The real-life adventures of a girl who is willing to try just about anything.


Being bisexual

Today is Bi Visibility Day. I am proudly bisexual (pansexual, really). This is why gay rights are so important to me. I am currently in a long term relationship with a man that I love dearly, but could have just as easily been a woman with whom I’d fallen in love. I’ve loved many women (and men) in my past. Bi Visibility Day is a thing because so many of us happen to be in seemingly heterosexual relationships that we “pass” or “blend,” that we’re considered invisible. We are often occused of availing ourselves of heterosexual privelege because of that. I shed my supposed invisibility and make my voice heard to fight proudly for rights for myself and all of my LGBT brothers and sisters. (copied today from my “normal” or “vanilla” everyday Facebook under my real name)

This post has been sitting in my Drafts folder for a long time now, waiting to be written. Today is the perfect day to finally dust it off, polish it up, and publish it!

Sinful Sunday – Band aid

“We are not Groupies. Groupies sleep with rock stars because they want to be near someone famous. We are here because of the music, we inspire the music. We are Band Aids.” 
– Penny Lane (Kate Hudson), Almost Famous

Last weekend I had the extreme pleasure of seeing one of my all-time favorite bands, The Greyhounds, perform TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW!!! Before then, it had been about 8 years since I’d been able to catch a show. In recent years, they’ve been performing with one of my other favorite bands, (JJ Grey and) Mofro, so I did see them a few years ago as part of that act. But it had been far too long since I was able to see them play their own music.

I will relive both nights in my head for a long, long time. Both shows were excellent and I danced my ass off, getting all hot and sweaty in the humid Florida night. I also spent a fair amount of time talking with the band. In all honesty, I would’ve jumped at the chance to do much more than just talk with them, like the good little band slut that I am, but they are all really nice guys and I guess for just a little while I wanted to pretend to be a really nice girl, too.

Of course, I wasn’t such a nice girl that I didn’t get at least one souvenir out of the deal. Nothing like four hot, talented guys touching your breasts at the end of the night! Thanks for indulging me, guys. Just remember that next time you come around, I’m more than willing to be the one indulging you!

Photo taken by the owner of the bottom signature on my right boob.

[Btw, Dee, although I wasn’t trying at the time, I believe this may be the first ‘bar/pub’ photo, am I correct? It was also a concert, but after the fact. :)]

Posted in participation with Sinful Sunday, hosted by Molly’s Daily Kiss.Click below to see who else is showing off their signature assets this Sunday.

She keeps time

I ran into my ex-girlfriend at the grocery store last night. Not my Princess Angel. The drummer. So you know what that means. Yes, that’s right. A trip in the “WABAC (way back) Machine, Mr. Peabody.” (50 Cool Points for that if you catch the reference without clicking the link.)
While my Angel was my first girl love, the drummer was my first girl relationship. It started with a bang and ended with one, too, albeit of a different sort.

In my late 20’s I decided to abstain from men for a period that ultimately lasted about 4 years. I hadn’t permanently sworn off men, or even meant for it to go that long. I just figured out that I had been dating the wrong sorts of men for me. I realized that I needed to get away from the “bad boys” I was meeting. I promised myself I wouldn’t date another guy until I was back in school. My theory that meeting a guy in school would: A. be reasonably intelligent, B. have some sort of goals and/or ambition, and/or C. share some common interests with me if I met him in one of my classes.
I decided to spend time pursuing women to see if I fared better with them. While I had learned that it was possible to truly love another woman, I didn’t yet know that I would be able to actually have a relationship with one. I thought that it might feel as if something was missing. I went on a few dates, but none of them went any further than the first date.
Bea and I were introduced by a lesbian couple with whom we were mutual friends. She was invited over to hang out with us one night at my brother’s house and she and I hit it off right from the start.  She had such a bright smile, a booming laugh, and twinkly, mischievous eyes. Not to mention hips and an ass that made my mouth water, nice and wide!
I don’t remember where we went on our first date a week later, but it was probably Olive Garden because that was one of her favorite restaurants. I do remember that I wore my first-ever “little black dress” and a pair of very hot, strappy black wedge heels. We met for our date at a local music store, and she walked right past me because she didn’t recognize me. I watched her look around for a minute or two, completely looking past me once again before she saw me. “Daaaaaaamn!” was all she could say.
I still have this dress in the back of my closet.
One day I’ll wear it again. After I lose 50lbs.

After dinner we went to hang out with some of her other musician friends. We had a few drinks and got high while we were there, but didn’t really get to talk much. What I remember most about that night was one of the things I did to impress her: I held a live Mexican red-kneed tarantula and let it crawl up my bare arm, although I was at the time extremely arachnophobic. It’s amazing the things we do to impress those we like. (Once I also jumped off a bridge once into a rushing river to impress a guy.) 
At the end of the night she walked me out to my car. Once we were there she told me that she really liked me and had a fantastic time, but that her ex-girlfriend had just asked her if they could give it another chance. She explained that this had been back and forth for a couple years now, but that she loved her ex and had to give it one last shot. Then she kissed me in a way that sent electricity through my body and brought tears to my eyes.
Unsurprisingly things didn’t work out with her ex, but we were kept apart again when she was offered and opportunity to play drums for an up-and-coming band. In Orlando. 
One night while she was living in Orlando, she and I were having some seriously steamy phone sex when I decided on a spur of the moment to shower and drive down to visit her. At 2am. Wearing only a black nighty, those strappy heels, and a black trench coat. I didn’t even think to pack an overnight bag. The look on her face when she opened the door was priceless. The what-ifs of the situation didn’t occur to me until later: What if I’d gotten an flat tire? What if I’d been pulled over? What if my car broke down? 
It was the wee hours of July 4th and I didn’t have to be back to work until the 6th. We fucked until the sun came up before we finally feel asleep. It was when we woke up later in the afternoon that I realized I didn’t even have anything to wear. I borrowed some clothes and shoes from her, then we went to partake of the Independence Day festivities at Universal City Walk. To this day, that ranks as the most dazzling fireworks display I have ever seen.
A few months later she moved back from Orlando and that’s when she and I began to see each other in earnest. Translation: we would go out for a dinner/movie/show/drinks/whatever and then go back to her parents’ house where she was living and try to fuck as quietly as possible. Her parents were elderly, in their 60’s (she was a love child, the only child her parents had together when her mom was 40) so we did our best to keep it down, but it was very difficult. One night we got a motel room just so we could be as loud as we wanted.
I was renting a room from my sister and her fiance at the time, but spent most nights with her. I don’t recall her ever coming to my place. Finally after about two months we decided to get an apartment together, beginning a very tumultuous year and a half.

As was the story with most of my relationships for the first decade and a half of my adulthood, it was centered mostly on sex. Once the sex slowed down, as it will tend to do in most relationships after the “honeymoon period,” the problems arose. I’m not even going to begin to get into any of those issues, because there were many, and that’s not what this post is about.

Those first few months living together were great. We fucked all the time and loudly. For the first time we were able to be completely unrestrained and uninhibited. We also had little to no self-awareness about how much noise we were making. Our building was a quadplex with two apartments downstairs and two apartment upstairs. And apparently the walls were thin.

What brought it all home for us was one Saturday afternoon. We were not fucking, for a change, but we were lounging around in bed. We heard our across-the-hall neighbors having sex. And it was obvious that they were trying to be quiet. The only sounds they were making were some squeaky springs and heavy breathing. Not even any moans or cries. But we heard it all as if it was happening in the room with us.

After that day, we started to notice the other sounds we could hear. We’d never met the guy who lived upstairs, Al (we knew his name from mis-delivered mail), but we could hear his alarm clock in the morning, and hear him padding around his bedroom once he got up and before he went to bed. He never had anyone over for sex as far as we could tell.

He began to play into our fantasies, however. We were excited at the thought of him listening to us up there, his bed directly above ours, maybe stroking his cock. We also used to joke if he thought and/or worried about us from time to time. “I haven’t heard the dykes downstairs fucking for a few days. I wonder if they’re having a fight?? I hope everything’s okay.”

We also had this grand fantasy of having a quadplex fuck-off. The idea was that we would coordinate with our neighbors (none of whom we ever met, now that I think about it), and we would all plan to have a fuckathon at the same time to see who could be the loudest. In our little make-believe ideal, we would also have our windows open to share our joyous noises with the neighborhood, and hope to inspire more.

Under her hands, mouth, and tongue, I learned firsthand exactly what all of the exquisite torture I used to give my Angel felt like. In fact, not long after I had been thoroughly fucked by her several times, I made a lunch date with Angel and apologized profusely for never giving her a break. She got a big laugh out of that, saying that no apologies were required but she was glad I found what what it was like.

I also learned that, while it’s not exactly the same thing, the right dildo can be just as hot and satisfying as a real cock. Aside from masturbation, my only experiences with double-penetration have been with her. She never used an actual strap-on with me, but she did have a nice array of different sizes and lengths and we tried them all.

While the relationship itself was a disaster, she had an indelible impact on my life. I feel her presence in my life every day. Mostly because she had a large role in completely reshaping my tastes in music. When she and I met, I was listening to mostly Nine Inch Nails and Marilyn Manson. She joined a band that would become my favorite band of all-time, Mofro. Through her I learned an appreciate for jazz, blues, soul, and even rap. If it were not for her, my musical tastes would not be nearly as eclectic as they are now. For that, I’ll forever be grateful.

One other interesting thing I wanted to share that came as a result of our relationship was something I like to call the Lesbian Name Game. I actually haven’t thought about it in a really long time until I started writing this. See, the Lesbian Name Game predicts the evolution of a woman’s name as she embraces being a lesbian. You start with a feminine given name which becomes a shortened masculine nickname and eventually ends up as just an initial. We saw this happen many times in the local community. For example, Bernice become Bernie and finally just Bea. Tonya would turn into Tony and then just T. She was actually never known as Bernie (I actually used to call her ‘ma bella Bernicio’ incorporating her middle initial O), but I did go through a Tony phase for a while. While I am no longer consider myself a lesbian, except for part-time sometimes for the right girl, many of my friends do call me T.

My Princess Angel

I originally wrote this last March for my LiveJournal account. It was originally titled, “I’ve got to get emo for just a minute,” hence the opening line. It has been edited to include more intimate content and an update at the end.
Because I just felt a really big crack in my heart. I just got a friend request on Facebook from someone who’s been on my mind A LOT lately. Almost nonstop. Because her birthday is Friday. Not only is her birthday Friday, our BIG DAY is rapidly approaching. What is the BIG DAY? It’s a day in June of this year—the day her son graduates from high school. What is so special about that day? It’s the day that I’m supposed to kidnap her from her current life and whisk her away and she and I ride off into the sunset to live happily ever after. A sweet, naive dream written a long time ago by a sweet, naive, lovesick girl.
She is my Princess Angel. The one who set the bar for all who followed. She is the one with whom I learned that is absolutely possible to love and be completely satisfied with another woman. She is the one with whom I learned passion. And heart-breaking sacrifice.

I met her a few months shy of my 21st birthday. We worked together at a pancake house that was open 24 hours on Friday and Saturday nights. The rest of the week it was open until 2am. Except for Sundays. On Sundays we closed at midnight, just in time for us girls to get off work and head to the bar down the street for some late happy hour drinks. She and I were friendly in a co-worker way. I actually didn’t really like her when I first met her because I thought she was kind of snotty. But she was gorgeous. Naturally-red hair, freckles scattered liberally over milky-white skin, and eyes a color that make you want to lounge on an island in the Caribbean with a piña colada.
One Sunday night that could have been any other Sunday night with the girls, I had stepped away from our table to throw some darts with another girl. I’d left my drink at the table so after I finished my turn, I went back to get it. When I walked up to the table I was just in time to hear the question, “Have you ever been with another girl?” Since I’d arrived at that moment, I was queried by the lovely redhead herself.
Not having heard the rest of the conversation about whether it was “ew, gross!” or “so totally hot!” and not being nearly so bold and fearless as I am now (I wasn’t even old enough to drink in that bar legally), I demurred with a “no comment.” Grinning like I’d just fallen into her neatly-laid trap, she sprung on me. “Ah ha! I’ve got you!” Right away I flipped the question back to her. She donned a coy expression and mirrored my response, “No comment.” Having grown suddenly shy, I somehow managed to extricate myself from the conversation and headed back to the dart boards to finish my game.
I would imagine that there was more verbal sparring between us and drunken flirting, but I don’t remember much of the rest of the time at the bar that night. I also don’t remember under what excuse we were able to get away from the other girls. Amazingly enough, I don’t even remember our first kiss. I think it was probably quick and stolen at some point in the ladies’ room when we happened to find ourselves alone.
However, I do remember the first time we fucked. It was the first time either of us had ever had sex with a woman. We’d both fooled around with girls before, explored our sexuality a bit, so to speak, but had never gone “all the way.”
Looking for a place with privacy, we ended up going to this church at the back of a nearby industrial park. It’s where we sometimes went with the girls to get high after we’d left the bar. There were picnic tables behind the church and we were sitting on one of those, me on the tabletop with my legs dangling off the end as I had a habit of doing and her on the bench as one should sit.
It started so typically, with a massage. It was the easiest, most comfortable way for us to get to what we really wanted to do: touch each other. She’d said that her shoulders hurt so of course I offered my hands. She stood up and moved between my legs, turning her back toward me. Once my hands were on her, they only remained at her shoulders for a short time before they ventured further. When I reached down into the front of her halfway-unbuttoned shirt to squeeze her breasts and find her nipples, she turned around and her lips met mine.
That kiss lit a furnace of desire in me. For months, I had been fantasizing about being with a woman. Every time I went down on my boyfriend, I did my best to imagine what it would be like to be licking pussy instead. Under those circumstances, it’s incredible that I didn’t just strip her and throw her down right there. As it was, I slid off the table, unbuttoned her shirt the rest of the way and covered her neck, chest, and breast with kisses.
It wasn’t long before I’d spun her around, boosted her up to the table and lifted her long uniform skirt while she leaned back to allow me access and give herself over to me. I removed her pantyhose and underwear, releasing the absolutely intoxicating scent of her dripping cunt. A natural redhead, the carpet did in fact match the drapes, as they say. Her red pubic hair was neither thick nor sparse, but curled toward her wet slit. I hesitated not a moment before diving in to pure heaven.
Since then I have likened the taste of her pussy to strawberries and cream but that is obviously more of an associative comparison due to her luscious red hair and milky white skin. I noticed right away that she tasted different than I do, tangier, but in no way unpleasant. I lapped her juices and tongued her clit until she begged me to stop. I don’t know how many times I made her cum, but it was more than a few. I could’ve continued all night, but as we didn’t get out there until after the bar closed at 2am, we could only guess at how late it was. We were both expected at our respective homes and didn’t want to have to do too much explaining.
She took a moment to catch her breath and then we were kissing again. When we broke apart she asked me if I was sure I hadn’t done that before. I assured her that I had not, but I would swear that to this day she doesn’t believe me. Finally we parted ways.
That first time was amazing and a whole new world opened up for me—and us— that night.
The months that followed are a blur of frenzied, drunken sex in no-tell motels, parked cars, bathrooms, wherever we could devour each other. Sunday-after-work girls’ nights were quickly complemented with nights of our own. As many as we could steal together. We both had boyfriends and neither of them knew about our illicit affair.
Although truth be told, I did most of the devouring. In all of the time that we were together, I think she went down on me a total of three times. But that was exactly as I wished it to be. I ate her pussy like a demon possessed, usually resulting in desperate pleas for mercy. One night in particular that I’ll never forget, we were at our favorite cheap, seedy, no-tell motel and the room was completely trashed by the time we were done. The sheets had been ripped from the bed, the mattress was askew, the pillows tossed to the far corners of the room, and the headboard ripped out of the wall. You know how they bolt headboard to the wall in places like that? How they’re not attached to the bed at all? She pulled it completely out of the wall, bolts and all. That was the night I licked her asshole for the first time, as I recall. I still have the motel key from the room that night.
She would beg me to stop, just for a moment, just to let her catch her breath. I would come up for air only long enough to grin at her wickedly. “You know better than to ask me that.” She was never strong enough to push me off because her cunt was to me as spinach was to Popeye. She would struggle and she would fight, but I always won.
It was only supposed to be mutual sexploration. Before we knew it, it had morphed into so much more. It was bound to happen, considering the exciting, intimate bond we’d formed. We were both miserable in our relationships with our men, but she was tied to hers by a child. My boyfriend eventually found out and made the fatal mistake of asking me to choose. Of course, there was no choice. I left him and started sleeping on her couch. It made things so much easier for us for a while because her man worked late nights. We had a few rather scary VERY close calls, one of which resulted of her sneaking into bed in the early morning only after his alarm clock had started to go off, under the guise that she’d had to use the bathroom.
We talked all the time about telling him, bringing him into it. We weren’t dishonest people, we didn’t enjoy hiding things. So one night at the bar where it all began, we pulled the thread that would eventually unravel us. Over margaritas, I played the evil seductress and she played the coy one. “You know how it’s always been my fantasy to be with another woman…”
In all of our planning, she and I had never made any ground rules. We didn’t have a clue what we were doing. We never really thought about exactly how far we wanted things to go. And as a result, they went too far. Her angry, hurt words will echo in my head forever: “I can’t believe you fucked her. You said you wouldn’t fuck her.” I’ll never know if she was more upset that he fucked me or that I fucked him. But what was a guy to do, caught between two hot, young women? Not to mention the fact that he had the largest cock I had ever seen at that time.
It didn’t end immediately, but in a lot of ways it might as well have. By this time, I was completely consumed with my love for her and I couldn’t hide from it any longer. All of our friends/co-workers knew, but the most important people did not. I had been sleeping on their couch for months. Additionally, I had quit the restaurant and was working in a bar with her parents: her dad was the manager, her mom was the service bartender, and I was one of the cocktail waitresses. It was a powder-keg situation that could explode at any minute. The pressure just became too much for me to bear.
I may have forgotten many things over the years, but I will never forget the night I broke her heart. I explained to her how much I loved her and that it was impossible for me to contain. I had to end it. The pain in her eyes spilled down her cheeks in the parking lot of our favorite nightclub. “You knew this is how it would be,” she cried. She got me back a few months later when she brought her new girlfriend into the bar where I worked.
After some time passed, we were able to have a bittersweet friendship. Her man finally got his act together and they got married. I’ve never in my life been surrounded by so many warm, supportive people as I was that day. Both of my hands were held and there were comforting arms and smiles. I stayed strong for her. I could have stopped that wedding, there’s no question, but I would not have won her by doing so. I think it goes without saying that I got obliterated at her reception.
Over the years, we’ve kept in touch here and there. Some times more than others, usually in fits and spurts. We’ve had a tryst or three. Once was a weekend out of town, when we fucked so loudly that the people in the room next door banged on the wall and told us to keep it down. At 5am on a Saturday morning. Did they have to go to fucking work or something? The last of which was a threesome with me, her, and Roland after he and I had been dating for about a year. He remains the only boyfriend with whom I ever shared her.
I always promised her that we’d be together one day. That one day, I’d steal her away. I put a definite time on it long ago: when her son graduated high school, because then he would be old enough to understand and he wouldn’t need her quite as much. He’d be a man. His 18th birthday is April 11th. I don’t have his exact date of graduation, but it’s approximately the first week of June. Every time she and I spoke, this eventuality was discussed and we looked forward to it.
Every relationship I have been in for the last 10 years has kept this in consideration. My partner has always known that there would come a time when I would have my Princess Angel again. He/she could make room for us all to be together, or he/she could step aside. I even told her husband once or twice that I was going to steal her away someday (he’d been told about our relationship at last many years ago because they were swingers for a time).
The last few years our contact has been infrequent at best. As of right now, other than that friend request tonight (which did not come with a personal note or email, nor was its acceptance followed by a wall post), I have not spoken to her in at least a year. It may have even been two. She lives less than 4 miles from my house. I only know 1 other person who lives closer to me than she does, and it’s probably by less than a tenth of a mile. For many years, I called on all major holidays, but most especially on Valentine’s Day and her birthday. Many times I would visit and gift her with a dozen roses for VD and a birdhouse (she was a collector) for her birthday. I stopped calling a long time ago, because my messages were no longer returned.
As the BIG DAY approaches, I’ve thought about her a lot. All of the promises that I made as a young woman who believed that anything in the world was possible. None of those were realistic and I know that now. She and I are so very different, I don’t even know that we would have any common ground. I say that, but in many ways I couldn’t be any more different than the man with whom I am madly in love.
I can’t help but wonder now if any efforts will be made on her part to take us beyond FB friends. Will I settle for wishing her generic birthday greetings on her wall? I guess I have 48 hours to decide.

I did post on her Wall for her birthday and she on mine 6 days later. And I did finally chat with her a few times. During one of our last chats, right before her son’s graduation last year, she told me about how she and her husband had decided to get a divorce back in January. The papers had been drawn up and filed. They only needed to be signed. But then they had a long talk. They had been together since their mid-teens, over 20 years. It had been a long, rocky road, but they’d made it somehow. They decided that they didn’t want to be alone. That they didn’t want to have to start over. So they dedicated themselves to their marriage in a way that they never had before. The last time I talked to her was at least 6 months ago, but probably even longer ago than that. She said they were happier than they had ever been. I sincerely wished her all the best.
She and I are still friends on Facebook and as a result I have discovered that this post is unintentionally very timely. Her status update for today: Today I have been married to the GREATEST husband in the world for 14 years! I love you babe! Can’t wait for the next 14! 🙂
Fourteen years ago today was one of the hardest days of my life, but I don’t regret it one bit.
Happy anniversary, my Princess Angel. I wish for you all of the happiness you deserve. I will always love you. And should you ever find your way to my doorstep again, I will never turn you away.

Other firsts…

This is a continuation of the post Losing It about losing my virginity. It was originally going to be called “Losing It and Other Firsts”, but that post became so long that I had to stop. Now I’m going to tell you about the first time I had sex and throw in a couple of other firsts while I’m at it.

At the time I lost my virginity, I had a boyfriend named Bo. He was my sister’s boyfriend’s best friend and one of the sweetest guys I have ever dated. He was a couple of years older than me, very tall, tan, and thin, and extremely soft-spoken and polite. I will never forget the sound of his voice or that he had eyes that reminded me of the ocean: blue-green on sunny days, gray when overcast. He worked as a deep-sea fisherman, going out on the boat for 4-5 days at a time and coming back for 2-3. On his days off, he would ride his bicycle the 10 miles from his house to mine to see me, even before I agreed to go out with him.
We had only been “going out” for a week when my deflowering occurred. He was out on the boat when it happened, but expected back a day later. I was racked with guilt and therefore told him about it as soon as I got the chance when I saw him again. I made him break up with me, although he didn’t want to. I just couldn’t live with myself because even then I knew how he adored me. I truly felt the same, despite my actions.
He never gave up trying to convince me that we should be together, still visiting me as often as he could. A few months later, he finally convinced me to give it another try. It wasn’t long before I fell completely, madly, head-over-heels in love with him. By that time, he’d gotten his car fixed and didn’t have to ride his bike to see me. He was the first guy with whom my mom ever let me leave the house, because she knew what a good guy he was. 
Bo never tried to push me or take advantage of me in any way. He always behaved himself like a complete gentleman. That is not to say that we didn’t fool around when we had the chance. I was quite the opposite of a perfect lady even then, as I am sure you might have figured out from my previous post. We would have long make-out and groping sessions whenever we were left alone.
Some amount of time before we had sex for the first time, he was the first guy to ever go down on me. I don’t remember much about it, whether it was good or bad. I do remember we were in my bedroom making out on my bed. (My parents had—shocker!!—left us at my house alone while they went to the grocery store.) I do remember him asking if he could kiss me “down there.” I won’t say I was aghast, but I was a bit taken aback. I don’t think I had ever thought about that before or even knew that people did that. He gently convinced me and finally I agreed. I was probably too nervous to really enjoy it, not least of all because I was afraid my parents (mainly my mom!) would be home soon.
When I eventually made him stop, he said to me, “Yours is the sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted.” I thought it was a really big deal, but my friends tried to tell me it just meant he’d been with a lot of girls. I’ve never taken it that way. He just wasn’t that type of guy.
The first time I ever had sex was Saturday, April 11, 1992. I remember the date exactly because it was Bo’s birthday and 4 days after my 17th birthday. I can recall the exact outfit I wore, down to the lacy bra and panties. I picked everything out especially for him. The outfit I wore was all-blue tie-dye. It was a new outfit and I’d washed my white bra and panties with it so that the color would bleed onto them and they would match. Blue was his favorite color.
My mom had baked a cake for him, and after we ate some we left to “go out” for the rest of the afternoon and evening. What we did was go to his place. He lived with his mom still, so we couldn’t go right to his bedroom. We sat in the living room and watched television for long enough to be semi-polite. Finally we could wait no longer, and excused ourselves to his room.
Like many other tales I have shared, exact details are lost with time, but some bits have always stuck with me. We listened to Metallica, the black album, on repeat (it was 1992, after all). We talked for a short while, then kissed and made out for a bit longer. He undressed me sweetly and slowly. Once we’d closed his bedroom door, nothing was rushed. When we were fully naked, I’d shivered with a chill and nervousness, and his voice was so full of concern for me. He pulled a blanket over the top of our bodies to contain our warmth.
Although it wasn’t his first time, he was nervous as well. He fumbled a bit with the condom. I accidentally hurt his feelings when he entered me, because I asked him if he was in yet. He looked completely deflated and replied, “You can’t feel that?” I was immediately embarrassed and apologized profusely trying to explain that what I’d meant was, “Are you all the way in yet?” because I had been holding my breath. He had not gone all the way in because he felt me tense up. He took it very, very slow for me. I remember “The Unforgiven” was playing.
What followed was 20 minutes of sweet, tender lovemaking. That’s how I’ve always remembered it. I didn’t climax (I wouldn’t learn how to do that during sex for years), but when he did he wrapped his arms around me, looked into my eyes, and told me that he loved me. I may have cried a little bit and definitely told him that I loved him, too. We laid in his bed for a while, just holding each other.
Afterward, we put our clothes back on, went out in the living room again and watched Highlander 2 (yes, I know that movie doesn’t count). I recall next to nothing about that movie, other than being curled up against him on the couch. When it was over, we returned to his bedroom to go for a second round.
That next go-around wasn’t as slow and sweet, nor was it as short. We went at it for about an hour. The first time killed all of our nervousness, so we were free to explore each other more. His hands, fingers, and mouth felt so good all over my body. Bo was a very skinny boy and when we were done, my inner thighs felt all beat up from the blades of his hip bones. They were tender for all of the following week.
I had to be home by midnight, so our time together drew to a close. We got dressed and he took me home.
Unfortunately, Bo and I were only able to have sex one more time, a week later. It didn’t go as well that time, as I was on my period. I was grossed-out by the thought, but he convinced me it was okay. I got in two more firsts that day: first period sex and first doggy-style. However, I was unable to get past the blood, so we stopped and just cuddled instead.
Things got very hectic for him not long after that. His poor old 1979 Ford Granada died again. He got into a huge fight with his alcoholic mother. They had always fought a lot, but that fight was enough to finally drive him to go live with his dad far on the other side of town. He rode his bike to see me one last time. He said we had to break up for a while because he didn’t know when he would be able to see me. He didn’t think it would be fair to me to leave me hanging like that. I was heartbroken, but I understood. We cried together as we shared our true love vows. He promised he would be back for me one day and that if I decided to move on but found him again in the future, he would leave anyone in the world for me. It was one of the saddest kisses in my life when we parted.
I saw him exactly once after that, for less than 5 minutes. It was a few months later on the 4th of July. I’d gone to the beach with my mom and sisters for the Independence Day festival and fireworks. He’d ridden his bike 10 miles from his mom’s house to mine, only to discover I wasn’t at home. My dad had stayed behind and thus told him where we were. So then he rode the 7 miles from my house to the beach and searched the throngs of people for an hour to find me. He just wanted to tell me that he still loved me and missed me. Then he had to leave me again.
By a strange twist of fate, I finally had sex with Chuck for the first time later that night.

Losing it

In at least this post (by the absolutely divine Lady Grinning Soul, who I can’t imagine you’re not reading, but if you are not, you MUST!) and several tweets this past week, the subject of losing one’s virginity has been tossed about. As this is a topic I’ve had on a list for myself anyway, now seems like the perfect time to jump on it.

But first, a note that some might find curious. I do not consider the instance of losing my virginity the same as the first time I had sex. I’m sure you’ll understand as you read on. 🙂

I lost my virginity when I was 16 (and a half). The “honor” was supposed to go to the love of my life at the time, Chuck. It almost happened, too, one night when my sister and I had snuck (sneaked?) out of my bedroom window to hang out with him and his best friend, Marlan. However, he and I both had the restraint to know it should happen somewhere slightly more dignified than atop a washing machine in the coin laundry at the back of the apartment complex in our neighborhood. I wouldn’t finally have sex with Chuck for more than another 8 months (and it still wouldn’t be my first time) but through a strange chain of events, I did lose my virginity to his best friend exactly one month later. That’s really not as bad as it sounds.
Quick aside: My sister (2 years my junior) and I were very close in high school and were often partners in crime. Crime being sneaking out and skipping school. My mother was very overbearing and overprotective, not allowing us any sort of freedom to be regular teenagers. So we took our freedom where we could. We didn’t really do a whole helluva lot during those excursions. Sometimes Chuck would drive us around the general vicinity of where we lived, or down to the beach. Sometimes we’d go to someone’s house and hang out. Sometimes we would just wander our neighborhood. In retrospect, we were two very careless but VERY lucky girls, because nothing bad ever happened to us.
The night I lost my virginity actually began the night before that. My sister and I had once again snuck out to roam the streets of our neighborhood. After a bit, we met up with Marlan, his brother, and another guy from the neighborhood, Ronnie (no, not for anything like that!). As you can imagine, at 1am in the morning there really isn’t much to do out on the streets for a group of teenagers with no car (for reasons I can’t recall, Chuck and his car were not around that night). We quickly grew bored. Marlan’s brother decided to just go home and go to bed. The remaining 4 of us decided to sneak back into my room. I stole one of my grandmother’s beers from the fridge (yes, just one, so daring!) and brought it back to my room.
Passed around, the single can of beer did not last very long. Our next bright idea was to play a game of Spin the Bottle/7 Minutes in Heaven. However, we did not have a bottle so we used an aerosol canister just like this one instead.

And with only 4 people, the game had to be modified a bit. The plan was person 1 would spin and then whoever it landed on would spin. If it landed back on person 1, provided it was someone of the opposite sex, then they would go into the closet. If not, it would keep going around until it went 1-2-1. And so the game began. 
It needs to be said here, I had no desire or intention to make out with either of these guys. Ronnie (his family were called the Roachheads… you know how mean kids are) was gross and I knew my sister had a thing for Marlan. They were left alone together the night of the aforementioned laundromat incident, and while they didn’t have sex, I assume they at least made out. So really, I set this up for my sister’s benefit. Because I’m a good sister like that. Or something. And I had a boyfriend anyway. No, not Chuck. He was just my best friend. My boyfriend was Bo. We’ll get to him later. What?? I was a teenager! No judging! 😛
Anyway, the game went for a few rounds before the necessary conditions were met. For brevity’s sake (and because I don’t remember the EXACT way it went down), we’ll say it went something like this: me > Ronnie (shudder) > my sister > me (weird) > Marlan > me. Rut roh! I just kinda froze. Marlan said, “What? You don’t think I’ll do it? I’ll do it!” I looked at my sister, who looked very disinterested, so I looked back at Marlan and replied in a daring tone I didn’t really feel, “Oh, I’ll do it too, I don’t care!” He replied, “All right, let’s do this then.” And with another brief look at my sister who was still uninterested, he and I went into my closet and shut the door.
We didn’t start kissing right away. We talked for a bit first. I told him that I was surprised he wanted to do this with me, that I thought he liked my sister. (Quick note about my sister: everybody liked my sister more because she was 14 with DDs. Quick note about Marlan: he was the “it” boy and always had a new girlfriend. Quick note about me: my sister had DDs, so my Cs couldn’t compare and I didn’t get a lot of attention.) He said he did, but that he has liked me ever since he found out that I was that girl from the third grade. 
A bit of history: I moved around a lot as a kid. 21 different schools between kindergarten and high school graduation. No, my parents weren’t in the military, they just always hoped the grass would be greener somewhere else. I did, however go to the same school here in my hometown from second until fifth at the same elementary school and started the sixth grade center with the same kids. One of whom was Marlan. I think he was actually in my second, third, AND fourth grade classes. But in third grade, he bet $1 against his best friend, Wade, that he could get me to “go out with him” first. I was a very popular, pretty, smart, blonde-haired little girl and they were both cute little Cub Scouts. So they both set to writing me those “Do you like me? Will you be my girlfriend? Check yes or no” notes. But Wade’s desk was closer, so I got his note first, and said yes immediately. Poor Marlan lost $1, which in 1985 was still a decent amount of money for a little kid.
I moved away about 6 weeks into sixth grade, but we moved back here for good in 1990. Over Christmas break of that year, we moved into the house where this story takes place. As a result I ended up going to the same high school as I would’ve attended had we never moved away. This little bit of third grade history had only recently been discovered by Marlan. I remembered him immediately by name, but not specifically that incident. However, upon recounting people and things we remembered, I mentioned going out with Wade and thus jogged Marlan’s memory.
After Marlan said that he liked me, he kissed me. I remember thinking that he smelled like corn dogs and deodorant. We kissed for a bit, but then he stopped to tell me that I’m a much better kisser than my sister. Then the making out really commenced.

I don’t know for sure how long we were in the closet, but it was much longer than 7 minutes. We were in there so long that when we finally came out, my sister and Ronnie had snuck back out the window because they were bored waiting for us. So we went to go find them.

They hadn’t gone very far, just around the block. I think we walked around for maybe half an hour before we decided to call it a night. We all made plans to meet up again the following night.

The next night, my sister and I anxiously awaited for my mom to leave for work. We gave her our usual 15-minute window and then out my window we went. We walked around for about an hour without running into anyone and even went to Marlan’s house to toss pebbles at his window, but got no response. Finally we decided we were tired, gave up, and went home.

Once we got home, we changed into our pajamas and crawled into bed. She and I were sharing a room and a full-sized bed at that point, because someone was living with us and she didn’t want to share a room with our youngest sister. I had just closed my eyes when I heard tapping at my window. It was Marlan. My sister said she wasn’t going out again, that she was going to sleep. So I let him into the window and he and I went into the closet again, closing the door behind us.

We did more talking than making out that night, probably for a couple of hours, at least. Finally he leaned over and kissed me. Again, I noticed he smelled like corn dogs. We only made out for a few minutes before he said he wanted to have sex. Thinking about it right now and looking back, I can’t remember that moment at all. So many other tiny details of that night are crystal clear, but that one is wrapped in haze. I don’t know exactly what he said to me or what my response was. Like I said, before the previous night, I hadn’t really had much interest in him at all. So it’s not like I was just waiting for him to ask.

At any rate, the space in my closet was really too cramped to do anything more than make out, so we opened the closet door and peeked out. My sister was asleep and snoring. The clock read 4:11am. We stretched out on the floor at the foot of my bed, half in and half out of the closet.

For the next few minutes, everything happened very quickly. He got on top of me and kissed me. We took our clothes off: me only my shorts and panties, he everything but his socks. He fingered my pussy briefly. When he started to get on top of me again, I asked him if he had a condom. He stopped and replied that he didn’t. We just laid there for a minute.

Believe me when I tell you that I know now and I definitely knew then how ridiculous this next part was. It all happened so fast that I didn’t really have time to think or to react rationally. So please, forgive that poor, stupid 16-year-old girl.

He said to me, “If I go pee first, it will be okay.”

“You can’t use my bathroom! My grandmother is asleep on the couch!”

Instead he climbed out my bedroom window wearing only his socks and pissed in my backyard. He was back in under a minute.

He lay on top of me again, not even bothering to kiss me first. He was moving between my legs and I just kind of laid there, stunned at what had just happened, waiting for it to be over. I didn’t want to do this, but I didn’t know how to stop this series of events. I don’t want to give the impression that I was raped, by any means, because I did consent, even if I didn’t want to do it. He was having trouble entering me and I asked him if he needed help down there. He said that he did not and finally put his small penis into my vagina. Thirty seconds later it was all over. You’ve heard the expression “2 pumps and a dump”? That’s literally how it was. He went in-out-in-out and then shot a little pool on my belly. I’ve always said it felt better when he fingered me than when he fucked me, and his fingers were bigger, too.

After he spewed, he laid down on the floor next to me for less than a minute. Then he told me that I’m a better lay than my sister is. I kid you not. Again, exact words escape me here, but that’s the gist. I asked him when he fucked her and he told me it was two weeks prior. He got up, put on his clothes, lit a cigarette, said he had to get home before his dad woke up, and left out the window. I glanced at the clock. It was 4:18am. I had not moved at all since he came back in the window from pissing in my backyard.

All I could think about was that I couldn’t believe I’d made sex out to be such a big deal. That was it??? I’d been thinking and obsessing about it for my whole life. My biggest fear was dying a virgin. One of my common phrases for how much I didn’t want to do something was, “I’d rather die a virgin.” Yet there it was. Over. Done with. And I felt nothing.

I got up, pulled on my panties and shorts, went to the bathroom to clean his cum off my belly and pee. Numbly, I went to bed and fell asleep. It was October 10, 1991.

My alarm clock went off a few hours later and somehow I dragged myself out of bed to catch the bus to go to school. On the short ride to school, my sister and I decided that we didn’t feel like going. Once we arrived at school and got off the bus, we immediately met up with her friend and my best friend and the 4 of us walked off campus, in the direction of my house. There is a community college between my high school and my neighborhood, and when we skipped school we would walk there to catch the city bus to go wherever we wanted to go instead. Halfway across the college campus, we ran into Marlan and his brother, making their late walk to school since they’d missed the bus. His brother went on to school, but we’d convinced Marlan to skip school with us to go to my sister’s friend’s house.

He did not speak a single word to me that entire day, but instead spent the whole day trying to fuck my best friend. At first she was buying into his charm, until I told her about the night before and then she was having none of it.

The funniest part of the story is that my sister got in contact with him a few years later. They were hanging out one night and she brought him home to see me. (She had moved in with me and my roommates during her senior year of high school.) That night, he tried to get me to fuck him again. I laughed in his face. I wanted to say, “Are you fucking kidding me? Do you not remember that I’ve already been there and done that??” Instead, through some chain of events that I no longer recall, I got a picture of him naked, wearing only my black bra. I just spent 15 minutes fruitlessly digging through some boxes to find it so I could scan and post it. Don’t worry, I know I still have it somewhere and I WILL find it. 😉

Sinful Sunday – First pink

I wanted to get posted early this time, so I am digging up another one from my archives. This was going to be posted last week but… uh… something better presented itself, hehe. In the same vein of the week before last, I’m giving you another first.

My first pussy shots, taken April 29, 1999.

(I wanted to do a click-through, but I’m not as cool as some of you others, hehe)

Posted in participation with Sinful Sunday, hosted at Molly’s Daily Kiss.
Click to see who else is in the pink this Sunday. 😉


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