For a first fuck, there is no habitat so lush and fine as a man's recollection. A quarter century of observation has convinced me that a first fuck not only lives on in the memory of a man but thrives there, increasing in length and prowess with each passing year until at last it reaches full maturity, which is to say, steamy and passionate enough to resurrect John Holmes from the grave, and his Louisville Slugger along with him.
Consider the case of my friend, whom we'll refer to as Bob Goodsprout, and his first fuck. I was on a double-date with him when he lost his virginity, and though my first impression from his bellowing was that Bob had erupted before even getting his schlong out of his shorts, his initial report was that they had made it into the backseat and managed to make about two seconds' worth of genital contact. We were both only 18 in high school at the time and Bob was quivering with excitement over his good fortune at getting laid for the first time. Still, there was no question in either of our minds (or his date's) that he had gone off like a jack-in-the-box in the starting gate.
You can imagine my surprise when, scarcely a month later, I overheard Bob telling some friends that his first fuck was at a local motel with a college girl with 36-C cans and that she screamed his name non-stop for two hours. I mentioned to Bob afterwards that I was amazed at how fast he had managed to upgrade his date, get to the Tiki Travel Lodge from the drive-in, and shoot an entire syringe of Novocain into his cock. He said he was a little surprised himself, but that his date had gained a pharmacy degree on the ride over. He admitted that he had known all along that the fuck was going to get better eventually although he hadn't expected it to happen so quickly. Staring off into the distance, a dreamy expression on his face, he told me, "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if someday my first fuck wins an AFAA Award."
"I wouldn't either," I said. "In fact, I'd be willing to bet on it."
Not long ago, Bob and I were chatting with some of the guys down at Sharky's Weenie Hut and the talk turned to first fucks. It was disgusting. I can stand moist sentimentality as well as the next fellow, but I have my limits. Some of those first fucks lasted for days. After each money-shot the cocks grew three inches. Enough semen was secreted to float an aircraft carrier battle group. The girls were all clones of Anna Kournikova with natural tits the size of watermelons and equipped with anti-gravity capability. They all were girls-next-door who became tigresses in heat at the flip of a switch, they all gave fantastic head, they all deep-throated like Linda Lovelace, and they all swallowed. They were all so limber that if they'd been any more so, their limbs would have been detachable. And the synchronicity! Not a single load was shot into a single pussy that wasn't perfectly accompanied by a cataclysmic orgasm that milked the accompanying testicles completely dry (for about thirty seconds).
Finally, it was Bob's turn, and between waves of nausea I wondered whether those few backseat dribbles had developed enough over the years to meet this kind of competition. I needn't have wondered.
Bob's first fuck was no longer a phenomenon of this Earth. It had moved on entirely to an ethereal dimension where only quasi-deities live, and his date had evolved from college hottie to Aphrodite herself. His wood had become old growth timber with the rigidity of neutronized matter, such that only a goddess COULD have satisfied him, and only a goddess could have withstood his romantic powers. Perfectly matched for each other, their lovemaking went on for eternities, their moans what we perceived as thunder, their love juices what we saw as rain, their passion what we think of as sunlight. Shit, I wondered why he would have ever come home again.
At last Bob reached the, er, climax of his story. "I don't expect you guys to believe this," he said, his voiced hushed with reverence, "but when I came for the forty-eighth time, the GROUND SHOOK!"
The guys all nodded, believing. Why, hadn't the ground shook for them too when they had cum for the forty-eighth time in a row? Of course it had. All first fucks are like that.
Except mine.
I banged the table for attention. "Now," I said, "I'm going to tell you about a REAL first fuck, not a figment of my senility, not some fossilized hope of my dangling adolescence, but a REAL first fuck."
Now I could tell from looking at their stunned faces that the guys were upset. There is nothing that angers the participants of a bullshitting competition more than someone who refuses to engage in the mutual exchange of illusions, someone who tells the simple truth, unstretched, unvarnished, unembellished, and whole.
"Even though it violates the male locker room code," I began, "I must confess that I still harbor unkind thoughts about my first fuck. True to its form and unlike almost all other first fucks, it has steadfastly refused to grow in either my memory or imagination; it simply lays there, like my penis, in its original puny size, flaccid and lifeless on my consciousness, as inert and unassuming as was the original experience. Indeed, it's a wonder that I didn't drift back into celibacy with an indifferent shrug, wondering what all the fuss was about."
The guys at Sharky's shrank back in horror at this heresy. Bob tried to slip away, but I riveted him to his chair with a maniacal laugh. His eyes pleaded with me, "NO, DON'T TELL US!" they begged, "DON'T DESTROY THE MYTH OF THE FIRST FUCK!"
Unrelenting and with only an occasional pause for a bitter, sardonic cackle to escape my foam-flecked lips (I was nursing an A&W root beer at the time), I plunged on with the tale, putting back layer after layer of clothing on the nude body of the first fuck myth until at last the truth about one man's first fuck had been shrunken down to its utter, brutally desultory reality.
I began by pointing out that the vast majority of men don't even see head or tail of a glimpse of the female form outside of the girlie mags before their wedding nights, and the mags only if their importation and storage are handled with sufficient discretion to avoid detection and eviction by snooping mothers. But even success in this meager indulgence is usually brief and fleeting. Once you get your stash of Playboys, it soon becomes insufficient to just have them in the back of your closet, available for nightly "perusal" along with the jar of Vaseline clandestinely snuck out of the bathroom medicine cabinet as if in a commando raid. The adolescent libido - which is its own autonomous life form - demands greater boldness, to wit, that the centerfolds be removed and tacked to your bedroom ceiling like the mirrors in a Las Vegas hotel suite, the better to serve as vicarious putty targets as you return the sultry countenances looking down upon you. Within an average of about seventy-two hours, the centerfolds disappear, along with the magazine stash, with sufficient ominousity that no parental words are really necessary.
That simply reflects the old adage, "Those who can't do, teach; those who can't teach, preach; and those who can't do anything, watch."
In reality, every guy who isn't the quarterback on the varsity football team (in other words, 99% of them) is terrified to approach genuinely pretty girls, usually because the quarterback is dating them and will kick your ass if you do. Also because any genuinely pretty girl will squash your fragile ego like a grape first, and THEN her jock boyfriend will kick your ass.
No, most guys are in marching band or metal shop or some other environ where pretty girls are never found, and take that waft of geekiness with them wherever they go. Which is to getting laid what a good dousing in "Off" is to a swarm of mosquitoes.
What about the not-so-pretty girls, or my particular preference, the girls who are pretty but don't realize it? Well, they're approachable, but no less terrifying because of what they'll probably say if you venture so innocuous a suggestion as sharing an ice cream soda at Baskin-Robbins. Not to mention what it would mean if they WERE receptive to your meager advances. So you just share a stand with them in orchestra, carry their books to the library, maybe even elicit a laugh or two once in a while that brightens your entire week and sends a torrent of blood netherward. And you make sure that area is covered up by tighty-whities that are two sizes too small, because, after all, you'd be mortified if they knew what you were thinking. And you ARE mortified at the possibility that they will SEE what you're thinking and know but won't let on that they know.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Oh, that romantic chicken-heartedness doesn't last indefinitely. Eventually you meet somebody, and you begin your torturous way around the "bases." "Eventually" being defined as, "hopefully before my hairline starts to recede."
