Womens first time sex stories. 34 Women Describe Their First Time.



Womens first time sex stories

Womens first time sex stories

The clock was ticking. Precocity had always been my thing. As an only child, I spent most of my youth around adults, which made me sound sort of like one. By early adolescence I had become so accustomed to being told I was mature, it seemed obvious to me that this next benchmark had to be hit early in order to maintain my identity.

I was curious about sex. But mostly, I had a reputation to uphold. I was pretty much the only person interested in this reputation. The first—and only impressive—expression of my precociousness was when I insisted on learning to read in nursery school.

I loved talking and words and once I could write them down I was a step closer to becoming myself. The upside of being a verbal kid is that adults often think you are bright, but children have another name for such a person: I realized, as I was going through puberty early , the necessity of shifting my focus from doing things that would impress my parents and teachers to engaging in behavior that would strike my peers as cool.

I smoked pot when I was twelve. I dropped acid when I was thirteen. Losing my virginity was the next logical step.

Well, the pot, actually, was great—unless you are reading this and you are twelve, in which case it was awful. But the acid was a classic bad trip, during which I thought I heard the breathing of dead people. With sex as with drugs, my interest in the entity itself was far less potent a motivator than my fervent desire to transform myself from tiny dork into Janis Joplin. It felt like my job. I needed to do things that would make people gasp.

Nobody would gasp if they heard a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old had lost her virginity. I had a beautiful boyfriend when I was fourteen, with whom I was thoroughly infatuated. Josh had dark blue eyes and long, curly brown hair, which was prematurely streaked with silver. He hung out on the steps in front of our high school with other boys who smoked cigarettes and, occasionally, joints in the bushes. Both of our sets of parents were slowly but surely separating, and both Josh and I were paradoxically desperate to assert our independence from them by mimicking the very expressions of rebellion they had taught us.

We listened to Neil Young and Bob Dylan. We read On the Road and The Prophet. When Josh and I started going out I felt that I had been delivered from my isolation, my uncoolness, and my family. It did not occur to me that I got the ideas for my outfits from photographs of my mother taken at a time when she looked happy to be with my father. On the occasions when we found ourselves alone in bedrooms or on couches, our bravado dissipated and we became children again, unsure of what was expected of us.

We did not have a lot of lust to guide us. We found each other attractive, but we were so young neither of us had ever experienced clear erotic desire. Josh, I knew, was as confused about what this entailed as I was. I never brought it up.

It was all we could do to get past second base. So, when I was fifteen, I started going to bars with a pack of girls who went to Catholic school in Manhattan and knew how to get fake IDs. We would go to crummy dives in the East Village to drink beer, listen to awful bands, and flirt with grown men. I saw him only once. I was impressed by his advanced age and how shocking it would be if I told people he was my boyfriend, but even I knew that this was not enough grist for a relationship.

I met another guy who was funny and went to film school at NYU. He was twenty-two and had a tiny apartment on Great Jones Alley and I thought he might make a suitable boyfriend, or at least a suitable deflowerer. It was harder than I thought. Or, perhaps his father or mother had warned him that girls get attached to their first lover—you break it you bought it, or some such.

But his reluctance was no match for my romantic poetry: As it happened, we split the difference. He agreed to have sex with me and, to the best of my knowledge at the time, he made good on our deal. But I was thrilled to be done with it. Or so I thought. It was clear to all of us that this was special, that we would remember it, and that the night could end only one way.

For the following year I told anyone who asked that I was not a virgin. Then, the summer before I turned seventeen, I went to work on the kitchen staff at a hippie sleep-away camp. Every morning I got up early to set up the hot cocoa station; every night I put the chairs on top of the tables and mopped the dining hall floor. In August, I had three days off, and one of the counselors and I got in her battered car and drove through the thick summer air from New Hampshire to Cape Cod.

Her boyfriend was in Provincetown, living out of his van, which he parked in the woods outside of town. We sat with him on Commercial Street while he played music for money, and scorched ourselves brown on the beach in the afternoon sun.

When night fell, we went with him to a store called Firehouse Leather to meet some of his friends who sold belts and moccasins to tourists. One of them was a tall guy named Austin with a sand-colored ponytail.

When my friends and I walked away, I turned back and caught him still staring at me, which made us both laugh. We had a bonfire on the beach late that night. I sat in the dunes with my friend and her boyfriend and the staff of Firehouse Leather, drinking beer and watching a meteor shower flickering in the dark above us. It was clear to all of us that this was special, that we would remember it, and that the night could end only one way: When we had sex, it became clear to me that in fact, I had never had sex before.

What had happened on that futon on Great Jones had been a failed attempt; the young man from NYU had not completed my mission. This, now, was something else. It was uncomfortable, then pleasurable, but most of all it was different. It was different from the plodding loneliness of high school, and from the harrowing, cyclical fights with my parents that had become our routine. It was something that was better to do than to talk about doing.

It would take me many, many years to understand what I wanted from it, but I was so glad to know it was there. Austin wrote me long letters that I read by the brown lake back at camp—I think I still have one in a hatbox somewhere. I saw him from time to time over the years, when I went up to look at the college he attended in Massachusetts, and when I went back to Provincetown for summer weekends in my twenties. But he could have been anyone.

I was looking for myself. But I knew that sex was a way to discover and communicate who you are. Her work has also appeared in The Best American Essays She is the author of Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture. Subscribe to the Guernica newsletter.

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Womens first time sex stories

The clock was ticking. Precocity had always been my thing. As an only child, I spent most of my youth around adults, which made me sound sort of like one. By early adolescence I had become so accustomed to being told I was mature, it seemed obvious to me that this next benchmark had to be hit early in order to maintain my identity.

I was curious about sex. But mostly, I had a reputation to uphold. I was pretty much the only person interested in this reputation. The first—and only impressive—expression of my precociousness was when I insisted on learning to read in nursery school. I loved talking and words and once I could write them down I was a step closer to becoming myself. The upside of being a verbal kid is that adults often think you are bright, but children have another name for such a person: I realized, as I was going through puberty early , the necessity of shifting my focus from doing things that would impress my parents and teachers to engaging in behavior that would strike my peers as cool.

I smoked pot when I was twelve. I dropped acid when I was thirteen. Losing my virginity was the next logical step. Well, the pot, actually, was great—unless you are reading this and you are twelve, in which case it was awful.

But the acid was a classic bad trip, during which I thought I heard the breathing of dead people. With sex as with drugs, my interest in the entity itself was far less potent a motivator than my fervent desire to transform myself from tiny dork into Janis Joplin.

It felt like my job. I needed to do things that would make people gasp. Nobody would gasp if they heard a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old had lost her virginity. I had a beautiful boyfriend when I was fourteen, with whom I was thoroughly infatuated.

Josh had dark blue eyes and long, curly brown hair, which was prematurely streaked with silver. He hung out on the steps in front of our high school with other boys who smoked cigarettes and, occasionally, joints in the bushes. Both of our sets of parents were slowly but surely separating, and both Josh and I were paradoxically desperate to assert our independence from them by mimicking the very expressions of rebellion they had taught us. We listened to Neil Young and Bob Dylan.

We read On the Road and The Prophet. When Josh and I started going out I felt that I had been delivered from my isolation, my uncoolness, and my family. It did not occur to me that I got the ideas for my outfits from photographs of my mother taken at a time when she looked happy to be with my father. On the occasions when we found ourselves alone in bedrooms or on couches, our bravado dissipated and we became children again, unsure of what was expected of us.

We did not have a lot of lust to guide us. We found each other attractive, but we were so young neither of us had ever experienced clear erotic desire.

Josh, I knew, was as confused about what this entailed as I was. I never brought it up. It was all we could do to get past second base. So, when I was fifteen, I started going to bars with a pack of girls who went to Catholic school in Manhattan and knew how to get fake IDs. We would go to crummy dives in the East Village to drink beer, listen to awful bands, and flirt with grown men. I saw him only once. I was impressed by his advanced age and how shocking it would be if I told people he was my boyfriend, but even I knew that this was not enough grist for a relationship.

I met another guy who was funny and went to film school at NYU. He was twenty-two and had a tiny apartment on Great Jones Alley and I thought he might make a suitable boyfriend, or at least a suitable deflowerer. It was harder than I thought. Or, perhaps his father or mother had warned him that girls get attached to their first lover—you break it you bought it, or some such.

But his reluctance was no match for my romantic poetry: As it happened, we split the difference. He agreed to have sex with me and, to the best of my knowledge at the time, he made good on our deal. But I was thrilled to be done with it. Or so I thought. It was clear to all of us that this was special, that we would remember it, and that the night could end only one way.

For the following year I told anyone who asked that I was not a virgin. Then, the summer before I turned seventeen, I went to work on the kitchen staff at a hippie sleep-away camp.

Every morning I got up early to set up the hot cocoa station; every night I put the chairs on top of the tables and mopped the dining hall floor.

In August, I had three days off, and one of the counselors and I got in her battered car and drove through the thick summer air from New Hampshire to Cape Cod. Her boyfriend was in Provincetown, living out of his van, which he parked in the woods outside of town. We sat with him on Commercial Street while he played music for money, and scorched ourselves brown on the beach in the afternoon sun.

When night fell, we went with him to a store called Firehouse Leather to meet some of his friends who sold belts and moccasins to tourists. One of them was a tall guy named Austin with a sand-colored ponytail. When my friends and I walked away, I turned back and caught him still staring at me, which made us both laugh. We had a bonfire on the beach late that night. I sat in the dunes with my friend and her boyfriend and the staff of Firehouse Leather, drinking beer and watching a meteor shower flickering in the dark above us.

It was clear to all of us that this was special, that we would remember it, and that the night could end only one way: When we had sex, it became clear to me that in fact, I had never had sex before. What had happened on that futon on Great Jones had been a failed attempt; the young man from NYU had not completed my mission. This, now, was something else. It was uncomfortable, then pleasurable, but most of all it was different.

It was different from the plodding loneliness of high school, and from the harrowing, cyclical fights with my parents that had become our routine. It was something that was better to do than to talk about doing. It would take me many, many years to understand what I wanted from it, but I was so glad to know it was there.

Austin wrote me long letters that I read by the brown lake back at camp—I think I still have one in a hatbox somewhere. I saw him from time to time over the years, when I went up to look at the college he attended in Massachusetts, and when I went back to Provincetown for summer weekends in my twenties.

But he could have been anyone. I was looking for myself. But I knew that sex was a way to discover and communicate who you are. Her work has also appeared in The Best American Essays She is the author of Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture. Subscribe to the Guernica newsletter.

Womens first time sex stories

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2 Comments

  1. But, saying I lost my virginity on a trampoline has made for some great conversations. I had put on christmas lights and he reached over and turned off the ceiling light, giving the room a warm glow. Being an insecure year-old, dark-skinned, black boy in a majority-white area made me desperate for any attention.

  2. I didn't even bleed maybe because I had already broken my hymen masturbating but he didn't notice it was my first time. Subscribe to the Guernica newsletter.

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