Eating sex

The first time I truly experienced sex with another person, I was - technically speaking - not a virgin. I had chosen to lose my virginity two years before, in what turned out to be an experience that wasn't much to write home about (which is why I'm not writing about it right now).

I was eighteen when I first dipped my toe into the pool of shared carnality. I had been insanely in love, to the point of obsession, with a certain man for two years, fighting denial and common sense until I was forced to admit to myself that this was how things were, whether I liked it or not. Having seen him once again a few months before and being convinced that the frisson was not purely on my side, I had talked myself into believing that when we met again, I would behave myself properly and nothing would happen, because it couldn't (he was married), because it was all wrong for everyone involved (he was a fair chunk older than I), etc. I wasn't so foolish as to believe that he would behave; I knew it was my job to keep a lid on things.

I had never travelled alone before I reached the age of eighteen, bar little train journeys here and there. So coming of age was exciting in more ways than one. Instead of being accompanied everywhere by my well-meaning but overprotective mother, who would even come with me to the corner shop to buy a bottle of water if we were away somewhere, I got to do whatever I wanted - wear what I felt like wearing, sleep when I wanted to, strew my things about my hotel room, go out for a drink with people I had met. It was utterly fantastic and I still cherish the memory of that sense of freedom and release, and that first long trip across Europe.

So there we were, that man and I. We had arrived in the same time and place again, and I knew the instant we clapped eyes on each other that all of my little resolutions were entirely futile. I knew that I would not be able to resist him, no matter what. So I accepted it, and dealt daily with my knocking knees, dry throat and vulva so excited and wet it was practically numb.

A few days in, a male friend and I found ourselves in his hotel room. I expected it would be work and cheerfulness as usual, because my frantically turned-on and obsessed mind couldn't, despite evidence to the contrary, believe that anything was going to happen between me and someone whom I was so crazy about that I couldn't even fantasise about him (I'd tried, once, and it was too intense - I had to turn my face away from what my mind's eye was seeing). But lo and behold, after a few minutes, that man sent my friend out to do photocopies. As soon as he'd done it I understood that the whole photocopying thing was a ruse, and he came up to me, took whatever I was holding out of my hands, and kissed me. Just as well, because with that kind of a kiss, I would have dropped even the most precious and fragile thing. My knees turned to liquid and I clung to him with my lips, my consciousness entirely concentrated in my mouth. He pulled away, and pulled his collar a little away from his neck. My immediate instinct was to kiss his collarbone, caressing it with my tongue, and from the rapt expression on his face, he seemed to enjoy it very much. I kissed his mouth again, and his hands moved to my hips. His thumbs made gentle, tiny circles an inch below and in from my hipbones - a movement which made my entire womb quiver. I couldn't even think.

We pulled apart, and regained our balance, and smiled at each other. The line had finally been crossed; we were in a new territory.
"Will you come to me?"
I didn't understand what he meant; English was not his first language. Did he mean I should come and visit him sometime?
"Maybe," I said coquettishly. He asked again, more of a growl in his voice, not letting my eyes leave his.
"Yes."
"When?"
"I don't know." I looked at him through my eyelashes, my soul the weight of a pebble in the bottom of my abdomen.
"Tomorrow?"
"Okay."
"We will have dinner, come at eight."

To be continued...