To be honest, I was quite the explorative child, with a strong sense of interpretation and honesty of circumstances and intent. I never had the infamous "talk" with my parents; the culture and practice of sex was quite apparent and relevant to me. I remember once that my mother had attempted to convince my father that we should stop watching R rated movies at the young age my siblings and I were at. By the time she had voiced her opinion, I was 12 or 13 years old and had been watching R Rated movies for a good 4 years and frankly, as my father put it, we would only be punished for something that is quite commonplace now by having the R rated movies removed from us.
During my growing pains (which seemed to be ironically true at least in the groin region), I had located a slim, green edged tome called "A Happier Sex Life", written by two sex-ologists (were there really such academic titles and where do I place my mark to embark on THAT journey?) who had relevant and exciting new sexual practices from the Far East, ... As far as 1972 was concerned. Again intrigued but not nearly as explosively awkward as my mother's toy chest discovery, I had successfully acquired said paperback and read it with the zealotic drive of a Holy Man uncovering lost scriptures of his dogmatic faith. Many nights I hid under the covers and read page after page, absorbing the tactical and effective positions and techniques that were pressed within.
I had at one point, been concerned that my strong sexual nature and interest was uncommon and I had written off my strong urges and drive as part and parcel with the slow but certain progress of adolescence that I was undergoing. Oh, how the surprise leapt upon with me certain cunning wit; I had been in an adventurous mood and caved into the dark urges of joyful interest of personal gain and went a-splunkering into the depths of my parents room, hoping to find a nifty tape-recording or possible money, who knows. What I discovered instead was a tool case from a reputable tool company underneath my mother's side of the bed. Intrigued, because I couldn't imagine my mother, even in her most creative preemptive fashion, would have a prepared tool box under her bed so she could, what, spontaneously change out a wall outlet switch at 2 am?
After a quick instinctual reflexive visual search of any feasible witnesses, seen or unseen, I turned back and deftly popped the case latches and swung open the hinged doors. I was greeted not by a glorious cache of philferable goods but instead a myriad of sexual personal devices, clearly complied not by a casual lonely spirit but an arsenal utilized by a fiendish maverick hell bent on grinding out a damn good itch when the need arises. Textured, ribbed, veined, bendy, beaded, tonged and flared latex and polymer rods and apparatuses in various shades of ruby red to lilly white rested with signs of vigorous use. Beneath the top tray of the phallic kingdom was neatly organized sets of batteries and gels and lotions, as well as an nearly exhausted tube of lubrication jelly and its successor tube rolling beside it, almost anthromorphically eager to expel it's contents for the righteous cause.
Needless to say, I was frozen in transitional shock – clearly I was the product of at least an expressed but respectable sex manic if not the product of 2 such creatures, which would explicitly explain my almost consuming sex drive. Certainly, I had ventured out socially and spoken with my confidantes about emerging hormonal pounding needs and though unanimously my friends had agreed and commiserated about the lack of outlets to plug (pun intended), they were not under the crashing waves of confusing and relentless cravings I was observing. Sure, they wanted to intimately explore at least half the female graduating glass at High School and spill the difference on the rest but I was certain that they didn't desire 95% of the graduating class, regardless of gender or personal values, and then present themselves into the Facility Breakroom to be consumed by a ravenous crowd like day old bagels.
By the way, just for those who are curious, nothing against the Literotica style in particular, my First Time isn't with a family member, just so you are aware.
Despite my mediocre efforts and pathetic attempts at romance, I remained a virgin well past my own Graduation day (silly Greecian-esk fantasies of being hedonistically hoisted by several roaming bands of nubile teenagers in some dark and secluded locale somewhere in the depths of the High school were dashed with hard and fast reality) and was unleashed upon the world at large.
Although it was never really the cold and harsh world that I had always envisioned (and longed for), it still was a bitch finding new people and ultimately, a woman to hopefully help me with the reoccurring swelling issue of my manhood. Of course, as well as bring someone to their fullest full body thrash would be more than lovely as well.
I had haunted the telltale Coffee House in downtown Lincoln for sometime, attempting to ease social malaise with repetitive appearances and learning how to start conversations with complete strangers. I met several, several people and spent copious amounts of time investing myself socially while cutting my personality teeth on being a public creature. I would spend several nights being practically omnipresent as "the guy with the car" who was willing to transport people to parties if I was allowed to crash the gathering.
Eventually my streamside pan panning panned out (a Satyr you say? ) and I meet a lovely college student we shall fittingly call "Lucy." She carried with her a certain amount of familiarity that perplexed me but I was able to exploit as a legitimate excuse for using the hackneyed opener, "Don't I know you from somewhere?" She laughed softly with a smirk as I light her cigarette as we started a late evening. Mind you, the following conversation stated below is paraphrased from a well-loved and worn memory...
"Yeah cutie, you do – we crossed paths a few times at the drama competition scenes last year in High school", she waved her hand in gesticulation and took a sip of her soda, "You're from Waverly right?"
I almost had to kick myself back into gear, I was trapped somewhere between stage fright and total admiration of the beauty before me. Lucy had the color scheme of a chocolate truffle that you just wanted to lick slowly to get at her cream filling. Soft curled dark chocolate hair piled tastefully on top of her head, gentle and warm brown eyes gazed out from a delicate almond shaped face with mocha skin that begged to be contoured with a wandering tongue. Her clothing style spoke eloquently of a being content in a Bohemian Flapper girl visage not tainted with a twisted and bloated ego. She had very presentable curves, displayed with great and winding seams but nothing that would dilute her into being categorized as a common floozy (yeah floozies!). Her crossed leg jingled in a slow, idiosynical toggle, dancing bells in an anklet around her ankle.
Snapping to, I muttered a rough attempt at being suave but came out more as a mumble that it was my Alder mater and I didn't terribly miss it, short of the drama events, naturally. She laughed gently again and we stayed till close talking and after a brief hugged farewell, we went our separate ways, me drifting off to my car to hide my overwhelming glee at meeting a beautiful woman, apparently for the 2nd or 3rd time, and I was able to get her home number and I gave her my pager (remember those days? How did we function back then?) with a promise to meet up again.
Over the course of several Coffee House interludes, I had a pretty good grip on my behavior around this amorous goddess and had a delightful feeling that the interest might be mutual. I received a solid resounding confirmation when she had arrived at the Coffee House looking for me during a particularly ugly rain storm and though she had be attempting to wean off an even uglier cold, she was still persistent about seeing me. I remember wandering around a supermarket with her, arm in arm, looking for cough syrup when she nuzzled into my space and I was hooked. Though I had plans with another interesting chic from Missouri; whom which I was still hashing out my value to her, I quickly shifted gears and buried those plans, despite the clearly upset Missourian on the other side of the pay phone. Something came up and it was a tug of war between my heart and my head (the one you are thinking of, not the one I'm thinking with). Lost serious brownie points with the Missourian but according to some street static, I had no case anyhow.
Anyway, this is about my first time, not about failed half attempts of having a first time. Stick with me folks, I'm just warming up the bed first then we'll get to the main act. Ah the taste of Lucy, how her tongue would travel against mine, her hands pulling around my backside, grabbing a good handful of ass as she would press her own nubile body against my rapidly hardening one.
Lucy and I had quickly became an item once we had discussed our situation over impromptu dinner a chain pizza joint in the Old Market side of town. We had many extended passionate goodbyes pressed against our respective motor vehicles and soon our physical attraction was reaching a boiling point where even semi-secluded pockets of space were not private enough. She, like myself, was still living with our parents, her excuse of cheap college clearly bid out my pathetic excuse that I was still searching for a roommate but she didn't hold it against me, she had better things to hold against me. To complicate matters, both our families lived out of the Lincoln area, mine being closest, we decided to start our evenings early and head out of town after meeting up after our daily occupations.
I remember the night she had concluded and extracted from me that I was still a virgin. We had found ourselves out at my parents' house in Eagle, down in the pit of despair I claimed as my bedroom. During my final days of imprisonment at High School, I was permitted to move into the basement, especially after I had received my car and my parents relented to the reality that I was going to be fairly absent with my newfound freedom. Having access to the basement backdoor was an intelligent idea since my late night entry wouldn't disturb my slumbering parents and meant that sneaking my girlfriend into the house; who was complaining?
We had wandering in from parking the car and we both had a light mist on our bodies from the sprinkling of rain outside. This particular evening, Lucy was wearing a soft sundress with spaghetti straps and the light rain was already causing me to misinterpret door frames and collide erection first into them. Lucy giggled and helped to correct me, noting that she would like to help me deal with my "imbalance".
She headed into the "bedroom area of my domicile as I locked up the backdoor – don't want any pesky drunken wandering imbeciles traipsing in. I had entered the room and almost metaphorically tripped over my own swollen member, which despite good nature of my hung-ness, isn't a walking hazard (thank god and goddess).
