My First Time, & Welcome To It

For a first fuck, there is no habitat so lush and fine as a man's recollection. A quarter century of observation has convinced me that a first fuck not only lives on in the memory of a man but thrives there, increasing in length and prowess with each passing year until at last it reaches full maturity, which is to say, steamy and passionate enough to resurrect John Holmes from the grave, and his Louisville Slugger along with him.

Consider the case of my friend, whom we'll refer to as Bob Goodsprout, and his first fuck. I was on a double-date with him when he lost his virginity, and though my first impression from his bellowing was that Bob had erupted before even getting his schlong out of his shorts, his initial report was that they had made it into the backseat and managed to make about two seconds' worth of genital contact. We were both only 18 in high school at the time and Bob was quivering with excitement over his good fortune at getting laid for the first time. Still, there was no question in either of our minds (or his date's) that he had gone off like a jack-in-the-box in the starting gate.

You can imagine my surprise when, scarcely a month later, I overheard Bob telling some friends that his first fuck was at a local motel with a college girl with 36-C cans and that she screamed his name non-stop for two hours. I mentioned to Bob afterwards that I was amazed at how fast he had managed to upgrade his date, get to the Tiki Travel Lodge from the drive-in, and shoot an entire syringe of Novocain into his cock. He said he was a little surprised himself, but that his date had gained a pharmacy degree on the ride over. He admitted that he had known all along that the fuck was going to get better eventually although he hadn't expected it to happen so quickly. Staring off into the distance, a dreamy expression on his face, he told me, "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if someday my first fuck wins an AFAA Award."

"I wouldn't either," I said. "In fact, I'd be willing to bet on it."

Not long ago, Bob and I were chatting with some of the guys down at Sharky's Weenie Hut and the talk turned to first fucks. It was disgusting. I can stand moist sentimentality as well as the next fellow, but I have my limits. Some of those first fucks lasted for days. After each money-shot the cocks grew three inches. Enough semen was secreted to float an aircraft carrier battle group. The girls were all clones of Anna Kournikova with natural tits the size of watermelons and equipped with anti-gravity capability. They all were girls-next-door who became tigresses in heat at the flip of a switch, they all gave fantastic head, they all deep-throated like Linda Lovelace, and they all swallowed. They were all so limber that if they'd been any more so, their limbs would have been detachable. And the synchronicity! Not a single load was shot into a single pussy that wasn't perfectly accompanied by a cataclysmic orgasm that milked the accompanying testicles completely dry (for about thirty seconds).

Finally, it was Bob's turn, and between waves of nausea I wondered whether those few backseat dribbles had developed enough over the years to meet this kind of competition. I needn't have wondered.

Bob's first fuck was no longer a phenomenon of this Earth. It had moved on entirely to an ethereal dimension where only quasi-deities live, and his date had evolved from college hottie to Aphrodite herself. His wood had become old growth timber with the rigidity of neutronized matter, such that only a goddess COULD have satisfied him, and only a goddess could have withstood his romantic powers. Perfectly matched for each other, their lovemaking went on for eternities, their moans what we perceived as thunder, their love juices what we saw as rain, their passion what we think of as sunlight. Shit, I wondered why he would have ever come home again.

At last Bob reached the, er, climax of his story. "I don't expect you guys to believe this," he said, his voiced hushed with reverence, "but when I came for the forty-eighth time, the GROUND SHOOK!"

The guys all nodded, believing. Why, hadn't the ground shook for them too when they had cum for the forty-eighth time in a row? Of course it had. All first fucks are like that.

Except mine.

I banged the table for attention. "Now," I said, "I'm going to tell you about a REAL first fuck, not a figment of my senility, not some fossilized hope of my dangling adolescence, but a REAL first fuck."

Now I could tell from looking at their stunned faces that the guys were upset. There is nothing that angers the participants of a bullshitting competition more than someone who refuses to engage in the mutual exchange of illusions, someone who tells the simple truth, unstretched, unvarnished, unembellished, and whole.

"Even though it violates the male locker room code," I began, "I must confess that I still harbor unkind thoughts about my first fuck. True to its form and unlike almost all other first fucks, it has steadfastly refused to grow in either my memory or imagination; it simply lays there, like my penis, in its original puny size, flaccid and lifeless on my consciousness, as inert and unassuming as was the original experience. Indeed, it's a wonder that I didn't drift back into celibacy with an indifferent shrug, wondering what all the fuss was about."

The guys at Sharky's shrank back in horror at this heresy. Bob tried to slip away, but I riveted him to his chair with a maniacal laugh. His eyes pleaded with me, "NO, DON'T TELL US!" they begged, "DON'T DESTROY THE MYTH OF THE FIRST FUCK!"

Unrelenting and with only an occasional pause for a bitter, sardonic cackle to escape my foam-flecked lips (I was nursing an A&W root beer at the time), I plunged on with the tale, putting back layer after layer of clothing on the nude body of the first fuck myth until at last the truth about one man's first fuck had been shrunken down to its utter, brutally desultory reality.

I began by pointing out that the vast majority of men don't even see head or tail of a glimpse of the female form outside of the girlie mags before their wedding nights, and the mags only if their importation and storage are handled with sufficient discretion to avoid detection and eviction by snooping mothers. But even success in this meager indulgence is usually brief and fleeting. Once you get your stash of Playboys, it soon becomes insufficient to just have them in the back of your closet, available for nightly "perusal" along with the jar of Vaseline clandestinely snuck out of the bathroom medicine cabinet as if in a commando raid. The adolescent libido - which is its own autonomous life form - demands greater boldness, to wit, that the centerfolds be removed and tacked to your bedroom ceiling like the mirrors in a Las Vegas hotel suite, the better to serve as vicarious putty targets as you return the sultry countenances looking down upon you. Within an average of about seventy-two hours, the centerfolds disappear, along with the magazine stash, with sufficient ominousity that no parental words are really necessary.

That simply reflects the old adage, "Those who can't do, teach; those who can't teach, preach; and those who can't do anything, watch."

In reality, every guy who isn't the quarterback on the varsity football team (in other words, 99% of them) is terrified to approach genuinely pretty girls, usually because the quarterback is dating them and will kick your ass if you do. Also because any genuinely pretty girl will squash your fragile ego like a grape first, and THEN her jock boyfriend will kick your ass.

No, most guys are in marching band or metal shop or some other environ where pretty girls are never found, and take that waft of geekiness with them wherever they go. Which is to getting laid what a good dousing in "Off" is to a swarm of mosquitoes.

What about the not-so-pretty girls, or my particular preference, the girls who are pretty but don't realize it? Well, they're approachable, but no less terrifying because of what they'll probably say if you venture so innocuous a suggestion as sharing an ice cream soda at Baskin-Robbins. Not to mention what it would mean if they WERE receptive to your meager advances. So you just share a stand with them in orchestra, carry their books to the library, maybe even elicit a laugh or two once in a while that brightens your entire week and sends a torrent of blood netherward. And you make sure that area is covered up by tighty-whities that are two sizes too small, because, after all, you'd be mortified if they knew what you were thinking. And you ARE mortified at the possibility that they will SEE what you're thinking and know but won't let on that they know.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Oh, that romantic chicken-heartedness doesn't last indefinitely. Eventually you meet somebody, and you begin your torturous way around the "bases." "Eventually" being defined as, "hopefully before my hairline starts to recede."

The first date of my first long-term relationship contained no sex. It contained no "outercourse," either. Or petting, necking, kissing, or even handholding. We never got within three yards of each other. We just talked over dinner. Ditto the second date, and the third, and the fourth. We didn't make physical contact for two months, and when I finally did hold her hand, she told me I was "moving too fast." It was another month before our lips actually met, but there was no tongue-wrestling, no open mouths, and despite my having gargled repeatedly all day, even that peck seemed to repulse her right out my front door.

As we grew closer and started courting, I steered all our encounters as much as I could toward physical intimacy. After all, I had a twenty-two year gonadal backup, and my hand had only ever just barely managed to keep it below critical level. And I did have some success - though not nearly as much as I wanted. And that came not from suave or technique, but from a full-court-press of affection, gifts, and romantic drivel so pathetic that it was slowly necrotizing my brain.

On Valentine's Day I took her out to the ritziest place in town, then back to my place where I presented her with a diamond pendant (no small feat for a college student of decidedly limited means). She was so overwhelmed that she practically jumped my bones, pushing me back on the couch, straddling me, and smothering me with kisses. Not pecks, but full-bore frenching. My hands started roaming up and down her back, hoping for a brush against the sides of her breasts, and she wasn't stopping them. My cock threatened to make its appearance even if it had to tear the crotch out of my pants in the process.

Then, suddenly, she stopped, sat up, climbed off, thanked me for a wonderful evening, and went home. All in the space of two minutes. Which, for a sexually ravenous virgin, was primal scream jerking off territory. Either that, or chase her down and drag her back to my bedroom. So I added some new stains to the ceiling once again.

But sometimes patience and persistence IS rewarded, and eventually I talked her into a romantic weekend getaway at a moderately upscale mountain resort (I was out of school and working by this time). To say that I was anticipating consummation on this trip is like standing on the ocean floor and expecting rain. She had kept me on such a short leash for so long that I found myself turning into a hen-pecked, pussy-whipped pansy, the very type of man that I've always hated. I was just about ready to dump her if she turned me down on this carnal sojourn. So her acquiescence had me primed for long-awaited action.

We checked into our room, and I immediately picked her up, carried her to the bed, and started kissing down her chest, unbuttoning her top as I went. But she stopped me up short and suggesting going for a walk instead. Which would have been okay had it been June or July, but this was November and it was so cold outside that brass monkeys were taking in their balls for safekeeping. She might just as well have told me to take a cold shower, but I managed to reason that, "Hey, we're here, and there's plenty of time. And if she stiffs me again, there's plenty of empty country up here where they'll never find her remains." Gonadal backup often makes its sufferers grumpy like that.

So we took our walk, watched the lake surface freeze over, and after I got first aid treatment for frostbitten ears, went back inside. I started right up the steps toward our room, but she suggested that we go to dinner instead. Damn it, I wanted poontang pie, and she wanted to stuff her face. But, straining for calm, I had to admit that it wasn't an unreasonable request, even though my balls were at the point of taking my brain hostage if it didn't immediately cease and desist from its idiotic magnanimity.

It was actually a delicious meal, one of the best I've ever had (and for that price, it could hardly not have been), but I barely noticed, so adrift in the rapids of free-floating lust was I. I couldn't even focus on her conversation, because all I could see was her, naked and dripping, gobbling my cock and the roughly fourteen gallons of cum that were about to burst forth from it; her, thrashing about on the bed shrieking as I ate her out to multiple orgasms; her, growling animalistically as I pounded her doggy-style, grabbing her hair as I shot another semenal deluge into her insides until it gushed back out her pussy and down our legs and onto the sheets until it was pouring off the bed. To hell with the room deposit.

After several other diversions that had me on the outskirts of a stroke, we finally returned to our room, whereupon she grabbed her overnight bag and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. With unabashed haste I shed my clothes and donned the bathrobe I had purchased just for this occasion, one of the style and color that I hoped would make me look like Hugh Hefner (Hey, Hef may be an old fossil, but he gets more ass than a proctologist's fingers). I even brought along a pipe, and hoped than when I blew it and bubbles came out, it would add a note of playfulness to the festivities.

Then I heard her lilting voice, summoning me to paradise. Well, okay, it was a gruff and grating page - her actual words were, "Okay, I'm ready, get in here!" - but I didn't care, because I was about to really, truly, genuinely, seriously, no-foolin' lose my virginity once and for fucking all!

I entered the crap, um, that is, the lavatory, and saw that she was already in the shower. I tore off my bathrobe and hurled it away blindly, and charged in to join her.

The first live look I got of a nude female body was dazzling, even if her chest was sunken and she had a paunch and a muff so overgrown that it looked like one of William Shatner's toupees. I got right up behind her, wrapped my arms around her, and sent my fingers straight for her nipples. But I guess my dick, which was sticking straight out like a diving board, must have startled her when I inadvertently jammed it in her lumbar region like I was a mugger or something, and she shot her elbows out to deny me mammarial access. This was also when I caught her facial expression, which was a match for her earlier tone of voice.

Turning slightly toward me, she instructed me to grab the soap and wash her back. I was only too happy to oblige, except that she turned her back to me again, and, being seven inches taller than she, back-washing in that configuration stood a good chance of dislocating both of my wrists. I gently asked her to face me instead so I could reach around and lather her back. While definitely the more practical approach, it yielded me the same sour expression I saw mere moments earlier. On the other hand, that served as an effective deterrent against my hands going straight for her breasts again.

She did seem to start relaxing as my hands did their work, the movements evolving into a massage that, while not exactly eliciting moans, did put a dreamy expression on her face and have her swaying back and forth. The effect of this was that she swayed back far enough that her head caught part of the shower stream and her hair got wet, something she didn't plan on judging from the quick return of her sour expression. But then, like a trooper, she shrugged, adapted, and asked me to shampoo her hair next. Me, I was like Michael Moore at a smorgasbord with a U-Haul trailer. I would have given her an oral pedicure and not complained.

She seemed to enjoy the shampoo as much as she had the soapy massage, and then told me to change places with her. My anticipation of being on the receiving end of what I'd just delivered had me oozing pre-cum at an alarming rate, though with the shower on it wasn't as noticeable as it otherwise would have been.

What followed was as passionless and perfunctory as the baths my mother used to give me when I was little. She worked up a lather, swished it around my back for maybe twenty seconds, studiously avoided my ass or any kind of nipple reach, and then said, "All done!"

By this time I was beginning to deflate, a development of which she also took very little notice. Turning around to rinse off my back I looked at her face, which now looked more bored than anything else. Peeved that I had to actually ask her to caress me, I said, "Um, could you do my front now?" Without saying a word or altering her outward, almost somnolent disinterest, she soaped up her hands and began a fair job of repeating the attention my back had gotten, with a bit more sensuality mixed in. With her eyes literally closed, it lent at least the illusion of randiness as her fingertips went to work on my nipples, which brought my hard-on back with a vengeance. Parting her lips, she seemed to be inviting me to kiss her, and I did - which only burst the illusion that she was horny instead of bored, as there was no tongue action, and whatever the osculation might have added to the process quickly fizzled.

Having rubbed together during our kissing, her breasts now had a goodly portion of slippery lather on them, and I began squeezing and caressing her small fleshy orbs, though to no apparent affect. So I knelt down and began sucking on her nipples, opening my mouth as wide as possible to take as much of each breast in as I could. Still no apparent effect. Leaving my hands there, I kissed down further, tonguing her belly button, and then beyond, leaving a warm, moist trail across her protruding tummy to the edge of what I had mentally dubbed "the Black Forest."

I looked back up at her with what must have been an expression of unbridled lust, but she just looked like a commuter at a bus stop awaiting the cross-town express. If she'd had her watch on, she'd have been checking it.

Taking that as a challenge, I sat completely down in the stall so as to gain optimal cunnlingual access, and plundered her. Wishing for a comb, I managed to part her crotch mop with my fingers and uncovered her venusian gates, which were, of course, shuttered. "Jesus," I thought, "what does it take to light this woman's pilot light?" I resolved to find out.

I dredged from my memory every article I'd ever read on orally pleasuring a woman and every porno scene I'd ever watched, and did all of it. I kissed her inner thighs. I licked up and down her crease. I blew softly on her general genital area. I finger-fucked her, searching for her G-spot. I sucked her clit. I tongue-fucked her. I did every combination of the above repeatedly. I did them all at the same time. I was a veritable blur between her legs. She just stood there. She didn't appear to HAVE a G-spot. It was like fucking a department store mannequin.

As I stood up, she said, with slight exasperation, "What are you going to do now?"

Matching her exasperation, I replied, "Well, you could return the favor."