The First

Sometimes you see someone who sparks off a memory and you can’t quite place who or what part of your past they remind you of.

This happened to me tonight: this boy at my gym, working up a sweat on the cross-trainer. A pretty young man, dark hair, bright eyes. There was something about him that made me feel nostalgic, and then it hit me.

He looked like my First One.

You never forget.

And looking into this boy’s deep green eyes as he focussed on training reminded me of how I used to gaze into my First One’s green eyes for hours on end, getting lost in the depth and being enticed by the constant spark that shone there.

I was 16, young and naïve. He was tall, dark and handsome, with intense green eyes and a gruff voice. We were in English class together. The first day I saw him I knew. I said to my friend:

“This is the guy I am going to lose my virginity with”

And I just knew I would. And that he would be mine. It wasn’t that I was particularly confident in obtaining hot men, no, it was just a gut feeling I had in my solar plexus, that this boy and I were meant for each other.

And within two months, we were together.

We used to bunk off class with each other, hang out in the park, me smoking, him watching. And we would kiss these innocent kisses; not where you get all hot and bothered and have to adjust your clothes, but the ones where you look at each other and as your lips touch, you can taste a sweetness and feel a spark that is intoxicating and rejuvenating at the same time.

And we would fumble. He fumbled. I fumbled. We were fumblers. Inexperienced. But in love: whatever he did, I enjoyed. I adored him. He…worshipped me. And when ‘the time’ came, he was the sweetest most gentle person on the planet, making sure everything was planned:

Him: Do you have some towels?

Me: Towels?

Him: Yes, preferably dark ones.

Me: Um, dark? Towels?

Him (whispering conspiratorially): You know, in case there’s blood…

Me: BLOOD???

Him: Um, yeah, you might bleed a little…

Me: I might bleed? What? No-one said there’d be blood!!!

Him (trying to calm me down): No, no no. Just in case though, we don’t want to mess your sheets up. I’ll be careful, you probably won’t bleed anyway…

And I recall him trying to convince me it would all be ok. I trusted him, so I went and got some towels, some condoms and we got everything ready.

Him: Now are you sure you want to do this? We don’t have to you know…

Me (as ever, eager to please): It’s now or never. Let’s do it…

And we did. And of course there was no blood, which, after that build up, disappointed me somewhat, me feeling that maybe it should have been more dramatic or something.

Anyway, it was, um, ok. Not bad. Not terrible. I think we both enjoyed it, mostly. But neither of us was experienced. He had only had sex once before and at this point, I had no idea what an orgasm was, so the experience was enjoyable but nothing to write home about.

Not that we hadn’t tried to make me climax. Boy we had. We’d gone in search of my clitoris countless times, occasionally with me shouting:

“Yes! Yes! That’s it!”

And him (coming up for air) saying:

“Sorry, where was that again?”

And of course then we couldn’t find it. But since I didn’t even know how to bring myself off at that point, there was no point expecting him to be able to.

And it wasn’t until a few months after we broke up, that I finally discovered the pleasure of self-pleasure:

I was 6 hours into a Purple Om trip, listening to Up From The Skies and feeling very delicious indeed. As anyone who has tripped before knows, your whole body feels electric, all senses heightened beyond belief, any stimuli sparking off the most fantastic sensations.

And it was with this all-over-body-excitability that I soon became aware of this incredible throbbing sensation between my legs. Now, of course I had had this before (even as a young girl) but up to this point I didn’t know what to do to relieve the pressure. I usually just let it die down. (Wish I could do that today). But that night, it was more intense than I ever remember it and I knew I had to do something: I had to touch myself.

I excused myself from the group of people I was hanging out with and went into my room, locked the door and sat on my armchair. And, my head spinning, the world floating cartoon-image-like in front of my eyes, I slowly slid my hand between my legs and began to rub.

It was amazing. With each movement my body became more and more electric. Every time my fingers slid close to (what I would later discover was) my clit, I felt a jolt through my body that sent shivers down my spine and made my head rush. And every rub made it more intense. So I didn’t stop rubbing. I couldn’t. I have no idea how long my fingers were grinding against my pussy for – it felt like ages – but on LSD, seconds are hours long, hours like minutes. I had no sense of time; just of the urgency of the throbbing between my legs and an acute awareness that I needed to continue rubbing – no matter what, even if there had been a fire and I had to leave the house – I couldn’t stop what I had started.

And at some point I felt a well of energy building up inside me, incredibly strong, so intense it scared me. I worried that maybe I was going to do myself damage, that perhaps the trip was too strong for me, but I managed to talk myself out of any negative thoughts and concentrated instead on continuing to feel the pressure building. And when it came, it was like a flood of energy, emanating from my pussy all the way up my head and filling me up al the way down to my feet. I cried with pleasure. It was so incredibly intense, not only physically and mentally, but emotionally. All this build up for so long, and finally I was getting the release I had craved and needed. And it was beautiful.

I haven’t looked back since.

And my First One? Well, he hated my doing drugs and threatened to leave me if I continued taking them. And being an ignorant and somewhat stupid teenager, I of course chose a life of partying over a damn good relationship: we split up and I broke his heart, something I regret to this day. But in some way, if I hadn’t have chosen the path I did, perhaps I wouldn’t have discovered how to self-pleasure myself – I credit LSD entirely for that – which would have meant perhaps years of having unsatisfying sex – a horrible thought.

So, I lost him, but I gained knowledge and insight into myself. And where has this got me? Some great sex, some fantastic orgasms, and a compulsive addiction to playing with myself. Hmm. Maybe I should have stuck with him after all…