I’d met him when I was just 19 years old. He fucked me for the first time three years later. Though he hadn’t been my first lover, he had been the first to make me come.
I’ve always thought that he saw it as a matter of masculine honour that he should wrest as many orgasms as possible out of me that first time. A bit of arrogance and narcissism, too, I suspect. I’m not complaining. Hell, the memory of our first time together still resonated all these years later.
I’d had too much to drink at a party one night and confessed to a group of friends that I didn’t get all the fuss about sex. I sometimes joke to myself that if I’d looked at him in that moment or, indeed, if I’d been sober enough to notice anything, I might have seen a light bulb go off above his head. He’s always enjoyed a challenge.
He’d waited before he pounced, though. It had been about a week later, when we were all alone and sitting in his kitchen with a bottle of merlot and a box of After Eights (“I hate these fucking things,” he’d dead-panned, “but they make me feel like such a bloody grown-up”.)
“Soooooo,” he began, drawing out the word as he’d leaned forward to refill my glass. “You don’t enjoy sex?”
I practically choked on a half-chewed chocolate mint.
“Oh, fuck off and mind your own beeswax”, I laughed.
“Seriously, I’m interested.”
“Yeah, I bet you are. Pervert.” I rolled my eyes and tutted.
“It’s not that,” he began, then seeing the disbelieving look on my face corrected, “okay, it’s not just that”
He raised his eyebrows lasciviously and we had both laughed.
“Do you know what I think the problem is?”
“Oh, here we go…”
“No really, listen. I’ve met two of your boyfriends. They’re not really up to much, are they?” He shook his head in mock sadness, as I’d giggled and feigned shock.
He continued, “These young, relatively inexperienced, frankly pathetic men you insist on dating are clearly not up to the task. If they were doing it right,” he paused, “if they were doing you right, you’d feel differently.”
He grinned. I batted back quickly.
“Meanie. Just because they aren’t of your advanced years” (he was nine years older than me, and I liked to tease him about it) “doesn’t mean that they’re incapable.”
“Do they make you come?” he retorted, and suddenly the humour and silliness of the conversation had gone. He’d fixed me with his bright blue eyes and something quivered low in my belly.
“Has anyone of them ever made you come?” he asked again.
I opened my mouth, stunned by the question and shocked at the intensity of my physical response, but gave no reply. He had nodded, sagely. He knew the answer.
“You’re very sexy.” He’d just said it, simply, directly, like it was an indisputable fact. The truth was, I didn’t think of myself as sexy at all. And next to the kind of girls he always had hanging off his arms (and lips), I felt like a frumpy, pre-maturely aged also-ran. I could feel the colour rise in my cheeks as I muttered, “Fuck off…”
“You are. You are. And I think…” he ran a hungry gaze over me slowly, and when his eyes returned to mine, he continued, “I think there is a highly sensual woman in there desperate to be set free.”
I couldn’t speak. On the one hand, I felt embarrassed and exposed. But on the other, I felt turned on in a way that had been completely new to me. He was flirting with me – me, of all people! – and I had immediately decided to flirt back. I desperately wanted him to kiss me. Touch me. Undress me. Despoil me.
Surprised at my sudden confidence, I met his gaze squarely and replied, “Oh really, and I suppose you’re going to be the one to free her?”
I took another sip of wine. He raised an eyebrow again and smirked, then sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled around his head and he sat silently for a moment, taking my measure.
I was lost in a kind of fog. My heart was fluttering and I felt like my face was on fire, but I couldn’t look away as his blue eyes penetrated me. We’d sat there silently staring at each other for what felt like ages, gauging each other, challenging each other, before he stubbed out his half-finished cigarette and pulled his chair back. I can still hear the scrape against the parquet floor. Our eyes remained locked as he stood up, walked to my side of the table and knelt beside me. Taking a strand of my hair and twisting it slowly around his finger, he’d whispered, “Do you want me to be?”
And that was how it had started.