I’ll be honest. After all, isn’t that sort of the whole point of this place? To be a place where we can finally be honest? And in all honesty, I just don’t get the appeal of wanting to read about somebody’s first time. To me, it’s a hell of a lot more fun to read about when at least one or more has a clue beyond a general idea of what goes where.
But, maybe that’s just me. I don’t know. It seems like a lot of people want to hear about those stumbling fumbling bumbling real “no shit, true story” first times any road, so here goes.
Oh, yeah. Almost forgot. All people engaging in coitus in what follows are over eighteen. The following is pretty much what happened to my recollection although it’s only my side of things and about as true as any eyewitness account, with one small proviso. Names and places and a few identifying marks have been switched up to blah blah blah.
Fuck it. That’s enough of that shit. Let’s get on with it.
I guess maybe I might have had chances to see what all the fuss was about earlier than I did. God knows I was interested, but that should hardly be a surprise. A teenage boy interested in sex. Go figure. And I found out years later that some of the girls I stayed in contact with were interested back then.
But, I never got further than some kissing and touching the odd tit over at least two layers of clothes. Odd as it may sound, I was the one who stopped it and didn’t allow it to go any further than that.
And it didn’t actually have more than just passing to do with being a good Baptist boy. Sure, I was a holy rollin’ Bible thumper in the buckle of the Bible Belt and was a mite more serious about it than the ones who brought their hangover to church on Sunday because that’s what we were supposed to do.
But, sex went beyond just a mere temptation for me. Hell, might as well say I was “tempted” to take a deep breath when I surfaced from swimming the length of the pool scrapping my belly along the bottom. Before I discovered nightly controlled masturbation would fix the mess, I had “wet dreams” every night.
Just about the only thing that held me back from crossing that Rubicon at an earlier age I think was being adopted.
“What the hell does your sorry ass being adopted have to do with anything, Dumbshit? Get to the good part!”
Well, frankly, I was the result of a pair of fifteen year old kids getting frisky and doing some exploring and “whoops! Working as the factory intended.” I guess they could have aborted me. While rarer back then, abortion wasn’t unknown. Instead, they gave me up for adoption.
And don’t get me wrong. I love my family. They are my real parents in every way that matters, God keep their souls. And I never once doubted that I was loved and treasured by them so long as they lived.
But, I also know that my sperm and egg donor tossed me aside like a used condom or tampon.
And I would not, could not possibly, risk passing that along to another possible child. Nope. Nope. Nope. I could wait to have sex until I got together with someone whom we were both willing to stick by each other and raise a kid together for the next eighteen years, if one happened.
Frankly, Wendy wouldn’t have been my first choice. In fact, if it had been left up to me, I doubt I would have ever gone on a date with her. Or even spoken to her.
But, then, if it’d been left to me, I might not have had a single date through college and grown old alone.
Wendy was not the prettiest girl working at Sam’s Wholesale Club running the registers while I brought in carts. That, if I could only choose one, probably would have been Deanna, although Lori and Kayla were so damn close tied for second as to make it a matter of how they were wearing their blonde, red, and brunette manes that day. Not to mention Luna who appeared in Playboy’s “Girls of the Southwest Conference” that year. Although Luna wasn’t really “pretty” so much as she had big tits and a wasp waist.
But, no. Wendy wasn’t the prettiest by a long shot. But, neither was she ugly. I could easily to this day, decades later, name ten cashiers that were uglier without even mentioning the two hairy legged guys.
Wendy was, however, the strangest.
It was the 80s, the age of “big hair”. Wendy wore her “dirty-dishwater” mane cut at shoulder length, which I guess wasn’t really all that strange even then. Or wouldn’t have been if she’d just left it alone. But, she swept it up into a topknot sticking straight up on top of her head right in the big middle like Alfalfa from the Little Rascals. Only instead of slicked or pointed, it was held in a rubber band and bushed out like paint brush.
An unfortunate choice since with her heart shaped face, narrow shoulders and modest breasts, from the waist up “paint brush” was exactly what leapt to mind the first time I saw her.
And then there were her clothing choices. Her boots were too clunky. Her jeans were…not firm like denim should be and her ass wiggled around like two pigs wrestling under a blanket when ankara eve gelen escort she walked away. Most of the time she wore men’s crew neck basic white t-shirts up top.
Wendy never really smiled, either. Oh, she was almost always sort of smiling, most of the time anyway. But, it looked like only the left side of her mouth worked when she smiled. The left corner would twitch up by itself, and no teeth showed. It gave her a sardonic twist and I always felt subtly ridiculed whenever she turned it on me.
Not that I was any great catch.
Yeah, okay. I had played football in high school and was a little bit of a fanatic about working out. I was pretty solid with broad shoulders and a lot of muscle and little enough fat that the team Doc had called me out to put some fat on if I wanted to stay healthy.
But, I was only five and a half feet tall, so all that bulky muscle made me look more like a fireplug than an Adonis. Useful for pushing a string of twenty-five carts at a time back in, not so much for impressing the girls.
And, lest we forget, it was fucking July or August in West-by-God-Texas when we first laid eyes on each other. And I was running around on an asphalt parking lot for six and eight hour stints right through the hottest part of the day. I was always drenched in sweat, covered in salt from previous sweat not to mention dirt, and my face was usually peeling away in chunks from sun and wind burn.
I usually wore shorts and tank tops, which might have showed off my musculature to advantage to any that were into bulk. But, I was also cursed with enough body hair that my team nickname in high school was “Link” for Missing Link. And thick body hair hadn’t been a thing since the mid-70s so most guys peeled the glued toupees off their chests.
I don’t wonder why Playgirl never called.
So, perhaps it wasn’t really all that odd that Wendy and I, neither of us the prime specimens of our respective genders, managed to find each other. But, I doubt we would have even so, if she hadn’t grasped the bull by the horns and asked me out.
It was either late August or early September by then. I don’t remember which. I only know it was because the sun was touching the horizon when we both got off at closing time rather than a finger high in sky.
I was hot, sweaty, and tired. I was covered in parking lot grime and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have smelled too good even if I hadn’t stepped in the dirty diaper someone had thrown out after changing their baby. I really just wanted to drive home, which I still lived with my Mom thirty miles away in one of the smaller surrounding towns, shower and maybe veg in front of the television before getting some sleep. I had a dollar in my car glove box. And I wasn’t really interested in Wendy per se.
But, I’d also been without a girlfriend since early July and had lost touch with my high school buddies already as we’d scattered after graduation like dandelion fuzz on the West Texas winds. Maybe I was lonely. I don’t know. I’d never been all that popular, but I had kept busy.
And I was intrigued both by Wendy’s strangeness and her sheer chutzpah to walk up to me and ask me if I would go grab a bite to eat with her and offer to pay for it when I said I didn’t have any money. At least as long as I didn’t order the whole left side of the menu or anything crazy.
I don’t think I would have classified that first outing to McDonalds as a raving success by any scale as we limped around in conversational circles without really finding any common ground.
I was a Baptist who still went to church when I didn’t have to work. She thought her family might have been catholic, but she’d never been in a church in her life.
I’d played football and worked out incessantly in the off season hoping to overcome my lack of height to make a college team, which I hadn’t. Wendy had worked at a local music store when school was over for the day and had skated out of any extra-curricular through work/study.
Wendy liked to go to dance clubs, which I still think qualify as bars since they serve alcohol, and dance. Did I mention I was Baptist and actually pretty serious about it? Dancing was a no go. As was drinking. And such places were obviously dens of iniquity.
Yeah, all in all I think Adolph Hitler and Mahatma Gandhi would have had better luck finding something to talk about. Just don’t ask me which of us was which in that comparison.
Thinking about it now, I really could not say what in the hell she might have been thinking to ask me out again a few days later. Or what was running through my mind that I actually went.
But, we did. And then again. And then again.
She dragged me to the dance club. I dragged her to football games to retaliate each time. We tried miniature golf and bowling, which I don’t think either of us liked much since we only did each once.
And, oh God, the movies. I liked starships, sword and sorcery, or action films with a quota of gaziosmanpaşa escort bullets and explosions. I swear Wendy liked anything but those. I had more class than to heckle when it was her turn to pick like she did with mine. I just dozed.
And the food choices were ridiculous. About the only thing we could agree on was McDonalds so I could get a couple of Big Macs and she could get a salad. Other than that, I was a chicken fried steak kind of guy with a little spicy Tex-Mex when I was in the mood for something exotic. Wendy wanted to eat Chinese, or Thai, or Indian, or some other crap from some other continent with weird names and even stranger appearance. I drew the line in the sand at that creepy joint where the so-called food was still wriggling on the plate.
But, somehow, some way, we kept ending up spending time together two or three or more times a week until one day I looked up and realized she’d passed from that weird slightly annoying acquaintance you can’t quite seem to shake to a bona-fide girlfriend.
Maybe it was when we met each other’s parents. I’m not sure. I don’t really remember exactly what point we first held hands or kissed. I’m sure they would have been big deals to me, whether or not they were to her, but I just don’t remember. Mostly because of what overshadowed them later.
I said at the beginning I’d never done more than some kissing and some petting. Nothing below the waist.
Wendy had. Only with one guy, granted. But, she had.
Maybe the smartest thing for me to have done would have been to back away from the relationship quietly and easily when she told me. Maybe then I would have remained the four cornered guy I was and gone on to lead a much quieter, if dull and boring, life.
I might have graduated with a different degree which would have led down a different career path. Maybe I would have stuck with engineering or maybe I still would have changed but to something else.
Maybe that’s too heavy a load to place on Wendy’s slender shoulders and our, rather questionable, relationship. But, I calls ’em like I sees ’em. I’m too damn old to do different at this late date.
At any rate, Wendy admitted to me that she’d had sex with her former manager at that record shop. It was really a rather sad story. In a way if it had been to keep her job, some sort of quasi-rape where he used their positions to force her like we hear about in the news, or drugged her or got her drunk, it might not have been quite so sad as what actually happened.
Seems he was the first guy to really pay attention to Wendy. They worked together and eventually got to spending even more time together outside of work. For the first time in her life, Wendy had something like a boyfriend and she liked it. They did the kissing and petting like what I’d done, but she stopped him from going further because back then everybody knew that good girls didn’t do that.
And he seemed to accept the “nothing below the belt” unspoken policy for awhile.
Then he seemed to start drifting away. Nothing big at first. Just spending a little more time with customers wearing low cut tops or high cut skirts. But, then he started being too tired for company after they closed.
I don’t know if “panic” would fit. But, Wendy felt something about losing him strong enough that she decided to go ahead and just do it if she ever had another chance.
And the next time they got together at his place to listen to music and got to kissing and petting, she went further.
And did not enjoy it at all. I don’t know the details. She didn’t offer them and I didn’t think it appropriate to ask. But, at least it seemed to work. For a little while. They stayed together and had sex a few more times.
Wendy broke it off, going so far to quit her job and come to work at Sam’s, after one night when he commented that he would never marry a woman who’d slept around.
I knew what he meant, or thought I did. And I didn’t think it was meant to include Wendy sleeping with him and only him. But, that was how she took it and so she ended it before he could.
Dumb asses all of us. Him for popping off at the mouth without thinking it through first. Her for misunderstanding and not giving him a chance to pull his foot out. Me for, for whatever reason, not heeding the warnings and strolling away, slowly so as not to draw attention.
Bigger dumb ass me, I didn’t have the first idea that the female of the species could actually get horny.
Sure, sure. It’s funny now, how naïve I was. But, I seriously didn’t know. In my indoctrinated world view, women gave sex to get love and men gave love to get sex. Men got horny and women put up with it for relationships and kids and whatever.
I damn sure never figured that women, some women anyway, could get horny enough that it ached.
After so long, I’ve learned enough to know that thinking of women as a collective is just as big a mistake as thinking of men as a collective. Both genders ankara grup escort can run the gamut from never feeling the slightest sexual drive at all to it being only slightly less important than breathing but more important than food.
Wendy was the first I’d met that experienced an ache, a deep abiding ache she hadn’t felt before she’d had sex, although I didn’t have the slightest clue.
We’d been going out for a couple of months, maybe three, and hadn’t done more than hold hands, kiss, and a little light petting (and very little of the last), when we reached that fateful evening in late October.
We’d grabbed some McDonalds, the only compromise we could find, and after eating had gone to a park she liked to take me to when she wanted to talk about something she wanted privacy to discuss.
We hadn’t worked that day and I had driven in, fresh from a shower, to spend time with her. I doubt things would have fallen out as they did if we’d been sweaty and stinky from a long day at work.
We’d left my car at her parent’s house as we usually did. In her words, “if you burn your gas driving for a half-hour each way to spend time with me, we can burn my gas in town”. Again, I don’t think things would have worked out as they did if I’d had a steering wheel protecting my lap.
Most of it, I remember as if it were earlier this evening. Parts I guess just didn’t make a lasting impression.
I sort of remember her shutting off the engine and looking out the windshield at the playa lake in the middle before turning to look at me, although that may be a composite of the many, many times she took me there before that night to talk about something “important” in relative privacy.
I don’t remember what it was she said, although I know we were there for several minutes with me listening and trying to pretend to care.
Then, Wendy leaned over and kissed me.
I know I said we’d kissed before that, and we had. But, it was really more of a junior high or high school kind of “adults might see us” kiss. Somewhat longer and gentler than quick perfunctory pecks, but not quite up to playing on the big screen in Hollywood.
The kiss Wendy laid on me reached down through my throat and pulled out my soul with her tongue.
I should probably explain here that I’d sort of overheard our favorite uncle teasing my younger sister several years before about kissing. He claimed the couple kissing on the television, the guy was spitting in her mouth. My little sister was maybe eight at the time and of course busted out with “Ewwwww!”
And I wholeheartedly agreed with her. I ran for the bathroom as fast as my twelve year old legs would carry me and threw up a little.
I mean, seriously now. That was just nasty.
As a result, almost all of the kissing I’d done up to that point had been mostly of the “dry” variety. A couple of girls had gotten a little sloppy, but I’d pretty much managed to keep their slobber out of my mouth. And I’d darn sure kept my saliva locked away behind my lips. I mean, it was only polite to do so since I wasn’t really wild about the idea of hocking loogies at each other.
Yeah, yeah. Pretty damn funny. Heap big jock getting grossed out by slobber like some little grade school girl chanting about “cooties”.
But, when Wendy laid that kiss on me, damn. My brain turned off and I forgot all about worrying about such things as saliva being a bodily fluid and thus capable of spreading some diseases albeit not the worst like that new HIV shit they were talking about in high school health classes and the news.
Her soft lips were pressing and sucking and mashing and tugging on mine. Then her strong tongue pressed against my slightly parted lips and I didn’t even think of trying to keep the invader out, but flicked my own tongue out to fence with hers.
Suddenly, she paused and pulled away.
“God, Kevin.” She panted. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this. Or how much.”
I knew there was a reason we hadn’t, but I couldn’t think what it was in my dazed lip drunk state. Nor was I given a chance to track down the thought as she leaned into me again.
It couldn’t, could not possibly, have been comfortable for her. The steering wheel was pressing against her on the left, the seat she was twisted in didn’t give her much room to pull away from it on the right. And she drove a Volkswagen Rabbit with a manual gear shift she was leaning across to reach me where I was sitting comfortably, not even turned, in the passenger seat.
Maybe that’s why she paused again long enough pop the steering column up and slide her seat back and then clamber over the hump to straddle me in the passenger seat where her hand found the handle on the side to cause my seat to fall back.
“Shh.” She said. “Please. Just let me kiss you, Kevin. Really kiss you. It feels so good to finally just do it.”
Having her straddling me and the words she said, particularly the final sentence, sent alarm bells jangling, but they were muted as her lips found mine once more.
Almost of their own accord, my arms wrapped around Wendy as she leaned into me, our lips and tongues dancing like flames. There was no way she could put her arms, slender as they were, between my back and the seat, and her hands clutched at my shoulders instead.