I was fifteen years old and belonged to a circle of friends who, like most teenage circle of friends, fooled around with a different member of the circle on a weekly basis. I was completely inexperienced. I had kissed a few guys before, but that was all. I was curious, like all of my friends, but I wasn’t going as far as the rest of them were.
He was beautiful. Puerto Rican, caramel skin, deep brown eyes, and a face that could grace any teeny-bopper magazine on the newsstands. You could imagine my surprise when one of my girlfriends told me “He wants to hook up with you.”
It was the summer. We were all in our denim cut-offs and Gap T-shirts. Hanging out on our stoops until “Mom” came out yelling at us to move somewhere else. So we did.
I was so shy and scared after I heard “the news,” I actually avoided the beautiful Puerto Rican. A few days passed and I walked the two blocks to the designated stoop of the day. He was the only one there. I sat down and we talked, we fought playfully and then he grabbed me, twirled me around and pressed his soft mouth onto mine. He opened it and my heart beat raced. We explored each other’s mouths for about fifteen minutes before we heard that Brooklyn whistle. Someone was coming. We parted mouths and looked into each other’s eyes. We would have to wait.
It was a long summer day. The boys playing football. The girls gossiping and braiding each other’s hair. He and I exchanged glances throughout the day and as night fell, he told the gang “I’m going to walk her home.” We held hands. We stopped at a parked car. He lifted my body onto the hood and wrapped my teenaged legs around his body. We spent some time exploring each other’s mouths again and then I felt his hands.
My body tightened. I never had someone “touch” me before. He kept one hand around the back of my head while the other hand explored my body over those shorts and t-shirt. I was confused and so very excited. I knew that the next time, those hands would be under my clothes. And what was I supposed to do with my hands?
He walked me home and kissed me goodbye. Two or three days later, we were “going out.”
He was my first for everything. The first to feel me up, to put his mouth on my breasts, to finger me. I remember how that felt. I was so wet, but the fingers burned. I had never been touched like that before. It hurt. But it felt so good.
The summertime rolled along and we continued our very cute, yet adventurous relationship. As August came to a close, I decided it was “time.”
One of the guy’s Mom went away for the weekend. That meant party. By this point, the gang knew that The Puerto Rican and I were together and when he motioned that I join him in our host’s bedroom, I followed him.
It was beautiful. I was scared of bleeding, but I didn’t. It hurt, but he was gentle and reassuring.
“Are you ok?”
“You feel so good.”
“I love you.”
School started again a couple of weeks later, and like most couples in my gang, we only lasted that one summer. We had sex a few times after the first, and it finally stopped hurting. I can’t say that he’s one of the great loves of my life, because as I wrote in my preface, I no longer ache for his touch and we’re actually still good friends, but I love him in a way that I love no other. He was my first. He was a gentleman. And I consider myself a very lucky girl to have lost my virginity to someone so outrageously beautiful, funny, smart, athletic and kind.
I will always love him.