Female • 19 • England
It felt like I'd been running from sex my whole life. As soon as I sprouted breasts, aged eight, I had to fend off overeager boys who wanted me to do stuff I wasn't ready for yet. They held me down in the playground to look up my skirt, and a decade later, at college parties, different guys ground their erections into my thigh as if I might find it enticing. I let one of them finger me on my nineteenth birthday, as an experiment, but it was about as sexy as a pap smear.
The New Year's Eve after I turned nineteen, I fell off a bar stool and David picked me up. He was my best friend's brother's friend, he was twenty-one, and he was a virgin, too. For the first three months we dated, by some unspoken agreement, he only ever touched me above the waist. When he finally slid his hand between my legs, I was so tense it was awkward for both of us. But I wanted it to feel good one day, so we kept trying, in my dorm room, his apartment, or his car, his hands rubbing, kneading, and poking at me as I tried to find the courage to tell him what felt good, and failed.
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