This piece was originally published on the Blowfish Blog. Please note: This piece talks a lot, in some detail, about my personal sex life and sexual history. Family members and others who don't want to read that, please don't.
We talk a lot about The First Time. As a society we're a little bit fixated on it. Losing your virginity, and the person you lost it with -- it's a rite of passage that we've made important to the point of making it a fetish.
But as rites of passage go, the loss of virginity can be dicey. It was for me, anyway. Sure it was important; but it was also awkward, depressing, and anticlimactic. Emphasis on the "anticlimactic."
And I think that experience is not uncommon.
So I want to talk about something else. I don't want to talk about the first person I had sex with
I want to talk about the first person I had good sex with.
And on the wild off-chance that he's reading this, I want to say Thank you.
His name was Adrian. I honestly don't remember his last name, although I do remember that he was Number Four (at least according to how I was defining "sex" at the time). He wasn't a boyfriend, or even a friend; he was just someone I smiled at on the street who stopped to talk, someone I had ice cream with that afternoon and went home with that evening.
It could have been disastrous. I look back on it sometimes and think, "What the hell was I thinking, having sex with a guy I picked up off the street?" He could have been an axe murderer.
But he wasn't. He was amazing.
He was the first person I had sex with who liked to experiment and try lots of different things, just for the fun of trying them.
He was the first person I had sex with who was playful about it; who didn't think being passionate meant being deadly serious at all times, and who was willing and even eager to find humor and laughter in what we were doing.
He was the first person I had sex with who was sexually knowledgeable without being arrogant, pushy, or assuming that his greater knowledge meant that we should do things his way. He knew a lot about sex and sexual variations, but if I didn't want to try something or if something wasn't working, he accepted it with good grace and moved on. And he was the first person I had sex with who was just as happy about trying the things I wanted to try as he was about the things he wanted to try.
He was the first person I had sex with who made sure that I was having a good time. Not just that I was coming -- I'd had at least one sex partner before who tried to make sure that I came -- but that I was feeling happy and relaxed, excited and curious, safe and taken care of.
He was the first person I had sex with who didn't make me feel like the fact that I was having sex with him meant either (a) that I was a skank, or (b) that we were in love. He was the first casual sex partner I had who made me feel respected, and who acted like my horniness and eagerness were appreciated.
He was the first person I had sex with who wanted to keep having sex -- and having it and having it and having it -- even after he'd come.
And when I look back on it now, I think he had a much greater impact on my sexuality than the guy I lost my virginity to.
Because after Adrian, I knew. I knew what was possible. I had my sexual ups and downs after this, of course; but after Adrian, I knew what the ups could be like... and I knew that the downs didn't have to be that way. I'm sure that door would have opened for me eventually -- I'm a very sexually motivated person, I wasn't going to put up with bad sex for long -- but it opened early for me, and that made a difference.
And I've always wanted to say "thank you."
Adrian, if you’re reading this: You were a grad student at the University of Chicago, and in the summer of 1979 you met a girl on the street, a girl who had just graduated high school and was about to start college. She smiled at you and you stopped to chat; you bought her ice cream and invited her home; and you fucked her brains out in sixteen different ways over the course of about three days.
You asked if I'd pose like a Penthouse photo that you liked, next to the photo so you could see us both, and I said yes. You asked if I wanted to try being spanked, and I said no (a decision I've always regretted, by the way). We played out a rape fantasy that I'd asked to try, and I got freaked out, and you immediately picked up on that and backed off. And we just did it, with me on top and you on top and from behind, in the bed and on your desk and in the bathroom, with our mouths and our hands and your cock and my cunt, until the skin of your dick was rubbed raw and I could barely walk.
You were great. It was almost thirty years ago, and I still remember you, better than I remember most of the people I've had sex with.