While everyone experiences their first time at a different age, I still felt like I was older than most. I felt as if there were an elite club for those who had done it before, who could make jokes and references toward an experience to which I couldn’t relate. I had read about it, seen it on the Internet and heard all about it from friends and family. Still, I was desperate to experience it for myself. Some people choose to experience their first time with friends. Many choose to plan it out weeks in advance. I, however, decided my first time would happen on a whim. One Saturday, while overtaken by the womanly confidence that comes from scrubbing one’s crevices to a Rachel Maddow podcast in the shower, I decided that it was the day.
I was raised in a small town by an all-American, meat-and-potatoes kind of family. The thought of experiencing some ethnic flavor was daunting but exciting. It would be the right amount of rebellion against the values instilled in me during childhood.
His name was Jose. Despite a sea of potential suitors, we locked eyes immediately. With the slight nod of his head and the tuck of a cinnamon colored curl behind his ear, I found myself standing face to face with him. In a black polo shirt that showed off his toned physique, I knew he was the one. We exchanged basic pleasantries, but really, there was no need. We both knew where this was headed.
He offered me a drink, but I declined. I wanted the main event to be the sole and unclouded focus of my evening. It was clear that Jose had done this before, but he never made me feel like I was just the next girl in line. When I told him it was my first time, he took the care to ask my preferences to ensure that I enjoyed the experience. He made a few suggestions but ultimately let me dictate how the experience went. It took a few minutes for him to get things ready, but I soon found what I had been lusting after presented in front of me.
I nearly wet myself in elation when I saw it. It was bigger than I expected and mere inches from my face. I finally understood what the Spice Girls had meant by the lyrics in “2 Become 1.” I squeezed it between my index finger and thumb, gasping at its incredible firmness. While I knew he had covered it for my protection, I could help but wonder what this beefy delight would look like bare. I peeled off the wrapper slowly as I bit my bottom lip and looked up at Jose. Its warmth struck me like a pastor with a belt, punishing an altar boy for his naughty behavior. I grasped it at the base, took one last look at the beauty before me, and inserted it into my mouth. A few seconds later, a creamy white texture immediately exploded into my mouth. I swallowed.
Despite the buildup, it was over pretty fast. Unlike some, I didn’t regret it the next day. After a long jog along the waterfront I felt content with my actions.
While some may think this is a moment to keep to myself, I am proud to tell the Internet that I had a really good time my first time…eating at Chipotle.