The first, or what I remember of him.

June 1, 2011 at 9:43 pm (Sex) (, , , , )

He had put an ad in the university paper: “I need a date. Send me an interesting postcard.” So I did; I had a fondness for postcards then. I don’t remember what I sent, or what I wrote, but it charmed him, and we met in the commons and he  bought me a cup of tea.

I knew who he was; I’d had a bashful crush on him for a while. So it was easy enough to agree to go home with him. His home was a bachelor’s studio apartment with not an inch of visible floor space. A hoarder, or maybe just a slob, I’m not sure. He had a porn movie with a funny premise that he wanted to show me. I’ve forgotten that, too, but I remember sitting side by side on matching kitchen chairs, watching this VHS movie on a tiny television.

I don’t remember who kissed whom. I don’t remember who suggested carrying things further on the bed. I do remember being undressed and being licked by a man for the first time, his beard tickling, his fingers gently then firmly probing. I doubt he made me come, and I vaguely suspect I may have faked it to get him to stop… not that I disliked what he was doing, not at all: it was just the beard burn. I do know he managed to tear my hymen, though it wasn’t fully broken for a few more years.

Returning the favor was incomprehensible to me at the time, so I stroked him instead, fascinated by the mechanics of a handjob. You don’t use lotion? Doesn’t it hurt to move the skin? I asked a lot of questions, and was an attentive student, and was rewarded appropriately.

We stayed on the bed together for a while, and I remember him saying, “Well, at least I know one thing about you – you like to cuddle.” A mystery to the men in my life from the start, it seems.

He walked me to my bus stop – no, actually, he walked me all the way to the stop where I would have transferred buses to get home. I don’t remember why. But along the way, he told me, “I can still smell you in my beard” and we seemed to agree that was a good thing.

Years later, I ran across him again, in a most unexpected place – the Fortean Times. He’d written a paper, an anthropological study on the practice of throwing a pair of shoes tied by the laces over telephone wires. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would have found fascinating. That’s why I liked him.

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