F4TF: first times

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The questions:

What was the first overtly sexual act you performed on someone else or had performed on you? How did you feel about it afterwards?

There are a couple of firsts that I wouldn’t quite define as “overtly sexual”: first kiss (woo!); first time a guy touched my breasts (yawn).

I think the first overtly sexual act would be receiving cunnilingus. And the weird thing is that I have absolutely no recollection of the event.

I can reconstruct it up to a point: I’m certain that I know which boyfriend it was (a good guy, we’re still friends). It probably happened at my place. He would have initiated it and I would have allowed it: I wouldn’t have thought to actively want it, and even if I did, I would have been struck mute and unable to ask for it. I’m quite sure I didn’t come. I’m pretty sure he went down on me more than just the once.

It’s curious to have a blind spot about something that was, both at the time and in retrospect, so significant, and I wonder if I blocked it out because of my general sexual shame. Objectively speaking (if objectivity is remotely relevant in the context of deeply emotional issues), it wasn’t a negative experience, and cunnilingus would be the first sexual act I did with many if not most subsequent boyfriends. So, all in all it was a positive experience.

If only I could remember it.

See who else is talking about first times here.

Gawan: hands and mouth

We were lying on the bed, clothed, kissing. Gawan’s hand reached down, only one possible destination. I stopped him: “I’m not ready for that yet.” And he abandoned the quest.

Later in the day, from much the same starting point, he shifted down the bed and put his hands on my hips, the tips of his fingers curling inside the waistband of my snug, yoga-pant style shorts. The gesture was a question in the form of a statement. This time, my answer was wordless too: I lifted my hips, allowing him to tug down my shorts and underwear. As far as I was aware, the only thing that had changed was the passage of time. Perhaps that was all I needed.

He settled himself between my thighs and leisurely began to explore me with his tongue. Licking and sucking contentedly, he occasionally gave a deep hum of appreciation, savoring me.

Occasionally, he would punctuate his attentions by slowly and very deliberately biting that fleshy spot at the top of my inner thigh — first on the right, then on the left — just to the point where I’d suck air through my teeth or gasp a little as it started to register as painful. In those moments, leading me to the edge of pain seemed to be his goal.

He left me in no doubt that he was happy to be where he was. And a good thing, too.

I don’t come easily. For a long time, oral sex was the only way a partner could get me off, and even then it was never all that reliable. Buying a vibrator (first a We-Vibe Touch, then a Hitachi Magic Wand) has changed my sex life rather significantly for the better. A vibe offers consistency, so once I figure out what works, I can replicate it. Also, it’s a lot easier to find what works when I’m both experiencing and controlling the sensation, rather than trying to give directions when I can’t explain, or don’t know, what I want.

Gawan subscribes to a sort of chivalry that includes the premise that, on the matter of orgasms, it’s ladies first. I had brought the Hitachi*, but his sexual pride eschews electric methods: he much prefers “acoustic”. And to a certain extent, I can see his point: especially when you’re establishing a new connection, mediating the experience with a tool creates a bit of distance and might feel impersonal. Anyway, I wasn’t surprised when we didn’t get there on the first try — he’s a new lover, and we weren’t using the technique that works most reliably for me.

In addition to his oral skills, he also paid attention to my nipples in a broadly experimental way. He rolled them slowly between his fingers, pulled, and twisted them until I groaned. He pinched, trying different levels of intensity until I gasped. He sucked on them lavishly. He grazed them with his teeth and bit gently, but discovered that the sharpness was too much for me.

Fortunately, he is a fan of cunnilingus. He had set himself a task, and he returned to it with enthusiasm. He managed to get me right up to the edge many times, so he got to hear a sampling of my range of appreciative warbles.

The man’s tongue has incredible stamina, and while he took a couple of well-deserved breaks, I never actually sensed him tire during all that time. After a tremendous amount of work on his part (and a tremendous amount of wishing myself over the edge), Gawan finally got me off. As we were later to discover, he had in fact licked me a bit raw.

At another time, despite the fact that I don’t get off on being watched, I decided to be brave and demonstrated how I use the Hitachi to give myself an orgasm in about 5 or 10 minutes. He didn’t have a role in the process and we weren’t really connecting, so the result was more awkwardness than shared intimacy in that moment.


*Note to self: The Touch, which I guess would be considered a bullet vibe, would have been the better choice to bring on the trip. It’s purple and curvy, with a wider handle end and a narrower business end. It has been described as looking like a potato, but I think it’s more like a meaty thumb. Odd as it looks, it’s still reasonably subtle. The Hitachi is good at getting the job done, but it’s huge in comparison — about as long as my arm from elbow to fist — and looks like a cartoonish karaoke microphone. Subtle it is not. Mostly I think I succumbed to the temptation posed by having lots of room in my bag.

overcoming my fear of cock

For a long time, in my mind “cock = bad”, or perhaps more specifically “dangerous”. I had absorbed the idea that a cock was a source of bad things, including degradation.

When I started having sex, this idea proved to be a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Deep down, I mostly didn’t want sex. My body knew this but my brain didn’t acknowledge it, and so it was uncomfortable or actively hurt (because I was tense and not wet) and it didn’t provide me with any particularly pleasurable sensations. I just didn’t get the point. In addition to the fact that I tend to be a little squeamish about bodily fluids, I was also a little paranoid about cum (and even pre-cum) because that’s the stuff that ruins lives by making babies.

When I was about 10, I learned about blowjobs from a photo in a magazine belonging to my friend’s older brother. It made me uncomfortable and I found it degrading (although I probably didn’t even understand that word yet).

The first blowjob I ever performed was for the perpetually demanding and insensitive Bad Boy. He worked me over and pestered and I eventually allowed myself to be talked into it, but I didn’t really want to do it even while I was doing it. Nothing awful happened (I don’t think he even got off), but being pressured served to reinforce my distaste for the whole business.

The first (and, for years, only) time I went down on my partner was during our early days. I’d bought a flavoured condom for the occasion, which served to make me feel safer even if it didn’t add anything directly to the aesthetic experience. He didn’t pressure me in any way, but I pressured myself. He remembers it fondly — me, not so much, but that’s nothing to do with him and everything to do with me not listening to my gut.

I had always considered it to be an inherently degrading act. When I read That Book and started considering hard and soft limits, I knew fellatio was a hard limit for me, although I appreciated the fact that it was depicted positively. It’s one thing to see this in erotic fiction, but when I began reading women (mostly bloggers, such as Hyacinth) who truly enjoy cock, it was a revelation.

I was not interested in cock, nor did I much want to touch or handle one. If my partner asked and I was feeling sufficiently brave, I would touch him over his underwear. I felt that this touching was something I should do but wasn’t always able to do. The only way to honor his request for attention involved pushing myself. Not good.

But it occurred to me recently that I had an excessively firm boundary about any kind of touch. He had earned my trust a long time ago, but I only realized it recently. When I began deliberately trusting him, it changed the dynamic radically. Instead of fretting about a violation and thus vigilantly policing the boundary (believing this was the only way to keep myself safe), I now figure out where the boundary is and let him know, then leave it to him to respect it and he does. I’ve chosen to remove the wall and be vulnerable and am rewarded with more intimacy. It’s fucking awesome.

I’ve been consciously working on expanding my boundaries while conscientiously respecting my gut. Sometimes I touch his cock simply because I feel like it — he has repeatedly assured me that he will always welcome it, so I don’t fear rejection. If he requests it, I understand that he’s not trying to pressure me. I also don’t pressure myself — if it doesn’t feel right in the moment, I go with my gut and say no. No big deal.

I started testing ideas by fantasizing about them and was pleasantly surprised when these (previously challenging, even distasteful) thoughts actually turned me on, which told me I was on the right track. Now the ideas seem merely “naughty” (and fun), rather than “bad” (and unfun). From touching with lips and cheek, to licking and kissing, I accomplished my first freely and lovingly given blowjob a few days ago. A milestone!

Dark Ages 7: Bad Boy (still) and Dude

As payback for the oral he’d done for me before, Bad Boy manipulated me into giving my first blowjob. He pushed and pushed, and I eventually gave in. It was in his car, on a muddy dirt road outside of town. Afterwards, we had to turn the car around and we ended up getting stuck in the mud, so I got home quite late, and my dad was pissed off and waiting to have an argument with me when I got back. Fun times.

Things got weird(er) with Bad Boy and I started to not recognize myself. During the summer, we had a major fight and ended up half-dressed and shouting at each other in the street. I had always been bookish and reserved (still am). What the fuck? He made me crazy.

Sometimes when I was with him I got upset and frustrated. I don’t remember what would set me off, but I’d feel like I wanted to say something or do something but I was frozen, like all the words piled into each other at the back of my throat and none could get out, or maybe there just were no words. I was thrumming with trapped energy and frustration, feeling overwhelmed. To bring myself back to my body and sensations that I could manage, I’d usually punch a wall. One time when I was already worked up, he said my behavior embarrassed him. That only increased my frustration and explosive emotions. (We were out and there was no wall. Things might have taken a different trajectory if I’d punched him.) I’ve never had this kind of interaction with any other boyfriend before or since.

For a long time, I felt like I needed to be with someone, but at some point I started feeling like it had to be him. That was new. And weird, because I wasn’t actually that happy being with him. It was almost like an addiction.

Around Christmas, I ran into Dude (remember him from that New Year’s Eve party?) and we hung out a bit. He came over and we sat on the couch and talked. He started to put the moves on rather aggressively, so I backed away and told him I had a boyfriend, but he wasn’t deterred. (He should have listened to and respected my words, but now I wonder if my doubts about my relationship with Bad Boy made me sound unconvincing.) Dude insisted on kissing me, at which point I pushed him away. It wasn’t pleasant but at least he got the message, backed off and left.

I’d had a birthday recently and was now legal drinking age. My interest in drinking immediately waned; I suppose most of the appeal was the rule-breaking. Then I found out that an acquaintance was doing acid and suddenly that seemed like a great idea. Bad Boy helped me source it and was there when I dropped for the first time. Once (the first time?), he wanted to have sex but I didn’t and told him no. He said I wouldn’t remember it, and I gave in. Well, I remembered everything, including the fact that I didn’t want to and I didn’t enjoy it.

(Years later, I learned that it was sexual assault because intoxicated consent isn’t valid consent. I felt shitty about it all over again: I’m now a victim, a statistic. I agonized about whether to report it but never bothered, and now I know it would never have gone to trial anyway. I’ve come to terms with it all, at least.)

I dropped acid 4 times in the space of 5 weeks because suddenly I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted to do on a weekend, which freaked me out a little. I felt trapped — not really by the relationship (although that must have been a big part of it), but by life generally.

I also got sick: I developed a bunch of canker sores all over my tongue and the inside of mouth. I could barely eat because everything was either too sharp or too acidic, and I could barely talk because the feeling of my tongue against the inside of my mouth was too painful. The doctor never did figure out what it was. I wonder if it was from stress.

Eventually, Bad Boy and I decided to take another “break” though we continued to hang out sometimes. For a while, I fully expected that we would get back together, but we never did. That was a bullet dodged, but I wasn’t out of the woods yet.

Dark Ages 6: HFH (again) and Bad Boy (again)

With impeccable timing, Home for the Holidays turned up again, 2½ years after we’d first met, while I was conveniently single.

Summer night, his parents’ place. We sneak in the back door, quietly down into the basement — his domain. He puts on a movie, we start watching. After 20 minutes, wide awake, movie thoroughly forgotten, he’s leading me to his bedroom. He asks, fervently, may he lick me between my thighs? Mmm, yes please.

I liked receiving oral; Bad Boy did it only occasionally and with bad grace. What a revelation that a guy might enjoy it enough to ask me if I would allow it.

A few days later HFH asked if he could make love to me and I said yes, but logistics was an issue and his parents’ place was out. (It could be that they were still up and they’d hear us, which would be awkward. It could be that they’d wonder who he was having sex with, given the fact — I later discovered — that he had a girlfriend in another city.)

We (he) decided to go to a central but rather seedy hotel and he gallantly offered to pay. He didn’t actually have the cash on him but would pay me back.

We slept together that night; I didn’t feel pressured and it was nice. And though I don’t really remember anything else about it, it must have been at least OK for me because we had sex again in the morning.

Later, he dropped by my place (I wasn’t the only one home) and handed me the cash. It was … awkward. I had already been thinking that this maybe wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had.

Not long afterwards, Bad Boy and I got together again. I must have confessed that my groin had been itchy and he offered to take a look. Oh god! I had crabs! I sat on the counter in the basement bathroom while he painstakingly removed the crabs with tweezers. There was an uncomfortable discussion about where they’d come from, and he got pissed off at me about HFH, even though I’d been single at the time. He blamed HFH for it, and I ended up writing a snarky letter to HFH, which I delivered to his parents’ house in a sealed envelope the day before he left town. It didn’t occur to me until much later that the source might actually have been the bedding in the dodgy motel. Oops.