You never forget your first time, so they say. My first penis-in-vagina, “going all the way” experience was actually kind of forgettable. However, the following story was the first sexual encounter I considered worth remembering forever, worth writing down.
Summer, the senior year of high school. Fourth of July. My boyfriend and I did everything short of the cliche of losing our virginities to each other on prom night. I wasn’t about to make the mistake other girls in my school had made in risking getting knocked up before I could get the hell out of this town and go to college. Needless to say, this was at the tail end of my judgy, prudish phase.
Our courtship was something straight out of a cheesy teen rom-com. I was the weird girl that wrote sad poetry. He was the guy on varsity sports teams. We didn’t start getting serious until swim season. So for privacy’s sake, I’ll just refer to him as “The Swimmer.” Side note: there are fewer things more boring than going to a swim meet. The chlorine smell always gave me a headache and I wasn’t exactly friends with the other team girlfriends. The novelty of seeing him dripping wet in speedos wore off surprisingly quickly.
Anyway, against all odds, we somehow started dating. We somehow survived high school and were both going to college, albeit different schools, but we would cross that bridge when we got there. Spoiler alert: he dumped me before Fall semester orientation.
So, Fourth of July, we were at the country club where his family had a membership. Yeah, he was one of those guys. To make it even more of a teenage rom-com cliche, the Swimmer was the preppy rich kid and I was the feisty, misfit girl from the other side of the tracks. We were doomed from the start. He never understood why I felt weird asking the staff to get me drinks or why I generally didn’t like hanging out with him at the pool even though it was ridiculously hot outside. I could practically feel all eyes on me as the odd one out and I hated it. Still, like hell he would be caught at the public pool, so into the lion’s den I went.
The sun had just about gone down and we were scouting for a more private place on the golf course to watch the private firework show. I had a fair share of Arnold Palmers and BBQ earlier that day. There was something unspoken about our agreement to find a place away from the other spectators.
I can’t help but compare that Fourth of July to the one prior. One of the guys I worked with at a restaurant was back in town that summer and we spent much of it loitering in various places. On the Fourth, we were had snuck into some event at the lake to get closer to the fireworks. We ended up getting kicked out by some boy scout who saw that we didn’t have wristbands on. While we were sitting on the hood of an abandoned car, I had wondered if there was anything between us. That’s a completely different story, though.
The Swimmer spread out a picnic blanket beneath a willow tree on a hill as the first few pops went off. We probably had the best view compared to everyone else that just milled about on the deck back at the club. However, it was an unspoken understanding that we weren’t just interested in watching the fireworks, as pretty as they were.
Illuminated by the occasional neon flashes, he took some items out of his bag. Among them was a pair of gold-colored nylon cords with tassels. These were the accoutrements we had to pay extra for at graduation, to show off we were in the National Honors Society and how much better we were than everyone else or some elitist bullshit like that. Yet he had brought them with him here. Why?
The Swimmer knelt next to the fancy ropes with his back to me and his hands held behind his back. When I didn’t do what he apparently wanted me to do, he impatiently waved his hands and pointed at the ropes. I was an idiot. Here he was, giving me a gift I had always wanted. I had confessed my curiosities to him and to my surprise, he didn’t run for the hills. Instead, he indulged me in what would become a lifetime proclivity long after we broke up.
“Take off your shirt.” I said, trying to sound as authoritative as possible.
He grabbed the bottom hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. I stopped him before it completely came off.
“No, leave it over your face. It’s more fun if you don’t get to see what I’m about to do.” I said.
Before he could protest, I kissed him through the cloth. It made me think of this painting that was on the cover of one of our literature textbooks. I later found out that the painting was titled “The Lovers II” and was painted by Rene “This isn’t a pipe, it’s just a picture of a pipe” Magritte. It’s of two people kissing with cloth veiling their heads. Not only could the viewer not see them, but they could not see each other. There was an unsettling quality to it that I liked, that turned me on, even though I wouldn’t understand why until later.
I pulled back from the kiss and he whimpered slightly. I went behind him to finish the job, wrapping the ropes around his wrists, trying to remember what the most suitable knot would be in this situation. Then again, the ropes were a formality, just a physical reminder that he was meant to be restrained, to not do anything unless I told him to.
I trembled, savoring the image of him on his knees, bound and blindfolded, completely helpless. So, this was power. Considering how powerless I generally felt as an angsty teenager, I quite rather liked it and could get used to making this a regular thing.
I started off slowly, just the barest of touches with my fingertips at random moments in random places. The longer this went on, the more he would arch into my touch, craving more. I followed that with kisses and the occasional rake of my nails against his skin. The boom and crackling of the fireworks made for a nice cover for his moans, otherwise I would have worried someone could hear him all the way back at the clubhouse. Occasionally, I would feel for his cock through his shorts, standing at attention, more than ready for action. I had half a mind to suck him off right then and there, but both of us would have to be patient. He was restrained. I needed to show restraint.
A wicked idea came to me and I stood up, sliding my panties down my legs from beneath my sundress. The Swimmer called out to me as if in fear that I had left him half naked with a hard-on on the golf course. I soothed his fear with a kiss and then held the panties against his covered face. He smelled them. Once he realized what they were, it was like in crime movies, when they would give the dog a scrap of cloth with the fugitive’s scent on it and the dog would just go nuts, pulling at the leash like mad. He lunged forward, nearly knocking me over.
“Down boy,” I scolded.
He stopped abruptly. I recollected myself and sat with my legs spread on the blanket. I snatched the makeshift t-shirt blindfold off of his face.
“Down boy,” I nodded down at my spread legs and raised dress.
When I say that The Swimmer ate pussy like a man possessed, that is a vast understatement. His mouth was on me before I could say anything else. This was going to be particularly challenging without the use of his hands, with long fingers that would have been well-suited for a musical instrument. Yet I knew that he would rise to the occasion.
I sighed as I felt the bristle of his stubble against the inside of my thigh, his tongue against my clit. Looking back, we were both highly inexperienced. Future partners I had knew the art of balancing teasing denial and payoff. Yet at the same time, I don’t think that mere rosy nostalgia is what makes me remember this encounter fondly.
The background noise and flash of the fireworks along with the sensation of this handsome young man servicing me like his life depended on it made for an interesting Fourth of July. My hips moved upward of their own accord, my thighs clamped around his head, riding his face as I came.
As they say, turnabout is fair play, and I wanted to reward him for being such a good boy. I sat up, gestured for him to come up and kiss me. He slipped his hands out of the nylon ropes quite easily, considering I hadn’t known a lot about knotwork back then. I could feel the length of his hard cock pressing against me. I was so wet from him going down on me that it would have taken nothing at all for him to slip in, but we both weren’t ready for that just yet, so we just enjoyed kissing and touching each other as the fireworks were starting to wind down.
I rolled him onto his back and started kissing down. The Swimmer’s cock was so hard that I had difficulty taking it in my mouth. Much to both of our delight, I had gotten my braces removed earlier that year, so I didn’t have to forego what would become one of my favorite activities due to a mouth with enough metal in it to open a hardware store. When I say that it became one of my favorite activities, it wasn’t so much the taste or sensation of the cock sliding in my mouth, down my throat that I enjoyed. I enjoyed the sounds I could get a guy to make, the pained writhing and moaning that came from him. I enjoyed that I could render a guy helpless with such little effort.
Of course, since I was still new at this whole thing, it took me a few tries to get him all the way in my mouth. That didn’t matter though, since he had been raring to go all night and my teasing and ordering him around had just barely restrained his desire. I felt his fingers combing through my hair, pulling it, then pushing my head down, but gently as if to guide me. It didn’t take long for him to come, but that was ok. The fireworks were over and it was time to go home for the night. When he came, it was more than I expected, both in force and volume. Unlike future encounters when I wouldn’t spill so much as a drop, I was caught by surprise and let half of it leak out of my mouth back onto his cock.
I still smile thinking about how he would have to explain where the stain on his shorts came from when he got home. It was definitely worth me getting grounded for a week for not checking in with my parents and coming home after the agreed-upon time. Not quite sure it was worth the mosquito bites though. As usual, I got eaten alive and he barely had a mark on him, other than the bite mark I had left on his shoulder.
Yet that is not the last thing I wish to remember from that. I prefer closing this memory dive with the image of The Swimmer and I, walking hand-in-hand slowly back to the country clubhouse, the smell of firework smoke still lingering in the air amid the fresh grass scent of the golf course.