The first successful experience

I heard somewhere that with sex or with drugs, we always try to replicate the first successful experience. Maybe it’s true, always chasing that elusive high we got the first time that is always just out of reach, we gradually increase the dose and in the end desensitize ourselves. That goes for drugs.

With sex, what constitutes the first successful experience? I doubt anyone has a great first time, instead it’s all a bit awkward and confusing and over too quickly. That was it? I guess that’s sex, welcome to the adult world, congratulations.

The first orgasm… that doesn’t require sex itself. Sometimes a vibe, just the fingers of the hand, or another pleasurable moment cause one inadvertently, surprising and enjoyable, but again short lived.

He made me feel like a woman, for the very first time in my life. It was exhilarating! I felt like I was walking on air, and I wanted to remember every moment of that night forever, I ran home afterwards and proceeded to write down every detail I could remember, to hold on to that feeling, to always have the events of that night imprinted in my memory, on my body, and on the page. It felt more solid written down in a notebook by hand, more intimate that way.

Another night, another guy I’m meeting for drinks. I’ve known this one for some time, and last time we tried that it’s the drugs that took over my evening and my life for a couple of weeks. The consequences of that binge stayed with me for a while longer, until all my older friends graduated and went to travel in exotic locations before starting their fancy banking jobs in New York in the fall.

I had been left behind, a year too young, I managed to finish the exams but after all the goodbyes, I found myself trying to pick up pieces of my life now that everyone who’s played a major part in it this past year was gone. The guy who crushed some pills and handed me a rolled up dollar bill for the first time, on a Tuesday night. The one who met my parents, under the pretense of being a future housemate but even they knew better. The friend who freaked out on me for no reason whatsoever, then apologized at the end of the post-exam parties. I remember standing in some random hallway hugging her, both of us crying for what seemed like hours.

I found myself a little hole to crawl into while I was sorting out my life that summer. I rented a room on the top floor of a gothic house a few blocks north of the main campus, with my own bathroom, a shared kitchen and a girl I vaguely knew living in one of the rooms downstairs. I really enjoyed sleeping late in the massive bed, and staying up all night at the computer, watching the sun come up over the city rooftops through the stained glass window.

I was adrift at first, but then I managed to send out some job applications and get an interview for a position on campus. I was running to the interview when someone called my name. I was surprised to see him, I had thought he’d left for the summer as well. Turns out he had stuck around, and now that the grades were in, all bets were off. I told him I was running late so he wrote down his number on a sticker in my interview folder, noting in passing that the address on my resume had the name of the town his mom was from. How random.

I called him the same night. I’m still not sure what prompted me to wander downtown and sit in a coffee shop for hours, people watching and reading some magazine until they closed. I must have done the usual rounds, the independent bookstore on the square where I liked to browse some books I dreamt of owning one day, past the now shut fashion boutiques I wished I could shop at in the future, and eventually planted myself on a bench in the park, observing the trendy bars and restaurants I hoped to visit some day some day soon and sit on their terraces with the rest of the fashionable, trendy grown ups, eating seafood platters, drinking cocktails and laughing. I lit a cigarette and dialed his number.

To my surprise, he picked up. It’s like he was expecting to hear from me. He asked where I was, and suggested meeting at German bar further downtown in an hour. I killed the time smoking some more and finishing an article from my magazine under the light of the street lamp before heading over. He got there before me, and was waiting at the bar when I walked in.

We got some beers and started talking. I remembered how we connected in the first place, we had so many interests in common, books, places, culture, travel, yet as he was older he had more experience which I found fascinating. He told me stories about his exchange year in London, the time he spent in Berlin, and travels he’s done in Italy. I was hoping to visit all those places, one day. I’ve only read about those places in books borrowed from the university library that I devoured through the nights, especially during exams.

We finished our drinks and he suggested going back to his place. It was a small studio in the center of town, tastefully decorated with various posters and art he’s picked up on his travels, a small sofa with a coffee table and a futon bed. He offered me vodka or tequila, which he assured was very good. I ended up trying both; to my great surprise, he suddenly leaned in and kissed me, and before I knew it I was on top of him with his arms around me, unhooking my bra in one swift motion, clothes falling to the floor before he fell on top of me in bed.

He later said he had tried everything to make me orgasm. It’s ok, I replied, I enjoyed the sex and usually didn’t orgasm anyway. He laughed and said that I’ve been doing it wrong, before wrapping his arms around me and holding me until I fell asleep. He even got me a glass of water with lemon when I woke up after a few hours feeling parched from the tequila and the cigarettes the night before. In the morning he kicked me out quite early, under the pretext of some bike race he had to attend. Not sure if I believed him, but I didn’t feel that the walk home was a walk of shame, I felt instead a surge of pride. I got the guy that everyone had wanted, and I had a fantastic night.

I went home and started writing for the first time in my life. I wanted to recall and solidify every detail of the night because it felt important to me. I then lay back in bed and used my hand to bring myself to orgasm, so that I knew what it felt like, for the next meeting with him. I went to meet some friends and even they could tell that something’s happened and everything had changed. The bruises on my arms were like badges of honour I displayed to them proudly as I remembered how he held me down the night before. This was the first time I truly felt like a woman. In one night, I had grown up, and fallen in love.

When I came back to classes that fall semester, everything around me felt different. The colours of the autumn leaves were brighter, the scents in the air far more intense. I felt apart from my classmates, now that I have submitted to man and have been to sub space I felt that I’ve been owned. It’s as if I belonged to him now, even though the affair only lasted a summer and he was far away now, some new and exotic location in Europe, probably living a beautiful life I envied so much. The bruises on my arms had faded, but these feelings stayed.
I knew what it meant then. In sex, and sometimes in life, we always seek to recreate the first successful experience.