I have a deep connection to firsts. They mean far more to me than to anyone I’ve ever known – possibly more than they should. Since I was young, I’ve not only relished all my “first-time” moments, but most of them have been documented. First roller coaster; the Double Loop at Geauga Lake, first road trip; Niagara Falls, first pet; a black and white cat named Sleepy, first concert; Michael Jackson, and first kiss; my 7^th grade best friend’s boyfriend (almost thirty years ago and I still feel bad about that one).

First times are special for so many reasons. They simultaneously open and close life’s doors in a single moment. We move from the unknown into the known, from darkness into light, from curiosity to satisfaction. And they are the quickest way to change how we see ourselves and the world around us. When you think about it, there is no knowledge without first times. And each time an experience is shared, it creates a first time for someone else. So, maybe I’m not so weird – first times are serious business!

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I had found myself in an unfamiliar and compromising position. Even though I could trace all of our words and actions, I still couldn’t make sense of my predicament: under the covers, wrapped in his arms, watching him stare down at me with such pure adoration. Thankful for his self-control because I wasn’t sure mine was working. As much as I wanted him, I wasn’t psychologically prepared for that first – not now – not him – not outside of marriage. But I wasn’t naïve enough to believe I wouldn’t fold if he pushed. I wasn’t naïve enough to deny that a part of me wanted him to push.

I was lost in the musculature of his shoulders and triceps when he broke our long silence and said,
             “I want to do something, but I don’t want you to be upset or offended.”

            My mind whirled at the possibilities. Laying in the strange bed of my relatively new friend, without knowing the exact location of my jeans, I imagined the myriad of actions that could upset or offend me. I was pretty sure that once the haze of desire lifted, I’d likely be offended by what occurred already!

            “What exactly do you want to do?” I asked suspiciously.
            “Can you just trust me?”
            “Okaaay… then you need to trust that I might get upset or offended,” I said, half joking.

            I watched him mentally weigh his options before slowly lowering his head and pressing his lips softly against mine. I might have been stunned, but the sweetness of his movements stilled me. After the first soft, slow moment, I assumed he would pull away. But instead, he gently repositioned himself over me for more.

The atmosphere in the room shifted, or maybe the room just disappeared. My eyes were closed, but I’m sure that if they’d been open, he would have eclipsed my view, so the remaining senses quickened with life and lust. He smelled like freshness, like clean air after a warm rain. He tasted like dark cherries and vanilla. He felt like tensed, thick sinew wrapped in soft flesh.

Pinned between his form and the mattress, I couldn’t reconcile the falling feeling. But then I realized I was swooning, which usually pissed me off. But as I sank slow like molasses through the bedframe and floorboards, I didn’t have the wherewithal to summon my inner feminist. [Seriously… are my bones melting again?!]

There was hunger without urgency—trepidation without hesitation. Although I had distant memories of silly things like speaking or eating, I was quite certain this was what my mouth was made for—being expertly devoured by this man.

And as my body began lowering a lifeboat full of my ethics and morals, he slowly pulled away. My mouth instinctively followed his in protest. The newly created space between us cruelly mocked me with its hollow chill. I wanted to pull him back close, feel his warmth, breathe him in, make him work his magic once again. But, just as quietly as it began, our first kiss. . . had ended.