Everyone's got a story about how they lost their virginity, and this is mine. Like everything, I tried to do it in the most spectacular way I could imagine. And I succeeded by my wildest adolescent fantasies.
I was born and bred in New Orleans, Louisiana. My once thick accent has tapered off over the years into an easy drawl. Hard to believe to the casual reader that once upon a time I used to run around with a rowdy crowd down in the Irish Channel, where the summer air is thicker than molasses in January. The lads, as my father used to call us, were just a bunch of prepubescent punks from the neighborhood really. But that was the best childhood. During muggy days I'd escape from the stuffy perfumed atmosphere of our Garden District home near Magazine Street and seek out the other guys to hang with. We'd swap stories and generally get into trouble. It was a day and an age long before I ever got the nickname Eagle. Back then I was still plain old Marc to all who knew me, and there was nothing in my universe outside those sweet southern streets.
But when I was ready to start high school the world turned upside down.
But perhaps a little background first. You see my father was a Scotsman, born and raised. My mother on the other hand can trace her Cajun ancestors in Louisiana back before the Revolutionary War. She'd spent one wild and hot summer traveling Europe as a young woman, which is when she met my father in London. He was working there for an American oil company. A few nights of passion produced Peter, my older brother, and the rest as they say is history. My father truly did love my mother and tried to indulge her hometown fantasies of Bourbon Street and Mardi Gras for thirteen years. But he was always too much of a world traveler to stay put forever.
His dream was the Wild West. He switched jobs from the gulf oil company that he was working for and moved to Colorado to be closer to the business interests in Denver. His great American dream was this crazy idea of living a rougher, country life. So the family packed up and headed off to the ranch country up north. Of course my father was not about to become a rancher. He was too busy wheeling and dealing for that, spending most of his time in London or New York on business. My mother enjoyed a glamorous lifestyle, so she sure as shit hated Colorado. She escaped at every opportunity, leaving Peter and I to take care of ourselves.
And Peter was the man.
I thought the sun rose and set around him. He was a couple years older than me, but he got to experience everything first. From the time I was in diapers I'd always followed him around like a puppy. He's a good guy mostly and he was always great to me. I mean we would tease each other a lot, but then which brothers don't?
Peter understood me.
When I was eleven and after my first real boner, my father had given me a discreet talking to about what a hard on meant and why it was appropriate to 'control' myself in public, as he put it. He was far too reserved and British to be very good at talking about sex though, and if it hadn't been for Peter I think I'd have been completely lost. The lads talked about anything dirty we heard from our dads, uncles, brothers or cousins. Problem was not too many of us knew how to synthesize the info into a coherent whole. I knew that if I wanted answers I needed Peter.
Peter made sense of what the lads talked about.
Unlike the ribbing I'd been expecting when I first came to him he was very sober about the whole thing. He explained to me what he knew about choking the snake. To help me along, he even snuck me a copy of Playboy, which made me real popular with the lads. For the first time I could comprehend with a visual image exactly what my equipment was for. To celebrate Peter also stole some tequila from the liquor cabinet and taught me how to do my first shot. I started everything young.
Peter came through for me. When our father dragged us there, Peter being older, learned what he needed to get by, and taught me all the skills I needed to know too. Like fishing and hunting, wrangling and rodeo. He and I could do everything a rancher's kid could. It was going to take some charm, but I had that in spades.
Being a jock was probably the biggest help. Peter loved football and he taught me everything I know about the game. After cattle and country music, sports were everything in that place.
I did end up doing all right for myself. I got by.
So it was in Colorado then that I began my descent down that road which is manhood; which brings with it that awful need to fuck all the time. The only difference was instead of being in New Orleans, I was in Colorado and the lads had changed to a new crowd of guys. Not so street smart, but more rough and tumble. The horrors of the virgin are many. And guys being guys, razzing on virgins is what they do.
Maybe it was that country air, or the breeding animals everyone seems exposed to on all the ranches. Maybe it was just getting older and more desperate. I dunno. But a young man's thoughts just inevitably stay fixed on women. There was not a one of us guys even at a relatively tender age who would admit to not having gotten any. Truth is that adolescence is often a terrible gnawing experience of wanting to jump every hot girl you see and learning how to control yourself. And I was horny and jacking off every night.
Of course, as I've already told you, there's a girl in the story.
Her name was Kelley, and she was everything in the world to me. Or at least I thought so at the time. She was a tall cool drink of water, and she had this pair of tits that just seemed to stand up all on their own. I just wanted to reach out and caress them every time I saw her.
She left me with a raging hard on whenever I thought of her, which was so unbelievably often, man. It was her that I thought of every night I jacked off.
Problem was she was Peter's girlfriend.
Current fuck was probably a more apt description. The older he got the more he moved through women like some guys go through a pack of cigarettes. But, man, he did it with such finesse. He kept them begging for more. And they would come back for more, too. He was my idol. All he'd have to do was crook his little finger and he could have more pussy than a toilet seat.
Kelley was a cheerleader and they were always the easiest to tap anyway. Peter told me one night that he thought she was a little too willing sometimes. I asked him what was wrong with that. That's when I learned my first lesson about women. Some women were for dating and some just weren't. It didn't make them bad people either way, but it was something a man needed to understand.
So it is at this point that my story really begins.
I had thought that everyone was gone. So I settled into the bathroom with an old copy of Hustler that my brother had nicked a couple years before. In fact I was thinking about Kelley when Peter barged in the bathroom without knocking and found me jerking off.
He waltzed into the bathroom just as I desperately draped the magazine over my long dong silver, quickly managing to hide my dignity.
"Looks like little bro's spanking the monkey again," he laughed, not really paying close attention, "What's the problem my man?"
"Fuck off!" I said, embarrassed, "Go away!"
I was feeling desperately trapped there with the magazine covering my wherewithal and having lost any good feelings I might have had before he walked through the door.
