my first time

I figured if I am gonna put it all out there, might as well GO BIG, OR GO HOME. 

Memories... ah, the good ole days.  For me, that included blowdrying your bangs straight up and laying the AquaNet on thick.  Friendship bracelets.  Shorts paired with turtleneck sweaters.  That was middle school.  High school was even more colorful.  Dark lipstick.  Clothes straight from the Goodwill.  Grunge music.  My flat chest before my momma invested in my “girls.”  The good ole days.

This story occurred during those (definitely not sweet, but not quite bitter) high school years.  The days when I got more sexual education from my bedroom floor than Life Skills class.  The days when I learned that used condoms neither flush down the toilet nor magically disappear when thrown out your bedroom window.  Yes, the days of “my first time.”

I don’t know about you, but my first time bumping uglies really sucked.  I thought it would be simple: Insert Tab A into Slot B.  No one prepared me for the awkwardness of the entire situation.  Or that my extremely high hopes of having a mega orgasm during the act would not only be completely dashed but also put firmly on the shelf until I met C (thanks again, baby!).  There was also no romance, candlelight, or prom dress to go along with the first-time horizontal mambo.  That’s not my style, anyway.  No, I had to do one better and include sneaking the guy through my bedroom window, forgoing my bed because it squeaked too much, and whispering, lest my parents woke up, unlocked my bedroom door, and found their innocent little girl trying to figure out what part of a “blow job” required blowing.

My first and only time with X was definitely lacking.  Sixteen, and in love with being in love, I was easily swayed that X was “the one.”   Or rather, “the one until he banged the girl from down the road.”  The weeks leading up to it were very engaging, but the night we actually made the beast with two backs was anything but.  The decision was made quickly:
   
X:  Are you sure?
Me:  Yeah.
X:  Kay.

Mature adults that we were, of course we made sure to practice safe sex:

Me:  Do you have a condom?
X:  In my wallet, hold on.
Me:  [waiting]
X:  Got it.  Do you think we need two?
Me:  Can we do it twice?
X:  No, I don’t think so, but I think wearing two at one time would be safer than just wearing one.  What do you think?
Me:  Do you have another one?
X:  No.
Me:  Well... I guess we just need to be REALLY careful then.

Then the magical moment of penetration:

X:  Oh, yeah.
Me:  Is it in?
X:  Oh, yeah.
Me:  All the way?
X:  Oh, yeah.

Yup... only I would learn about small knobs through first hand experience.  Finally, the big finish, about thirty seconds later:

X:  OH, YEAH.
Me:  Yeah... wait, what?

The following weeks were miserable.  In that short amount of time, I convinced myself I was not only pregnant, but that I also had AIDS.  This led to me confessing all to my mother and answering embarrassing questions such as, “Did you have your period yet?” and “Did you use protection?”  The answers to both questions was “yes,” but somehow I still wasn’t convinced that I was neither pregnant nor HIV+.  We did, after all, neglect to use that second condom.

So after that first time, I took a vow of celibacy and got a promise ring.  Neither of which panned out after two years and my first semester of community college.

The moral of this story?  Go big, or go home.  In ALL things.

HATE IT.
Condoms

LOVE IT!

Monogamy in which condoms, pregnancy, or worrying about contracting an STD are no longer issues in my life.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
G complaining about not finding that ever-elusive “swagger.”

CURRENTLY READING:
The Nymph King by Gena Showalter