Tap. Tap. Tap.
His knuckles softly rapped against my window. I slid out from between the sheets, raised the pane of glass and peered out into the dark, starlit night. The eager, nervous sixteen-year-old who smiled at me had only been ever been kissed… once. The day before. By me. Though I was older than him by only a couple of months, I felt decades older in experience. Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t nearly as accomplished as I thought. He was after all… the second boy I had ever kissed. But what do we know at sixteen?
Oh so quietly, he put one jean-clad leg through the window, and then the other. The rest of his long, lean body followed. He stood there, looking down at me in my white eyelet nightgown, not sure what say or do next. I stood on tiptoe and kissed him gently on the lips. He was trembling all over. He smelled of pine and musk and woods.
I took his hand and drew him down to the floor beside me. We sat like that for a while. Side by side, our backs against my bed, whispering in the dark. He made the next move, more confident this time, opening his mouth as he kissed me. Our tongues touched… tentatively tasting the other. I felt his hand on my thigh, his fingers urgently working toward my panties.
“Whoa,” I whispered, breaking the kiss and grabbing his hand, “Not so fast.”
I put his errant hand on my cheek and kissed the palm, cradling it against my face before lowering it to my jaw, then my neck. Taking the direction like a willing pupil, he slowly began caressing my neck, working down to the little hollow at the base of my throat. I leaned back against him, inviting further, slow exploration.
When his hand slipped down the front of my gown and onto my breast, an electric jolt shot through me. He fondled my nipples slowly at first, and then began alternating between squeezing the entire breast and flicking just the very tip, gaging my reaction. Hormones raging, I grasped his erection through his jeans, and it became my anchor in a storm of swirling emotions.
So much of that first night is a blur, little flickers of memories teasing the outskirts of my mind. My gown was eventually discarded and I knelt on the floor in the moonlight, watching him absorb my nakedness. His clothes lay in a discarded heap as we experimented being skin to skin against each other.
His massive erection stood straight up and slightly to the left, bucking wildly for attention as my fingers traced invisible roadmaps on his body, touching him everywhere. Everywhere but there. Hours after he has slipped in my window I finally touched him. The virgin tip passed my lips and entered my mouth as my tongue tasted him for the first time. I looked up at him, savoring the moment. It ever only happens once.
Later, when he came with a shudder on my breasts, marking me with his passion’s fluid, I still had not taken his virginity. Not yet. Now—a decade and a half later—when we talk about those times and reminisce together it almost seems like two different people who lived those nights. Except that I want him still.