Getting naked with a new lover for the first time is a bit nerve wracking. We all want to believe the fiction of every movie ever made, that we would both be wrapped up in a whirlwind of instant passion. The truth is more like finding out who has pointy elbows, how to fit our lips to various points of interest without knocking noggins, and the exact limits of our mutual flexibility when desperately trying to reach there.
When I met him, initially it was just for the hook up. Or so I thought. After six years of desert-dry celibacy and no relationship prospects worth exploring, I bravely instigated a no-nonsense proposal to a man I liked via my online dating profile–a man who had emphasized “non monogamous, no strings attached” in every way possible.
I was going to be a mature adult, a real grown up.
I was going to have consensual, hopefully even pleasurable, casual sex.
And…I was afraid.
At–well, let’s just say over thirty–this wasn’t my type of thing.
Once, maybe twice in college, an enormous amount of alcohol had convinced me that sex with a semi-stranger was a brilliant idea. But it wasn’t. It was slobbery fumbling and a nauseous sort of pretending to be interested in the strange terrain of an unfamiliar body that had never touched mine before.
Yet here I was, startlingly sober, ready to try this without even dulling the razor sharp edges of reality with a shot of whiskey. Or beer. Or anything.
It wasn’t as if I didn’t know him entirely at all. We had been texting and sharing stories about our ordinary days for over three weeks. I had told him more about myself than I had ever intended, excited by our mutual interests and the easy rhythm of our quick-paced conversations. But moving beyond the phone was arguably a big deal.
I remember that moment we met in person, the electricity that sparked under my skin as I walked past him, into his apartment. It could have been fear, that perhaps I had just met my first serial killer, but fear is an icy cold emotion. This was scorching hot, like a summer sun had exploded in my belly. The feel of his large hand, lightly grazing my bare leg, my dress rucked up high over my knees as I sat down beside him on the couch, the eager tension rippling between us as we navigated the polite niceties of meeting someone for the first time and realizing that he is better than what I had imagined, than the pictures that had been exchanged, than the subtle promises hidden within our late night texting. And suddenly that searing heat became molten lava in my veins, as I waited for him to make the first move, as I bit my lip and wondered what he was seeing when he saw me–here, now.
Later the urgent, almost violent collision of our bodies was an ecstasy of shivering, trembling delight in exploring, licking, and kissing. His hands tweaking my tender nipples; his slow consideration of every bare inch of skin while I writhed impatiently under the expert ministrations of his skillful fingers; the casual nibbling of virgin territory like the inside of my wrist, the curve of my shoulder blades; the easy power with which he pulled me to him, against him, and then, oh finally, thrust inside of me–it was too much and not enough, not soon enough. He was everything I had ever wanted, distilled into just this one breathless moment, and then the next, and the next. With my legs wrapped around his waist, I reveled in the solid weight of him, compressing my ribs with each murmured whisper, the full body contact of his skin slip-sliding with sweat against mine, and I was already so wet I couldn’t wait to feel him inside me.
As in all things, as I would find out repeatedly in the future, there was no rushing him. Slow and strong and steady while he spoke in my ear, the kinds of things any girl would love to hear, how wonderful I felt beneath him, the thrumming intensity of the attraction between us, and could I cum again, yes, now, just for him, there’s a good girl, and once more, I want to see your eyes.
I wanted to respond, to put words to the heady euphoria I was drowning in, body and soul, but so intense were my emotions that all I could say was his name, over and over, wrung from my lips involuntarily. His name–it meant yes, please, more, don’t stop, oh my god, I never, I can’t, oh my god oh my god oh–
A riot of sensations rushed through me as he moved in and out, a white-out of pure sensory overload. I only know that I came, again and again and again, that over and over I responded every time he touched me, held me, pounded deep inside of me until at last he came in a final rush that filled me to the brim and left us both breathless and still.
Never ever ever had this happened before.
It was a shock, to experience a bliss so total that I thought I had gone blind, my eyes squeezed shut against the outside world–even the refracted glow of the streetlight was too much more to take…
Thus a studiously planned one-night appointment has now extended into a six month exclusive relationship. There are other things we have in common, beliefs and lifestyle choices and politics that happen to align harmoniously, too many and too mundane to list.
Yet even now, he raises goosebumps over my entire body, just by breathing against my neck or whispering a word in my ear.
And, oh, there are so many more adventures…to come.
*Photo Credit: “One Night Stand”, http://www.gazzetta.gr*