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When I met him, he was living in a tent and I was living in my childhood bedroom, so we were forced to get creative with locations for getting naked. The first day we hung out, we went to a popular swimming hole out in the desert. After a few jumps in the river, we crept along the bank to consummate our acquaintance on a half-shielded rock ledge right above the water, joking with each other about whether our peers upriver could tell what was going on from so far away.
There was something addictive about getting sunburned while making love, and we didn’t limit ourselves: we'd pull over on the side of the highway on a long road trip, creep into a shady clearing in a state park, or rip off each other's clothes in a hilltop park in a sleepy suburb after setting off fireworks. The crowning triumph, though, was on a football field, with the lights shut off for the night. We stripped down on the hundred-yard line and crept out of the stadium with turf burns on our backs, flushed with that post-game glow.
It was about 4:30 in the morning on January 1st, 2000, on a Native American reservation in Florida. It was now the new millennium, and the strange group of friends I had followed on the trip to see Phish (a group that included an ex-girlfriend and her brand-new boyfriend) had slunk back to their tents. In the throes of drugs that were supposed to have been spaced throughout the night, I was dancing solo on a dirty blanket. Every long-haired hippie girl looked like Bo Derek. That included Alice. She was short, with angelic eyes. She also had cigarettes, which made her a thousand times more hot. Our eyes linked. I bummed one of her smokes. We bonded through the music. For three hours. And then — I don’t know how — we went back to her tent and had sex.
To this day, I remember no more than twenty words spoken between us. I can’t remember if she came. Honestly, I can't even remember if I did. I do know we had sex for some indeterminate amount of time, we shared one last smoke together, and then I was off. When I left the tent, there were four people sitting nearby who clearly had been treated to our show. They clapped. I took it as a compliment.
My boyfriend and I were touring an underground bunker used by [major non-US government] during the Cold War. Ducking away from the tour, we searched the maze-like corridors for a quiet corner, where I sucked him off.
The best part? The gift store sold mugs that read "I've gone down in history." Obviously, I bought one.
Submit to our next round-up: Formative Porn Experiences. Did you brave the attic to steal your dad's old Playboys? Or stumble across a VHS copy of Basic Instinct? Whatever your first experience with smut was, we want to know about it. Send your best story (150-250 words) about your first experience with pornography, to firstname.lastname@example.org. We won't print your full name, so please don't skimp on the details, but please, no recaps or play-by-plays. We're looking for funny stories, not reviews of New Wave Hookers. (We've seen it, and it's great.)