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This time of year always makes make me think about the night I lost my virginity. Because it was the night the clocks went back. My parents were away (which is how I came to have sex) so no-one changed the time in my house, and I arrived at work an hour early, meaning I left bed an hour early, which annoyed me all day.
We broke the bed. Well, he did. In the morning he got up to get me breakfast (awww) and I took the opportunity to spread out and grab all the covers. So he came back and jumped on me, breaking the frame of the bed, rather killing the mood. I was blase about it, but he was convinced that my parents would return, think that the bed had been broken while he was deflowering me, and turn up on his doorstep with pitchforks. So he mended it with duct tape. I did point out that my parents would notice the addition of thick black tape to the wooden frame, but he insisted. Wasn't even broken during a fun part.
Not that it was a great deal of fun. It wasn't painful or anything, but the most telling moment is just after, when he said to me "you looked bored". I don't think I was bored exactly. A little underwhelmed, perhaps, and contemplative. "So, this is sex. Huh. What should I be doing? Am I moving enough? Too much?" and trying not to show my thoughts in my face apparently led to me looking bored. This is why I dislike the missionary position, I have more than enough to think about without worrying about the message my facial contortions convey. From behind, thank you, and then I can gurn away to my heart's content.
It was a strange relationship. We'd actually been talking about sex earlier that day, and he'd asked if I felt pressured. I said no, but I would rather wait a little. At the time I meant more than a few hours, but I was pretty happy that it turned out that way. I absolutely adored him, but I was very conscious that to let him know this would be counter-productive, so I tended not to tell him anything about how I felt. Clever, no? Anyway, the 'relationship' lasted about a week or so after the sex, and a month or so after that he stopped talking to me. Flat out ignored me if we ever bumped into each other. And I found out a while later that a few days after we slept together he told my best friend he was in love with her. Brilliant!
I remember that he gave great massages, and was very intense and pseudo-anarchist in the way that seventeen year olds are. He played guitar, and introduced me to Sonic Youth, L7 and Dinosaur Jr, for which I will be forever grateful. I occasionally wish that I would meet him again. He broke my heart completely, but I would like him to know that I got a bit better at sex.
We broke the bed. Well, he did. In the morning he got up to get me breakfast (awww) and I took the opportunity to spread out and grab all the covers. So he came back and jumped on me, breaking the frame of the bed, rather killing the mood. I was blase about it, but he was convinced that my parents would return, think that the bed had been broken while he was deflowering me, and turn up on his doorstep with pitchforks. So he mended it with duct tape. I did point out that my parents would notice the addition of thick black tape to the wooden frame, but he insisted. Wasn't even broken during a fun part.
Not that it was a great deal of fun. It wasn't painful or anything, but the most telling moment is just after, when he said to me "you looked bored". I don't think I was bored exactly. A little underwhelmed, perhaps, and contemplative. "So, this is sex. Huh. What should I be doing? Am I moving enough? Too much?" and trying not to show my thoughts in my face apparently led to me looking bored. This is why I dislike the missionary position, I have more than enough to think about without worrying about the message my facial contortions convey. From behind, thank you, and then I can gurn away to my heart's content.
It was a strange relationship. We'd actually been talking about sex earlier that day, and he'd asked if I felt pressured. I said no, but I would rather wait a little. At the time I meant more than a few hours, but I was pretty happy that it turned out that way. I absolutely adored him, but I was very conscious that to let him know this would be counter-productive, so I tended not to tell him anything about how I felt. Clever, no? Anyway, the 'relationship' lasted about a week or so after the sex, and a month or so after that he stopped talking to me. Flat out ignored me if we ever bumped into each other. And I found out a while later that a few days after we slept together he told my best friend he was in love with her. Brilliant!
I remember that he gave great massages, and was very intense and pseudo-anarchist in the way that seventeen year olds are. He played guitar, and introduced me to Sonic Youth, L7 and Dinosaur Jr, for which I will be forever grateful. I occasionally wish that I would meet him again. He broke my heart completely, but I would like him to know that I got a bit better at sex.
