Friday, January 8, 2016

First time, rippling echo

I think it was BlackJack that asked about my first time. Then I read on one of a blogs that he doesn't believe in one first time but many. I'm on the same page.

What I count as my first was in the back of a Pinto in the parking lot of a industrial business complex near East LA by a somewhat thuggish looking Latin guy 6 years my senior when I was 15. And what strikes me is that as unconventional as that kinda sounds it also echoes some time-old cliches. The raging hormones of a teenager in the back of a car. The fogged up windows on a cool night. The rock of the vehicle as things get heavy. And even some less common cliches. The older guy guiding the younger one for his first time. But the details are what I remember. The specifics that any cliche cannot fully describe. Like his scent as he exerted himself fucking me, a scent that was at once both acrid, tart and sour and also so intoxicating that I stole his undershirt to later sleep with like a favorite blankie to comfort me when I'm most vulnerable at night. And the glide of his condom covered shaft as he fucked his massive eight-inch thick uncut cock into me. It's a glide that I can still feel and never replicate. That easy glide of a lubricated steel shaft into a complementary hole that fits within a millimeter, that easy pull and push like a piston in a cylinder of a finely tuned motor but with one fine difference. It's not that neat polished steel of an artificial machine but instead the naturally imperfect ridges and bumps and contours of an engorged member pulsing to varying dimensions and my hole accepting each contoured imperfection perfectly.

And it never hurt. Because I wanted it so fucking bad.

And that's where the echoes in my head ripple with unconventional results. See, the other first that one might consider is five years prior to this episode in the back of the car. I was playing cops and robbers with the neighborhood kids and one of them was this thicker bodied Latino kid 6 years my senior. Through some sort of affectation, I was found on my knees in front of the kid as he walked around threatening imprisonment for my crimes. And a part of the swagger of a cop catching his burglar is to impart his dominance through some hazing rituals, like shoving his foot or his knee down the valley of my ass. And there's that echo. Even at 10 years of age, that somehow felt good. That somehow felt right. So when things escalated and I was tossed on the bed and my shorts shoved down so that he can shove his dick up my ass, I felt that glide. That glide that, despite that I wasn't ready for it, felt so good and so nice because I wanted it so fucking bad.

His dad walked in on us and he lept to his feet and backed up against the wall while I was in a daze on the bed wondering what the fuck just happened. He stammered some sort of excuse to his dad about it not being what it looked like and that we were just wrestling and such. And I was in such a fog of emotions I just sat there blankly. I didn't want it but at the same time I totally did. It didn't hurt at all. Maybe all that roleplaying got me into a sub space. Or maybe that kneeing made me open up and want it. It just didn't hurt. At least physically. I was sullen, though. And when his dad left the room, I muttered in a low voice that his pants were still unzipped. And then I stayed in my room for about a week and started to play less and less with the kids next door.

That East LA Pinto kid? I broke up with him after three months. And for awhile, he called me a cold-hearted bitch that didn't show any emotion. And that's where the echoes become rather unconventional. Because there were some aspects that weren't cliches but patterns of behavior. And I couldn't tell what was real anymore, or what was right. With the insolence of a typical teenager, I was able to shed the expectations of sexuality. But what I had a harder time shaking was my tendency to desire thicker Latin men. Fucking around with men felt right. Felt real. But I couldn't tell if that episode when I was ten was something I wanted or not. And whether or not my attractions to certain types were recreations to finish something that I just didn't fully resolve. The guilt wasn't from the fact that I was gay. The shame came elsewhere. And I couldn't tell if the shame was real or artificial. I had an inkling of what I wanted then. Am I just shamed because I feel like I should be based on social acceptance of how sexually precocious a kid should be? Or did I really not want it to unfold that way. Surprisingly, that's a tough question to answer. Because to this day, I still have a tendency to favor the Pinto episode as my "first time", though that hunger and ease was present in both.


Not Alone said...

going to process... then comment more...

Anonymous said...

Thanks for the thoughtful mediataion on first times. Count me among those who think of life and/or sex as a series of firsts. I'm sure a lot of people think of it as the first time you got fucked or sucked a dick, and those are certainly firsts! Fortunately my first fuck was a wonderful experience (in fact it was three wonderful experiences between midnight and about 6:00 a.m.) with what seemed to me at the time was a much older man (he was 37!) sucking a dick for the first time was a lot more traumatic but I moved on and have been happily perfecting my skills for the last 42 years. Lots of other first -- first visit to the baths (Club New York), first three-way, first trip to the Fire Island meat rack, first orgy, it goes on and on. In recent years it's been my first fews experienses with TENS units, bondage and spanking. There's always something to learn.

Paul, NYC

Explorer Jack said...

Thanks so much for posting this, and Black Jack, thanks for asking. I love reading first time stories. Not really sure why, I guess the transition from innocence is exciting. I'd love to hear more.

AJ said...

My first was a Puerto Rican guy who cleaned my uncle's pool. He was 7 years my senior. I was 12 at the time but like you I wanted so it didn't hurt.