I love books and I love writing because they give life beauty through order. All those confusing emotions felt in ephemeral moments can be paused, held and observed in peace without time harrying you on. Even if my words still show an incomprehensible chaos, there is still comfort in an ordered disorder. I suppose this is the reason I am writing this; I am confused and made crazy by sex, and putting that into writing gives me release. Part of the problem is that I can only write about sex when I am aroused and after alcohol. The everyday me would recoil at erotic words, her face will contort with disgust if you mentioned the word 'cum.' But how I am now, I find it so exhilarating; I want to cum and I feel like writing again.
A previous partner of mine told me that when we had sex I could be very 'porny' with my moans and mannerisms which is funny because I'm not very into watching porn. I think because I am so repressed that when I get aroused the floodgates open. I love the loss of control and the feeling of being exposed. And it's not as if I'm being dishonest when I'm being prudish-- I am sincerely disgusted by sex most of the time, but when I'm in the mood I love being dirty. I love being gross and nasty and slutty.
My first sexual experience came as a shock to me. I had never masturbated before because it was too "icky;" the look, texture and smell of vagina made me uncomfortable so I left it alone. I had moments where I felt myself, but I always backed away out of nervousness.
However, once I had grown to an adult age, when my parents allowed me more freedom, they relented to letting me visit one of my friends for the summer. She was half French, and her family owned a holiday home in Southern France. It was a large house with a converted barn off to the side, which was where I stayed. It was more than a guest room; it was almost an entire house in itself, and it was fancier than the home I lived in with my parents. I had an entire double bed, covered in Egyptian cotton, air conditioning and an en suite bathroom all to myself.
The first week I spent settling into this new luxury. I spent most of those days resting, visiting the local village and practicing my French with my friend's father. And after that week, I felt as if I lived there.
It wasn't all comfortable, however. I did struggle to adjust to the heat. Although there are heavy summers in England, the French sun was far more oppressive. I sweated at a constant drip. There wasn't enough deodorant or perfume in the world to cover my body. Even getting out of the shower, the activity of drying off was enough exercise to break a sweat and make me stink again. I didn't bring enough clothes, and while my friend's dad offered to throw my things into the wash with everyone else's, I felt too embarrassed to hand him a damp sundress and sticky underwear.
Soon though I did begin to stop caring. I felt like my armpit hair was sexy, and even if they did smell like sweat, I gladly wore my sundresses regardless. I remember starting to see spirals of pubic hair poking out from my bikini, but I didn't care. Or I cared very much about my friend's dad and brother seeing my pubic hair. I don't think I was conscious of it at the time, and I didn't want to sleep wither either the dad or brother, but on some level I wanted them to know I had a pussy and I didn't shave.
This was also the first time I had access to a bathtub. I began to love soaking in the water for hours, and I'd look down at my feet and feel my eyes up my body, past my long legs, bush, tight tummy and small breasts. I remember the first bath I had during this period made me feel aroused. I saw myself in the bathroom mirror, my naked head and shoulders peering back. I could barely look at myself but I felt excited. That first time I lingered my soapy hand a little longer over my pussy, but not too long. I remember feeling that tingle, but I didn't pursue it further.
It was the perfect storm to lose my virginity. Not long after a barbeque was planned for a Friday evening. My friend's extended family were invited, along with family friends. I put on my prettiest dress-- a white halter with a pink floral pattern-- and helped in the kitchen to make the food. I felt so cute running around the house in my bare feet. I felt like a woman who had a place, and who was beautiful and sexy in her own right.
The man who I had sex with was a school friend of the brother. He was older than me, and of course he was French with a perfected French accent. We sat next to one another at dinner and talked for hours about books and music and he complimented me for my interests as well as my beauty. I don't know how to describe him other than he was very French, like a young Serge Gainsbourg. And I still remember he had the most beautiful hands too: they were big but not brutish and violent, and delicate without being flimsy and feminine.
After dessert and some more wine, we both went for a walk. At this point I think it was an unspoken thing that we were romantically walking. I didn't intend on sex just yet, but we went through the winding roads holding hands. The sun had almost disappeared, but it was still warm and bright. Our hands clammed together as we rushed back to the house before the sun had fully set.
We arrived late to humid blue air hugging our hot bodies. I was flustered and excited. It looked like all the guests had gone home and the house seemed completely empty in the night.
