Love & Sex

My First Time

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Female • 19 years old • Berkeley, CA

We had been dating for two months. I'd always said it was going to be two months before I slept with the first man I dated. He and I were both nineteen, and I knew that I had surprised him with how eager I was to become really physical, really fast. Once, he blurted out, "Wow, you must really like me," after I took off my shirt and my bra. I think that was the second week.

I still remember how my legs shook with excitement and nervousness the first time he made out with me on my bed. I had to hold myself still, only to realize that he was shaking too. We moved from these intense, jittery make-out sessions, to gentle fondling, to petting, and very soon after, to blowjobs in the car, in some dark corner of a park. We got used to lying around naked with each other. I remember asking him, "How big are you?" the first time my hand reached for his zipper.

Illustration by Thomas Pitilli

Slightly embarrassed, he meekly replied, "Average." I didn't know what "average" meant, and it didn't matter. All it mattered was that I was about to have a fully erect penis in my virgin hands. I remember wondering if it would fit, and told him so. I think he shrugged, with as much dignity as he could with his pants down to his knees. He had, in turn, been slightly scared of my womanly bits. In fact, he was always scared — scared that he would be too rough with me, or do it wrong and make it awkward. My first-time bravado was matched by his caution.

The first time. I smile just thinking about it. No, it wasn't terribly romantic or planned. Actually, when we did plan for it, he'd become so nervous that his average friend would cease cooperating. And then there would be streams of apologies and it's-okays. And so the first time he held his penis and gingerly lifted my leg, I was too slow to realize what was happening. And it was in.

I was ready, but he promptly took it out. "What'd you do that for?" I said, half-angry.

"I don't know! I'm sorry!" he said.

"No, I mean, why'd you take it out? Put it back in!" And it was in, again. I was riding him, surprised at all the sensations I was feeling. It was unfamiliar, yet so thoroughly pleasurable that I could only look half-confused and half-giddy. I don't remember his expressions, which is sad, because I'm more interested, now, in what he looked like while getting his cherry popped.

Neither of us came, after what seemed like an eternity of newness. We agreed in ragged breaths to stop, that we'd had enough adventuring for a day, and napped. He told me the next day that he'd felt horrible, and that what we'd done was all he thought about the entire time he was at church. But I didn't feel bad at all, and I think, secretly, neither did he.