The First Post; The First Time

Great way to start off a new blog, right? “Hello! Welcome to my blog! I have sex!” I suppose this is one of those instances where I should be grateful that I do not have an audience. Therefore, I may continue my day knowing that no one had to suffer through one of my many awkward stories in regards to intimacies with the opposite sex. Perhaps one day it might even include the same sex. The world is too big and too advanced now to deny ourselves any chance of getting our groove thing on. But I digress.

Perhaps I should tell you a bit about myself? But not too much. It is my endeavor to remain completely anonymous to most of the world. Remaining faceless allows me a certain relatable nature. Or maybe that is just the ego talking. Anyway, I am a early mid-twenty something with lady parts. I have a job, a degree and a Netflix account. And yes, I love Pumpkin Spice Lattes. I am about as basic as they come.

So why my first time? Well, I was sitting here thinking, the dulcet tones of Hemlock Grove slowly lulling me into a daze. That’s every wannabe blogger’s first worry, isn’t it? The daunting, and yet inevitable first post. I’ve searched my subconscious, staring at my fingertips that lie helplessly on my keyboard… and I find myself thinking of him. As lame as that sounds, I promise you that I do not do it often. For years I harbored nothing but anger for everything he represented, and everything that he and I shared. In hindsight, that was probably age and the level of maturity that accompanies said age doing most of the talking. It actually took me longer than it should have to read the entire Hunger Games series. He and I read the first book together, you see. I even gave away my hardcover boxed set (signed by Suzanne Collins, by the way) because it was a Christmas present from him. And now? I have read the series multiple times, and periodically check the screen of my iPad for any notice of replenished energy in the Hunger Games Adventures. Time does heal all, but it in no way makes the subject matter any easier to discuss. Perhaps that is why I chose this anecdote first; because it is one of my hardest to tell.

If I were being totally honest, and I promised myself that I would be, I do not remember much of our relationship. I don’t remember what we whispered about at night. I don’t remember what we fought about. I don’t even remember the way he smelled, though his scent followed me for many months after our breakup. There is only a brief timeline; cold and emotionless as though it were written on a chalkboard. We met in the summer. He told me he loved me in October. We put a label on it the day of my parent’s anniversary. I gave myself to him on New Years Eve. He stopped speaking to me in mid January. I broke up with him the day after his birthday. It wasn’t until Chinese New Year that I started to see that the grass was greener on the other side, ultimately forgetting my heartbreak and favoring the hollow feeling of regret. A regret that I have yet to shake.

It isn’t easy to admit that I regret my first time. Everyone wants their first time to be special and romantic; something that they will be able to use as an example for their children when the time comes for “the talk.” Well, I will be able to use it as an example, but not in the way I had originally hoped. Don’t get me wrong, I am not putting the entirety of the blame on my then partner-in-crime, for I should acknowledge my part in the ordeal. When he and I first started dating, we were both virgins. We had agreed to give ourselves to each other, because we both believed we were very much in love. I’ll spare you the details of the conversations that proceeded the deed, for in hindsight it all seems like a business transaction. I’ll skip directly to the good part, shall I? The ultimate warning sign that I completely ignored… because I was an idiot.

The night before our planned consummation (yes, we set a date, bought a Boyz II Men CD, and some candles, what’s your point?), he had second thoughts. He wanted to wait. Now this, this was the ultimate slap in my face. Was he not attracted to me? Am I not sexy? Does he not love me anymore? What did I do wrong? What happened that made him change his mind? A smart girl would have taken a moment to question him, and acknowledge that his insecurities could be just as severe as her own. OR, she might have realized that if he was having such doubts, perhaps this is not the man she wants to lose her innocence to. What I would give to have been that girl. I didn’t ask him. I didn’t pout. I didn’t yell, or scream. I fought back tears, and continued cooking dinner, refusing to talk about it. I shut down completely. It wasn’t long before he came to comfort me, kiss my cheek, and rub my back. It didn’t take long for him to change his mind, perhaps for the sake of my feelings (which makes me feel incredibly pathetic, by the way). Being the careless girl that I was, a change of heart was all it took to lift my spirits, completely oblivious to the fact that I had potentially guilted a man into taking my virginity, and giving me his own. Pathetic. To a degree, I do feel guilty. I feel bad that he probably felt obligated to give up his virginity just to appease my hurt feelings. I feel even worse that I accepted that without question, though I chock most of that up to my age and general lack of relationship know-how. But still, there’s no excuse. So if you are reading this, which I highly doubt that you are, I am sorry. I am sorry for the part that I had in the beginning of our end.

As you might expect, the deed itself was awkward. There was a lot of fumbling, debate about who should be on top, and other strange impasses that two people who have never had sex might encounter. And it hurt. It hurt A LOT. Tears were actually streaming silently down my face towards the end. I didn’t climax, and ended up in the bathtub, trying to shake what had just happened to me and my body. But at the end of the night, we were cuddling and enjoying each other’s company, despite how incredibly inept both of us were in the act of actual intercourse.

The deed itself is not what haunted me. I imagine that is what most people go through during their first time. A lot of confusion about what goes where, and how exactly that thing is suppose to fit, and which hole is where. I have read that many women experience pain during their first time. Especially since nothing bigger than an extra light tampon has ever been in my sex hole. At the time, I had no regrets about giving myself to him, no matter how clumsy we might have been. Even the days following were bliss. We were happy. We were in love.

All it took was a week.

Again, and I am very sorry to tell you, I do not remember what we fought about. But I remember fighting. I don’t remember them being particularly horrible, though it was enough to push him further and further away. “Give me a week,” he said. “Just a week for me to think things through.” That didn’t seem unreasonable. I gave him his week. I stared at my phone day in and day out, signed on to AIM, upped my activity on Facebook… but I gave him his week.

And the week after that.

“I just need more time.”

And the week after that.

I had done something special for his birthday, and I had to mail it to him. Tickets to a concert I had hoped we could attend together. And to be honest, I don’t even know if he went. The day after his birthday, I called him on the phone and told him I gave up. I couldn’t do it anymore. The abandonment, the lack of any explanation, the waiting… fuck, the waiting. There is nothing more degrading than waiting at home for someone you love, while they are out partying on the weekends with their friends like they always do. They say nothing; they give nothing. And there is nothing more agonizing than coming to the painful realization that you are replaceable. You are not worth the effort. You are more easily tossed away than dealt with.

This person that you love, this person that you have waited for… really doesn’t give a fuck about you.

Needless to say, he didn’t seem to upset. He spouted off something about us remaining friends, but it was only a matter of time before I deleted him off of every social networking platform that I had. It was too painful to have him in my life. And why would I want to? Why would I want to keep someone around that had dragged me along for three weeks and not feel the least bit guilty about it? People are always saying to forgive and forget, and that forgiveness is part of letting go. I mean everyone deserves a second chance, am I right? Not the case, at least not in my opinion. Even if he had felt the slightest bit of remorse about what he had done, it would not have made one bit of difference. Second chances are all well and good, but you must never forget what someone is capable of. No matter the amount of promises they are willing to offer, never forget that if someone does something once, they are capable of doing it again. And you have to ask yourself… are you willing to go through that again?

Hell fucking no.

Oops. I have given myself away, haven’t I? Despite the benevolent facade towards the beginning of this blogpost, there is still a lot of anger that lies beneath cool waters. Though what can I say? I am only human.

And now I find myself in a bit of predicament. I have just spilled my guts about something very personal and have no way to wrap all of this up.

Erm, well. It’s been four years and I haven’t contacted him. I occasionally Facebook stalk him and he looks pretty much the same. He’s in a relationship with a seemingly very nice girl, and is probably living a very good life. I don’t wish ill upon him, per say… though I do hope that at some point he has admitted to himself that his actions were cowardly and potentially caused some very deep-rooted intimacy issues, however unintentional the latter might have been. I hope that he knows that I regret acting like a wounded animal, and that I acknowledge that the whole “losing virginity” bit could have been avoided. It might have eased the pain a bit, in the end, and helped me avoid affecting future relationships with said deep-rooted intimacy issues. But more than anything, I hope that he never does to another girl what he did to me. I hope he has grown up to face relationship problems head on… and I hope he found the one that was worth fighting for. ‘Cause it sure as heck wasn’t me.

That’s fucking depressing, isn’t it?

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this, complete stranger.

Until next time.