*Here is the 2nd submission out of the universe I have contacted regarding this on-going project of ‘The First Time”. I invite any woman reading this, or the original post The First Time, to participate in the project, initiated toward a female centered sexual conversation and narrative about ‘the first time’ we – women and girls – had sex, because if I read or watch one more adolescent male story of cherry popping, I might start screaming, or – fall asleep, I’ve seen and read so many. BO-RING!!!

From A., mid-30s

He was sweet.

His room was warm, I was ready. At least I thought I was ready but I’m sure that I was propelled by the desire to graduate to some variation of adulthood by way of “losing it”. I wanted to be able to relate to everyone else and their talking about sex, I wanted to be desired, to be worthy, to fit in, to be relevant.

I didn’t make a sound.

I buried my face under the pillow in my pain and I pretended that it wasn’t so bad through the curtain of the pillow. He carried on as I bled and I don’t think that either of us said a thing for however long it lasted.

I bled so much I am sure this boy had to run his blankets out to the trash cans before his mother caught a whiff of it. I wonder to this day if he saved his high school money to buy a new duvet or if he had to make a grandiose excuse, maybe no one asked. I thought that maybe I had had bad timing and I just got my first period the same day as giving up my virginity and the keys to the younger realms. It was a lot. A cherry stream of blood amounting to the size of a small dead animal, into a tin can or a dumpster, and excommunicated from a memory.

After the act was over I remember feeling like I needed to go home and lock myself in my room. I had him drop me off at the top of the driveway and I ran upstairs, darting off my mother. I felt like everyone could read it and smell it on me, that if they saw me they would know that I was different now. I couldn’t let anyone see me, they would know and shame me. I didn’t want to talk about it after all. All that blood, sexual behavior, pleasure or pain. Hush, hush.

Despite the young lad’s tenderness it was rather traumatic and it took me almost a year to recover and try “it” again. I couldn’t bare to look at him anymore and I certainly didn’t want to touch him, so I broke up with him after a few silent weeks. He didn’t really do anything wrong but I was traumatized.

Blood didn’t come again during that time of keeping my legs closed, and so I started to take birth control to help induce my cycles. I felt that I had only earned this rite to womanhood with the power of the drug, but whatever, I could relate to my peers and was ready to be having “regular intercourse”. At the time I was sixteen and ready to grow up. I have always been an animal after all despite our society’s discomfort around the topic. I wanted to know what all this sex stuff was about for real if I was to be accused of being “a slut” after all.

I was eager to know, to experience, to check the box, to accomplish, to “feel good” so I started being sexual again but I still didn’t actually enjoy it. I don’t think it was really until my mid twenties that I started to understand how to enjoy sex. Partially because I was giving away my own power so therefore was attracting poor power-dynamics. Choosing the kinds of guys who would strangle me at parties while we made out, or all kinds of disgraceful things. Maybe because I was too easy, too ready and available, or because I had a bullseye on my vishuda, whatever it was was wafting from me and helping to create some pretty raunchy experiences.