Saturday, January 24, 2015
Sexuality at 16
An excerpt from Just Another Number
Number 2 was dense, but attractive. People doted on him like an adorable, golden-eyed puppy that fumbled into walls when he played fetch.
But he didn’t embarrass me. I didn’t desire anything more. Declaring him mine was all it took to fill my voids.
I actually enjoyed being intellectually superior to my boyfriend. It made me feel like I had control over him. He was sweet. He doted on me. He never challenged me.
But, when it came to the physical stuff, I fell right through my safety net.
Our lack of mental compatibility was replaced with fooling around. And Number 2 and I fooled around a lot. I’d barely been kissed before him. Even that was horrifying enough. The initial touch of his hands on my B-cup knockers nearly set me in a panic attack. The harsher our denim rashes, the greater the pressure intensified to remove that clothing barrier.
I had no clue how to jerk a guy off.
“How hard do I hold onto his dick?” I wondered. “What kind of rhythm do I move my hand in?”
I certainly didn’t know how to give a blowjob. Just thinking about it made me want to guzzle a gallon of Listerine.
“So, I’m supposed to just put my mouth right where a guy pees?” I wondered. “And then suck it? What if he pisses in my mouth?”
Oral sex sounded gruesome. Sperm couldn’t have had a tasty flavor.
I knew Number 2 had a bit more experience than me, but his stories were vague.
“Uh. I can’t remember if I had sex before,” he told me. “I know I had a sixty-nine with this chick when I was fourteen. Maybe.”
That was enough to intimidate me.
Although he didn’t push it, I knew that the excitement of boob fondling would eventually expire. Though I could navigate the Bermuda Triangle better than a penis, my own lady parts were their own issue.
How the hell would I make my vagina presentable?
Sure, it was youthfully uncharted, but was it attractive? What qualities defined a visually pleasing twat? Was it the size of the clitoris or the shade of its flesh? Was it the difference between a full bush, landing strip, and baby smooth? Did different men prefer certain variations?
I never dealt with excessive body fur. But having barely made love to a tampon, my privates were truly untainted.
Inspired by a Sex in the City episode, I decided that the safest route was to exterminate the entire light brown bush that had been blooming since age nine.
In the privacy of my room, armed with a mirror, shaving cream, razor, and bowl of water, I sat on my floor with a towel propped under my bare ass. Leaning back against my bed with my legs wide open as if I were about to give birth, I shaved everything off. My lady parts looked like a barren desert after a massive forest fire. I saw parts of myself that had long vanished beneath pubescent growth.
Suddenly, I felt sexy. There was something about going bare that made me feel sensual and touchable. But that was short lived. I was ill prepared for my skin’s reaction to the change. I completely broke out. My pussy flushed as razor bumps shot across my flesh as if I’d had an allergic reaction to my underwear. It took weeks of applying antibiotic ointment to calm my skin.
After enough shaving and treating, the inflammation faded. I finally let Number 2 finger-bang me for the first time. We were in an empty park late at night in downtown Chattanooga. It had just rained and we rolled through the grass behind a thick, cropped garden. In the heat of the moment, I pushed myself on top of him. When he slipped his hand up my leg for probably the millionth time, he was pleasantly surprised when I didn’t swat it away.
I felt his hand go down my shorts and through my underwear. The whole experience wasn’t the hype I’d expected. I had no orgasm, nor any intense feelings of pleasure. It felt like the same thing I’d done to myself for years except that I did it better. As he aimlessly fumbled his hands inside of me, I realized that we were equally clueless. That made me brave. I unzipped his pants and pulled out his erected dick.
It wasn’t as scary as I’d expected. Instead of monstrous and intimidating, it was fairly small and silly looking.
I’d only seen one grown male penis before. I was six and my mom was dating Carl. The three of us went camping. We all shared a tent, but Carl had been discreet when he changed his clothes. The morning after we all spent the night in the tent together, we were lying around. I made up my mind that if I was ever going to see a penis, that was the time. Feeling like a pioneer about to embark on an uninhibited jungle, I crawled under the covers. Carl, who is fat with a body suit of man fur, slept in only his underwear, so reaching his penis would be easy. Under the blanket, I grabbed his briefs and yanked them down.
There it was!
The only thing I remembered about his penis was that it was small, red, and ugly.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Carl shouted.
Number 2's penis was not as red. It was erect, so I could give its size more credit than Carl’s.
I gripped my hand around it, and began stroking it up a down like I’d observed in porn. Although I heard a few groans from Number 2, I still had no clue as to what I was doing. We were exploring our sexuality together. I dropped a great deal of my insecurity that night. I figured that until he rocked my world, there was no pressure to rock his.