I asked her if she would like to kiss. She laughed at me, not unkindly. “Have you asked anyone that before?”
I had: my first kiss, a few weeks ago. I’d gone on a few dates with someone who was very consent-forward. At the end of our first date, they asked if I would like to hug. After the second date, same thing. On the third date, I asked if they would like to kiss. We did.
Now we were cuddling on the bed. I was smelling her hair. Then we were kissing.
My first kiss hadn’t turned out the way I thought it would. I thought there would be more of a charge to it, but it didn’t feel like anything more than what it was: lips flapping around. This was similar. Maybe that was it, or maybe I was doing something wrong. I still liked it, but I liked caresses better. Or body kisses.
We were doing both now. We took a long time. Maybe an hour, even if that sounds crazy.
But it was possible. I drove her home at midnight, about a 15-minute drive. We looked over the balcony, explored her room, she made me tea and read me philosophy. I don’t think that took much longer than two hours. But we didn’t put our clothes back on until after 3:30.
We undressed slowly. I didn’t have a destination in mind. It would be my first time, and I wasn’t sure how far I wanted to go. But she eased me into it, like a weight gently and inevitably sinking. She was smooth: she caressed my shoulders, and my bralette straps slipped off. When I took off her bra, I was clumsy. But she laughed, in her merry way. She brushed my hair out of my face. I always thought I looked better—more girlish—with my bangs in front, but her gesture was so sweet I didn’t mind.
Her caresses were teasing: she would go somewhere, test the waters, and then come back. She was quiet: she didn’t ask me any questions, but I tried to show my consent with my actions.
Eventually, we were fingering each other. Well, I was fingering her; I didn’t know what you would call what she was doing, because my anatomy was different. A little later, I asked her, with as little pressure as possible, if she would like me inside her (if I should put on a condom).
“No, it’s okay.”
I immediately felt bad for asking. I told myself that neither of us did anything wrong, but I felt gross: like a boy.
I tried to guide her how to touch me, but I didn’t know how. I knew how to masturbate, but not how someone else could help. It didn’t feel right.
I asked her about my technique, but she said, “It’s okay, I already went.” I had noticed her breath quickening but didn’t realize she already came.
I couldn’t finish. I said it was my first time.
“First time what?”
“Having sex.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
I told her I hadn’t learned how to finish with someone else yet. I think I was nervous, too. My mind didn’t feel nervous, but my body was. I was shaking at the beginning.
She left me her bed and went to sleep on the couch. Her bed was cot-sized, or I assumed we would have shared it. I’m glad we didn’t because I couldn’t sleep.
I shouldn’t have expected to. I have a hard time sleeping in new places, and my mind was racing.
I took The Bluest Eye off her bookshelf. I read 60 pages before I turned the light off again.
When I awoke, it was raining. Lines of sunlight were growing on the ceiling.
I had parked in a spot that would expire at eight, so I had to leave. I said my goodbyes, and she lent me an umbrella.
Outside, it was brighter than I thought. That’s the strange thing about this time of year. Seven in the morning is bright, and seven in the evening is pitch black.
I started the car. The rain was heavy now, and Burt Bacharach was playing on the radio. I always thought my first time would be me finishing in five seconds, embarrassed. But instead, I didn’t finish at all. I suppose I had the girl’s experience.