Taralee's First Time

I woke up confused.

What had been, in my mind, a "simple love triangle" problem for a breezily confident eighteen-year-old girl — me, Danny, Pierre — was suddenly overlaid, pardon the pun, with lust. In one weekend my life had evolved from the girlhood rhyme when plucking the petals off a daisy — "he loves me ... he loves me not ... he loves me" — to a vertigo-inducing swirl of boys, sex, and sensations raging through my body like wildfire.

Last week I'd been a virgin; this week I was ... a slut?

I didn't

feel

like a slut, but I knew darn well that if the girls in my gym class found out I'd had my first two sexual adventures on two consecutive nights with two different boys, that's what they'd call me. I was in way over my head, and I was scared.

So a couple of days later, I 'fessed up.

Jess lived two houses down the street and had been my best friend since Grade 2, when her parents moved to D.C. from an Air Force posting in Germany. We'd soon started having sleepovers and by the time we were teenagers it felt like we were twins, sharing every thought and emotion. Till I started getting interested in boys, that is.

Jess was a head taller than me, slim with long dark hair, a swimmer's taught body, and smoldering eyes. 'Cause she grew tall early, she'd towered over most boys our age for the last five years, and she rarely got asked to school dances or the movies. She'd become a bit of a wallflower, and had built a shell around herself that didn't make getting dates any easier.

I took some homework to her house after school that Friday, had dinner with her folks, played with her dachshunds and ran up the street to tell my mom I was staying over. We went up to her cozy bedroom, with its dark, European-style furniture and old-fashioned eyelet bedspread and pillow covers, and changed into winter nightgowns. The talk turned to Pierre and Danny, and she asked whether I'd made up my mind. I blushed crimson and jumped on her bed face-down to hide my embarrassment. When she sat beside me and rubbed my back, my conflicted emotions flooded my body and I burst into silent tears. Jess kept stroking my back as I shook with sobs, totally misunderstanding my outburst until I was able to breathe quietly enough to tell her the story of Pierre and the Homecoming dance.

"Ohhhh," she said, "but you'd wanted that for so long ... those must be tears of happiness!" Her soothing tone helped me settle down, and we crawled under the covers the way we'd done since we were little. She held me in her arms and undid the row of buttons at the back of my nightgown so her cool, strong hands could massage my back while I told her about giving myself to Ken the night after I let Pierre take my virginity, and how confused I was, still, about loving Danny.

It was warm under the duvet, and pretty soon we shed the flannel nightgowns. With Jess's comforting arms around me I felt safe and free of the burden of what I'd started to think of as my dirty little secrets. I nestled against her, feeling her long, muscular legs against mine and the scent of the delicate cologne she wore. My hands rubbed her lower back, then wandered over the curves of her bottom. The flimsy cotton panties we wore seemed to heighten the sense of touch in the darkness of her attic room, as storm-tossed branches cast eerie dark-on-dark shadows on the weird angles of the ceiling.

I nuzzled the curved bottom of one of her exquisite, firm breasts as my head lay between her arms. I froze as a sigh escaped her, but she hugged me gently: no rejection there. Her hands were gliding softly across my bottom and when I turned slightly, they traced the elastic of my panties and finally, slowly, tentatively, the palm of her hand slipped down my belly inside the soft cotton, stroking the tufts of hair there then lightly pressing on my pubic bone.

I slid my hand between her legs, and she held it there for a moment then moved it away. But it was only to roll me on my back so her skilful hand could ever so gently tease its way to my now-hard clit. My God! She knew every sensitive spot intuitively, touching me now here, now there, rubbing with exquisite friction that spread my juices to all the places that wanted, that wanted, that wanted ... yes, yes, YES! That orgasm was stronger than the ones I'd experienced riding on Ken's mushroom-headed penis, equal to that exquisite climax when Pierre's magic fingers first found my clitoris when I was leaning against the player piano in the basement.

Waves of pleasure washed over me and I lay in a rosy glow of well-being. Jess held me close and I stroked her, fondling the mound of woman-hair under her panties and clumsily searching for her clit. It wasn't hard to find, as it was standing up like a miniature penis ordering me to touch it. She sighed with pleasure, encouraging me to spread her moisture up and down her labia then roll her adorable clit between my fingers as she opened her legs so I could rub up and down its shaft. I nibbled an erect nipple and ran my tongue around her dark areola (much sexier, I'd thought for a couple of years, than my pink ones) but she gently admonished me — "No, pay attention to the job at hand." And so she taught me to touch her till her strong thighs started to quiver and she reached her thrusting, shuddering climax and collapsed into my arms.

Before we fell asleep she expertly brought me to another peak, and I practised what she'd taught me until she too climaxed a second time and our bodies snuggled together as waves of love washed over us.

Bright mid-morning sunshine and the smell of frying German sausages finally woke us. We chatted as we cuddled and a Beatles song came on the radio:

Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play. Now I need a place to hide away. Oh, I believe in yesterday ...

But there was no turning back for me. I was lucky to be in a safe place with people who loved me. I realized then that life was all about trusting. It was a small insight that would help me through good times and tough ones.

Soon it was Christmas. Two weeks off school meant two weeks without Pierre; he went to visit his grandma in Canada with his folks. And Ken headed back to Cape Cod to spend the holiday with his family. But though the nights were long and the streets dusted with early snow, our house was full of light and music and merriment — my sister was back from college with a boyfriend — soon to be her fiancé — in tow, my brother and his girlfriend were home most days for dinner, and friends of all ages dropped by to chat, snack and imbibe.

Christmas Eve the whole gang of us walked arm-in-arm down to Jess's house, where there was a ceiling-scraping fir tree laden with silver ornaments and on the end of each bough, a small white candle. The dachshunds were banished from the room and the candles were lit and the room lights turned off and we basked in the warm glow of an earlier time. This magical European ceremony, that we'd been invited to for years, always seemed like "real Christmas" to me.

All too soon the candles were snuffed lest they ignite the resinous branches of the tannenbaum. The moment the lights were extinguished always made me feel wistful, but there were bowls of punched lashed with strong liquor to cheer us, the piano had been tuned and guitars and a banjo were hauled out, the spirit of Good King Wenceslas was invoked and "the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even."

I slept over at Jess's to free up my bedroom for my sister's boyfriend, but we never repeated that amazing experience of a few weeks before, though even today I still get a warm glow in my belly thinking about it.

New Year's was a noisy affair, with neighbors dropping by our streamer-and-bunting decorated house for drinks and kids and dogs and cats wandering in and out (the squirrels wisely kept to the attic that night) and someone in the street shouting out the Times Square countdown to midnight from a television they could see through a window, and choruses of Auld Lang Syne as we welcomed 1965.

Ken had driven back to D.C. that afternoon, and after everyone had gone upstairs to bed, we were alone in the living room, with only a candle flickering in the corner to chaperone us. We started to neck. Literally: he pulled my long hair to the side and started nibbling my earlobe, then gently, ever so gently, nuzzled his way down my throat to my right breast, loosening my flimsy bra and nibbling the nipple. Ahhhh. Then he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

He came back carrying a thick towel. He folded it carefully, placed it on the couch, and motioned for me to sit on it. Ever the obedient high school girl, I did.

He slid his big strong hand, with its mechanic's broad nails, between my legs and gently pried them apart. I confess: it didn't take much effort on his part. He resumed licking my earlobe, which sent shivers up my spine, as ever so slowly he slid my skirt and slip up my thighs. When his fingers found the elastic of my pettipants my hips lifted involuntarily and he stretched the soft nylon and rolled them gently down past my knees, then pulled them off and stuffed them into a pocket of his jeans.

He stared briefly at my nakedness with a mischievous smile and lightly licked his lips. I didn't know what he was doing, but my body, at least, seemed willing. He knelt on the floor between my knees, lifted my ankles and lodged my calves on his shoulders. Very strange, I thought. But he was so gentle I didn't protest. Now his warm breath was blowing lightly on my belly, fanning the fire within as if he were blowing on the embers of a campfire. When his lips brushed the hair on my mound of Venus, I felt electric sparks. When his hot tongue slipped between my labia, the fire burst into flame. I closed my eyes as my belly tensed and shooting stars raced across my firmament. His stubbled cheeks chafed my legs but ... Oh. My. God. What ecstasy as his tongue licked up my inner lips!

When the tip of his tongue started circling my engorged clit and his hot breath caressed it and his lips closed over it, my thighs trembled, my toes curled, my legs locked his face in a crushing embrace, the fireworks exploded, and my hips bucked up and down and up and down in the best climax any girl ever, ever, ever had in the history of the world!

Gradually I became aware of the darkened living room, the stub of the candle still flickering. Ken, still kneeling, had a pleased smirk. His hand was encircling his penis, sliding back and forth rhythmically. I was still limp with ecstasy, panting to catch my breath. Gently he cupped my fingers under the great mushroom glans, its skin so smooth and warm and taught, and I felt it jump with every stroke till it jerked and spurted and and spurted, filling my cupped hand with hot, creamy semen. He dipped a finger and held it to my lips. I wrinkled my nose — he chuckled — but I touched my tongue to it. Not unpleasant at all, I thought, still wrapped in a warm miasma of post-climactic relaxation.

After some rather chaste cuddling, Ken, still grinning, strode out into the night. After I shut the door behind him I was grateful for his forethought in bringing the towel; it was soaked but I wouldn't have to explain a badly stained sofa to my mom in the morning.

What a way to bring in the New Year.

My dad had always said, "Candy's dandy, but liquor's quicker." Now I realized that candy's dandy, but lick her's

way

quicker!

Back at school the next week, I caught up with Pierre. Gosh, how he turned me on. He had freckles — everywhere — and though he hated them (he said he'd always wished he looked like Clark Gable, ha!) I think he came to terms with them when I told him they drove me wild, and proceeded to kiss them, everywhere my lips could reach. We must've been a sight to our classmates, though in the hallways, at least, we tried to avoid the dreaded PDA: public display of affection. We weren't very successful because we weren't having much luck finding time alone.

We read a lot, sometimes over the phone when his parents were out of their little apartment, sometimes together in the big old house with the flying squirrels in the attic and the dusty player piano — Oh, happy memories! — in the basement. Pierre was a cunning linguist (unlike Ken, who would show up randomly to remind me of his skill as a cunnilinguist) and together we read

Lady Chatterley's Lover

, reclaiming those wonderful old four-letter Saxon words — fuck, cunt, cock, titt, arse — that Connie and Mellors used when John Thomas was making love to Lady Jane.

We "groked" each other (Heinlein's

Stranger in a Strange Land

) on many levels, "gronked" when words were unnecessary (Johnny Hart's

B.C.

comic strip), and read the

Kama Sutra

for its eastern wisdom on unusual positions in which to satisfy each other's lust. Which we did as often as possible (which was never often enough).

Boccaccio's

Decameron

, with its tales told by randy youths fleeing the Black Death in Florence, provided us much entertainment — and an idea.

In a story the Florentines tell on the seventh day, a quick-thinking wife tells her cuckolded husband, who arrives home unexpectedly, that she has sold a big wine barrel to her handsome young lover, but the husband must scrape the interior clean. As she leans over the barrel directing her husband's work, her lover lifts her dress, enters her "as stallions, afire with love, assail the mares of Parthia" and achieves a second coming.

In the basement labyrinth beneath Pierre's parents' apartment there was a semi-secluded area with a waist-high wall overlooking a sunken room. When we got the chance we'd head down there after school and kiss and touch each other till I was so hot I'd unzip Pierre's chinos, pull my panties down to mid-thigh, lean my elbows on the wall and spread my legs as far as my panties would stretch. He'd slide his hands under my blouse to grab my breasts, lift my skirt and thrust into me from behind like those Parthian stallions. His pubic hair tickling my ass, his balls bouncing against my clit and his thick cock fucking me would light the fuse and in moments my thighs would start to tremble until my cunt clamped his penis tight and I'd feel him fill the rubber with his hot load, then he'd hold me tight, still bent over, until our hearts stopped pounding and his now-soft penis would slip out.

For Valentine's Day Pierre wrapped up a bottle of perfume for me, Wind Song by Prince Matchabelli. I was sitting in the living room with him and mom, and hot tears came when I opened it. Years later I got a postcard from him, saying he was walking down a street and a girl passed wearing it; the scent brought memories — happy and sad — flooding back.

Sadly, Pierre and I never seemed able to get enough time alone. I wrote impassioned love letters to him in italic penmanship and lurid colored ink. I mailed them till he warned me his mom was opening his mail, then passed them to him at school. Of course my life was complicated (and about to get way, way more complicated).

I was still writing to Danny, and he was counting down the days till summer arrived and I came back to the green mountains of Vermont. One day I'd received an anguished letter from him. When I slit the envelope, the first thing that landed in my hands was a color snapshot: Danny in the clearing we'd drunk beer in (and more) in the halcyon days of last summer. There were the shafts of sunlight stabbing through the lush foliage, one of the horses nibbling at the undergrowth in the background, Danny's broad shoulders in a scruffy army shirt, his strong legs and stained shorts, his shiny curls framing the big smile that scrunched up his eyes ... I could practically smell the fragrant piney woods in the heights above the hut and feel the warm sun, the gelding's broad back between my knees, his tentative touch when he kissed and caressed and held an oh-so-distant me. His scrawled words were like a knife to my heart. He missed me terribly, there was no one else for him, he dreamed of the day I'd come back North, and of the day we'd be finished college and our folks could meet and we could marry and live together as man and wife.

That photo, tucked into the frame of my bedroom mirror, reminded me twice a day — as I brushed my long hair the obligatory hundred strokes, morning and night, like the little girl I still was in spite of my years — that I had been unable bring myself to tell Danny how much I loved Pierre, though I did tell him we were good friends. I was wracked with guilt about stringing him along. And I couldn't tell Pierre I was writing to Danny a couple of times a week. Not to mention that neither of them knew that I was fucking my brains out with Ken every time he got his hands (or tongue!) anywhere near me.

I was one conflicted chick. Were the Beatles singing about me?

It's only love, and that is all, why should I feel the way I do? It's only love, and that is all, but it's so hard, loving you ...

To be continued