he gave me this hilarious speech about respecting that, and how we could just hang out for the next week and have fun, or we could hang out and "really have some fun!" I knew which option I was interested in. The following week was a blur of strange positions and even stranger social situations; I was trotted around like a surrogate girlfriend, impressing his friends with my "maturity," smoking too much pot with Danish stoners, and downing too many shots with bi-curious Irish lasses.

We only had sex a handful of times before he began acting strange. He was moody and seemed less and less interested in exploring my newfound sexuality with me. The last night I was in town I couldn't find him at the bar, so I decided to stumble up to his front door to say my goodbyes. There he was on his couch, in the candlelight, arm around a new pretty young thing.

When he tried to hug me goodbye, I flinched away. My pride was bruised. I told him that I'd never forget him, that he'd given me a "great introduction into the world of boys." Once he'd gone back inside, I decided to steal his bike. As I rode it all the way back to my motel under the full moon, I heard the waves of the ocean crashing against the beach nearby and felt a tear roll down my wind-chilled face. I pedalled faster, and before I knew it I was gone.

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