first things first, by Allison
Allison is a freelance writer feeling brave enough to try writing about blissful sexual expression. She hopes you are brave enough to endure any typos in this piece!
For every last, there is always a first. My last cigarette was over two months ago, my last pedicure was on Saturday. My last orgasm was at 6:30 this morning. You can bet that my gorgeous toes were involuntarily curled between the blankets, my mind praying that no one would hear the whirl of the vibrator as Peter the Rabbit brought me gentle into that good morning (rage, rage against the beep of my alarm).
Enough riffing on Dylan Thomas: it’s time to tell the truth.
I honestly didn’t know what my first orgasm would feel like. What can you compare an orgasm to? I didn’t even know if there would be tangible evidence of my orgasm afterward — would there be fluids? Screaming? Trumpets and a marching band? At 15, I had no clue. Back then, I didn’t know where I could get my hot little hands on a Hitachi Magic Wand, let alone where I could safely stash it. I was also starting to get nervous that if it hadn’t happened with any of my inexperienced teenage boyfriends or my shy, bi-curious friends by now, it might not happen ever.
D* probably wasn’t that much more experienced than any of the ones I’d messed around with before him, He never looked like the seductive Romeo-type: he was shorter than me by two inches and his teeth were crooked, even if everything that flowed out of his lips carried the delectable trace of his Southern accent. In fact, we weren’t even a couple anymore on the night of my first o. I had broken up with him weeks before due to lack of common interests and pressure from my friends to date someone just a little cooler than the video-game-loving, chain-smoking, failing-high-school-Latin D*.
He picked up the habit of hanging around my house on weeknights, since his mom was shacked up with an asshole boyfriend and had, for all purposes, kicked D* to the curb. Of course, I raged at my mom for letting him come over to the house all of the time. So what if he spent time with my little brothers and charmed her to no end? He was my ex! As far as I was concerned, it was time for D* to hit the road.
One cold November night, I decided to declare open war on the lad: if I couldn’t force him to leave my house, I was going to make it very uncomfortable for him to stick around! Mom wasn’t home to stop me, so I changed into a short, silky white top that I’d borrowed from a friend weeks before, a dress shirt that extended to just a few centimeters above fingertip-level. With no shame, I paraded around the living room where he and my youngest brother were sitting, engrossed in a computer game. My little brother kept his eyes on the screen. D* couldn’t stop staring at me. After a minute of silence, he excused himself and left for the bathroom, no doubt to jerk off some of the sexual tension between us.
I also excused myself to go watch a movie upstairs, but I didn’t get much of a chance to watch the video. D* came into the room and closed the door behind him. At first, he stood nervously by the doorway, waiting for me to say something. I knew he was staring at my legs, spread just enough for him to see the outline of my underwear. Uncertain of what to do, I pretended to be engrossed in what I was watching on-screen. Finally, he inched his way over to where I was laying down and sat at the edge of my bed.
“Let’s wrestle,” he said, referring to our former game of cat-and-mouse. He straddled my hips and let his hands run up my arms. “Pinned you,” he said. I didn’t protest. I didn’t particularly want to after feeling his erection. Foreplay made it all seem too good to stop.
But it wasn’t the kissing that turned me on — it was his fearlessness. D* seemed so sure that I wouldn’t reject either him or his advances. My whole act of teasing him downstairs had been just as cocky, really. When we were dating, we hadn’t ever gone past second base, but my certainty that I could turn him on that night, that I absolutely wanted this, made me nod my head yes when he asked if he could take the underwear off this time.
D* didn’t make any demands about what I needed to do for him. That was never his style. He was the first person to ever go down on me, to lick my thighs until they were both shaking. He didn’t talk about “too much hair” or insist that it should be shaved. He wasn’t grossed out. He talked softly to me while he kissed and licked and sucked on my clit, as though we were communicating with this new oral sex. It was for me hard to respond coherently. The door was locked and I refused to worry about anyone in the house hearing me moan. Unlike many of the encounters with other lovers since, I felt no urge to muffle any of my sounds into a pillow.
It was so damn good because we were both in it together and we were trying so hard, locked in the heat of our unexpected reunion, just to bring me to the brink. I wasn’t thinking about how I looked or whether I was doing it “right.” I also never felt like I was dangling over the edge, looming into a fall. I felt free and horny and ready.
I didn’t time it or predict its arrival. Like so many things in life, my first orgasm showed up unexpectedly.
“You taste different when you come,” he said, and it’s possible that if he hadn’t told me that’s what was happening, I might not have realized what had just happened. I’m sure it’s probably a little disconcerting to think that a girl wouldn’t recognize an orgasm when she had one, but what did I know? I could only feel the rush of blood, the tingling in my legs, and the slickness between them. I pulled him up to me and kissed him hard, both of us tasting each other and the wetness that we had brought, together, in me.
It would take work for me to learn to have orgasms on my own, and even more how to with other lovers. Within a few weeks, D* left the state to live with his dad and before long I was caught up in other flings and relationships. But for whatever reason, onthat night, confident of my sexuality, I found a new side of myself in learning, for the first time, how to experience deep, unabashed, angst-free pleasure.
Filed under: prose | 2 Comments
Tags: cunnilingus, men, pussy, short story