I don’t remember losing my virginity.
I know who I lost it with but can’t tell you if it was day or night, spring, summer or fall, weekday or weekend, here or there, or if I was fourteen or fifteen. However I do remember—in vivid detail—the first time I made a guy come.
Sun-kissed summer days spent on his parents’ boat had left my skin the color of golden honey and streaked my blond hair with white and cream tendrils. My breasts had blossomed into a c-cup over the winter making me look older than my actual thirteen years. He was seventeen, tall, athletic and had a wide easy grin. Stolen, closed-lip kisses had evolved into epic explorations of mouths, tongues, ear lobes, jaw lines
Left alone in his parents’ basement after a day on the water we sat together on the couch, one of his arms draped across my shoulder, the other hand nervously changing channels on the television remote. He wore only his swim trunks and I was clad in a simple navy one-piece with a towel around my waist. I leaned against him and nuzzled a bit when he began rubbing my shoulder and arm. I didn’t stop him when his fingers slipped beneath the strap of my swimming suit and moved it slightly off my shoulder so he could touch without interruption.
The trail left by his fingers left me covered in goosebumbs and I looked down to see two very sharp points rising under the thin fabric. He saw them too. I remember hearing his heartbeat increase in tempo when he traced the scooped neck of my swimming suit and then grazed my nipple with his hand. Even with the cloth separating our flesh the feeling surpassed any pleasure I’d known before.
We kissed then, as only teens can, full of lust, hormones and boundaries. He positioned me under him on the couch and our kisses deepened. He pressed his pelvis against mine and for the first time I experienced the magic of a swollen, straining cock moving against my mound. My hands gripped his bare back as my legs spread, wanting more, not knowing that what I really wanted was release—to come in shudders. At thirteen I didn’t know women could orgasm too.
We tumbled off the couch onto the floor. His hands ran up and down my sides and over my nipples, never dipping beneath the navy material, all the while thrusting at me through his swim trunks. My legs wrapped around his thighs pulling him closer, tighter. He reached down with one hand, slipped his throbbing shaft out of the confining shorts and began rubbing it frantically along the length of silky fabric covering my virgin snatch. A few seconds later he moaned, convulsed atop me and then was still. Just as I began to notice the warm wetness between my legs he jumped up and took off for the bathroom.
I stood—shakily because my limbs felt like gelatin—and walked to the mirrored armoire in the corner, dragging the towel behind me. I watched my reflection reach between my thighs and touch the white, sticky glob that remained on the cloth covering my bruised, unsatisfied mound. I brought it to my nose and sniffed, not sure what to make of its foreign fragrance and then tested its texture, sliding it between my fingers. A strange mix of emotions washed over me—exhilaration, curiosity, lust, confusion and the one that overshadowed them all… power. That boy had lost control. The proof was, quite literally in my hands. And I had caused it. I wiped off my fingers and still unpricked chamber with the towel and something inside clicked. As a female, I had power. Sex was power. And I liked it.