A true story.
I was 21.
It was my twenty first birthday. I was throwing a party, and had invited friends from university, some from school, but there were two men coming that I was anxious to see. One was a boy who’s virginity I had taken, almost for fun, a few months before. We had been sitting in a bar with mutual friends, and they had been teasing him for never having had sex. He was good looking; bright eyes and a very full, red mouth. It seemed a shame that nobody was kissing it. The more uncomfortable he grew under their scrutiny, the more determined I was to ease his burden. Eventually I went to him and kissed him, in front of everyone, and pulled him behind me outside and into a taxi.
I’ll never forget the look on his face as I sat on top of him, writhing. His eyes were closed, and he had such a look of bliss and peace on his face, feeling his pleasure and his relief in equal measure. While he was inexperienced, he was still beautiful; there was a delicious innocence about him as he lay there. I brought him to orgasm with such a feeling of satisfaction, not just for me, but also for him. He was like a sweet bird, nestled in my arms, feeling that he was now a man. Our conversations weren’t electrifying, but I enjoyed his company. He was so shy. We would watch movies together, side by side, and I would ache for him to hold me, to touch me where I wanted to be touched. But he was too shy, too modest, so unsure of where the line lay between us.
I would make love to him now and then, although so often I would lie in his arms frustrated and aroused, wanting him to treat me dirtily, to put his mouth on my sex and make me quiver. But he was too shy. He would rub up against me, his arms wrapped around me and his erection pressing into my back, nuzzling my neck. But he was too nervous to pin me down and take me as I wanted to be taken.
The man I had lost my virginity to was also coming to the party. Strong, stocky, and with green eyes that undressed you salaciously, up and down. I was crazy about him. We worked together in the drab student bar that paid my way through university. The first time I saw him, even before I worked there, I was wet in my knickers. He had a way of walking, a swagger, that let you know exactly what was in his pants. When I looked at him I felt something bloom hot and scarlet inside me. He was trouble.
When we first had sex he had a girlfriend, a limp blonde thing who I now feel a deep shame and pity for. But then, she was nothing to me. All I wanted was him. On our shifts together we would flirt; he carelessly, and I with such meaning and intensity. But then, he flirted with everyone. I was very much in love with him. When I saw him cast those fierce green eyes on a girl with a low cut top or a brilliant smile, it sliced through me like a knife. I wanted him to desire me so badly, that it made me feel quite mad.
One evening, on a staff night out, we sat together. He flirted with me, like he always did, but this time it was with more ferocity. We went outside to have a cigarette, and he lent over to say something in my ear.
‘What?’ I asked.
He repeated himself, yet still I couldn’t hear him. When I asked him again, instead of answering he grabbed me and pulled me into a deep kiss, his hands on my backside, squeezing, his tongue in my mouth. I almost fainted from desire, the fervent fantasies of my virginal nights blooming into being.
We went outside, grasping each other, and into a taxi. I was kissing him with delirium, and at one point he said
‘He’s watching us.’
The taxi driver looked back at us through the mirror, disapproval mingled with lust and envy. When we got to my apartment we fell straight into bed, tearing at each other’s clothes and kissing, oh, kissing so deeply! You never would have guessed that I was a virgin. He certainly didn’t. I had seen enough films, heard enough stories, to know what I was doing. When he penetrated me I went weak with desire, he was so large! I pulled him to me and bit his neck, my hands firm around his buttocks as he thrust into me. We had sex five times that night, and in the fleeting moments of calm in between I looked at his sleeping face; so beautiful, so cruel. In the morning we fucked again, and then I watched him leave as I lay alone in my bed, feeling empty and awakened.
But this was not the beginning of a love story. For two years, we danced around each other. In my mind, the only way to appear aloof and appealing was to sleep with as many men as possible, so that he didn’t feel like I was trying to trap him. He was, of course, still with his girlfriend. And so I would tell him of my affairs, my many affairs, while smiling saltily and placing a hand on his arm. I was so naive. When we are young, we are so very, terribly, naive.
And so we remained ‘friends.’ He broke up with his girlfriend, eventually, an event that kicked me in the guts with a guilt that I could never have imagined. He didn’t leave her for me, of course. He wanted to be strong and free, to prowl at dark amongst the beautiful and the lusty. I waited for him, heart and arms open to receive. But then, I was open to everyone.
And so the players assembled. Each man brought me flowers, the innocent a beautiful bouquet, the seducer a cheap bunch of daisies from the supermarket. I took them both willingly. As the night wore on everyone drank, laughed, sang, and I drew my sweet, innocent boy into my room. We had sex, tender but simple, and as we moved together the bedroom door opened and I saw the man that I really loved standing there. I burst into tears, and pushed the boy off me. I cried, told him to leave, and sat for a while with my arms around my knees, rocking, and wondering what kind of person I really was. He left, many of them left, and when I came out of my room I went to sit with the others in the kitchen.
My trouble was there, and I found myself pulling him into my bedroom. I shut the door, and pushed him into my bed. We held each other, my hands fingering the buttons on his shirt. I began to undo them, stroking the skin, aroused and horrified with myself at the same time. I kissed him, I drew his unfaithful mouth towards mine and pressed it against me, hating myself, and yet wanting him.
We had sex. He left. And the sweet boy never wanted to see me again.