My First Time

Though it will probably break my dear mother’s heart, I have to confess my first time was shortly after my twelfth birthday. That’s right I was twelve years old and so was she. It almost seems perverted to say this now considering I have a twelve-year-old son; luckily he seems to be more focused on sports than girls.

My first time was everything a first time should be, confusing, awkward, and terrifying. She was just as scared but we were both determined to go through with it. There was pressure from our peers because it seemed that everyone in the seventh grade was doing it. Everyone but me, but I was going to change that.

Though I had seen it done in movies and in magazines, I wasn’t exactly sure about the mechanics of the process. She was no pro either. I guess we both just assumed the other would know what to do when the time came.

We discussed it at great length before the actual act. Even speaking about the subject to her made me quiver. I remember how beautiful she was and how special our little relationship was to me. I was happy that my first time would be with my girlfriend. Back then we called it “going together.” Which was a bit of an oxymoron because we were too young to go anywhere together except class. This made privacy extremely difficult. I offered my mother’s house (sorry Mom) because she worked late and we wouldn’t be interrupted. My girlfriend suggested that we find a spot at the school where we could be alone. We were both student atheletes so we had a reason to stay at school late without alarming our parents. I would tell the football coach that I wasn’t feeling well and she would tell the volleyball coach the same. That would give us about an hour and a half of solitude from the rest of the world. We set a date. We decided Friday would be best, that way if things didn’t go well we would have the weekend to recover before seeing each other again.

There were so many questions. I had heard from the eighth graders that if we weren’t careful or if we did it too long we could accidently make a baby. I definitely didn’t want that. The people in the movies just did it. I wanted that type of boldness and fearlessness. The morning we were going to do it I woke up earlier than usual. Although there would be eight hours of school before our inaugural experience, I began to prepare. I brushed my teeth twice and used some of my mother’s mouthwash, the kind that stung when you swished it. My father was a fan of Drakkar cologne so I slapped some on my face the way he did. I wore my only Polo shirt for the special occasion and picked one of my mother’s roses to give my girlfriend at school. We saw each other in the cafeteria at breakfast and could barely make eye contact. I asked her if she wanted to call the whole thing off but she assured me that she was ready. We only shared one class together, which was homeroom, the last class of the day. Our homeroom teacher was very laid back so we had a chance to talk before the last bell. I noticed at some point she had put lip-gloss on her lips, which I very much appreciated. I also remember her eyes had a tinge of color to them that afternoon. I felt so special that she risked punishment and wore makeup for our special day.

The time had come and my stomach was turning flips. My feet felt as though I were walking through quicksand as I made my way to the school’s auditorium. She was a member of the audiovisual club. Her teacher had entrusted her to be the sole student with a key to the A/V room where the televisions and camera’s where kept. Our code was for me to knock on the door three times, pause and then knock twice more. The pass code was received and she cracked the door to ensure that our secret had not been compromised. I stepped through the door and she locked it behind me. Standing in front of her, thousands of thoughts raced through my mind. Was I supposed to grab her or let her touch me first? Should we talk before we start or just do it? How long should it take? Was she supposed to go first or was I? Even though we knew why we were there I still felt the need to ask permission before we started. I wanted to say something witty but the only thing I could make out was, “I’m nervous.” She reminded me how much I liked her by offering a comforting, “Me too.”

When we started we fumbled and stumbled until we suddenly reached a moment of bliss. In the little over a decade that I had lived to that moment, I don’t remember a more pleasurable experience. Honestly, now twenty-one years later, I can only think of a handful that could compete. It seemed to be over before it started but that didn’t make it any less incredible. Immediately after we finished I remember looking in her smoky brown eyes searching for a semblance of approval and satisfaction. Like most men, I worried that despite my efforts the encounter was anticlimactic for her. She smiled. It was the most salacious smile I had or will ever witness. Her smile whispered to me that everything was okay and that she had no regrets. Also, still keeping in true form of my gender, I immediately wondered when and if we could do it again. I remained silent because at that moment, I was beyond content.

Throughout my life I would repeat the enjoyable act I shared with my first girlfriend with many more including, of course, my wife. A gentleman would never rate the quality of present or past women in his life but I can say the overall experience of my “first” will remain memorable. I’ve gotten better over the years and have managed to add a few tricks and treats to my repertoire. Though my wife proudly serves as my only judge she has mentioned an improvement over the years.

I’ve always found it a bit of a dangerous undertaking to reminisce too deeply about the past. However, every once in a while, I like to close my eyes and travel back to that A/V closet and privately enjoy the exhilaration of my first kiss.