When Nothing Seems To Compare To Your First Time

When it came to sex, my motto had always been, “If I hesitate, I shouldn’t do it.” I hesitated for 20 years and still didn’t lose my virginity until 21. The hardest part of being a virgin (no pun intended) was not being able to fully experience a real game of Never Have I Ever. It was like playing a really sober game of fucking patty cake; I never put any fingers down because I had never done anything.

And then I got involved with a beautiful, cinnamon-skinned friend of seven years. He was 6 feet of innocent (or so I thought), so finally becoming a valuable player of Never Have I Ever wasn’t exactly high on my to-do list. It wasn’t until he took matters (and by matters I mean my vagina) into his own hands that I instantly believed this was going to be part one of a lifelong series:

How to Play Catch-Up After 20 Years.

It didn’t happen.

We tried again that summer…still didn’t happened.

I honestly thought God, the universe, some higher power was telling me, “…seriously? Stop trying to fuck him. You’re not supposed to fuck him. This obviously isn’t supposed to be your first experience if it hasn’t worked on multiple occasions. Am I going to have to do everything for you?”

Yes, higher power, you are going to have to do everything for me because all I want is cinnamon in my coquito.

I’d never even had coquito at that point, but I knew we would taste just as good.

I met beautiful 6 feet of sarcasm shortly after. He was funny, the kind of funny that makes you laugh in the ugliest way and leak like the Niagara Falls from your eyes. His sense of humor was poison. I knew from the very first joke that he was the person I wanted to experience inside and out. Literally. The night I decided to take matters into my own hands (and by matters I mean every fiber of his being), his smile was all the foreplay I needed.

The beginning of the entire ordeal was funny, of course. Even the beginning of the actual sex was funny. I half-laughed and half-patted myself on the back when he said, “You’re taking this like a champ.” Yes. I did.

But I stopped laughing – I stopped breathing – when he looked directly at me and said, “I’m glad I’m doing this with you.” The next kiss sucked out any oxygen I had left, and, for a second, not breathing felt incredible.

He tasted like dulce de leche.

The next time he took my breath was when I came, and then it was his turn. The room smelled of selflessness, and its fragrance was exquisite.

I haven’t been able to get that stench of me yet. Every experience thereafter has continuously reeked of disappointment. I get a whiff of comparison and hesitation after every encounter now, and I wonder if this is all I’ll ever have to reference.