My First Time Was with My Best Friend at the Fair

I still remember the first time I looked at him differently. That strange way you look at someone when feelings turn into something deeper and your head fills with butterflies fluttering through your stomach. That day, without a doubt, things stopped being the same between us.

It was August, and like every summer the city filled with people from away, even from other countries. The sun, the beaches —which were hardly the best on the coast—, the food, and the people’s character drew tourists from everywhere. An irresistible attraction for the hundreds of Englishmen and Frenchwomen who came here to clear their heads of their gray lives.

Those were the days when the city became more than a beach destination. For a whole week, it turned into the great summer party: the fair.

Mornings, afternoons, and nights were all filled with music and noise. It was the big celebration of the south, and no one wanted to miss a thing. Chilled wine, good food, sevillanas, rumbas, and the occasional current hit accompanied days in which joy seemed endless.

That afternoon I went out to pick up my friends around one. We’d planned to start at the bars in the center and then carry the night on at the fairgrounds. We needed the car, so after an odyssey looking for parking, by two we were already heading into the old town, right where all the atmosphere was brewing.

The routine was the same as every year. First, Casa Morales, a longtime tavern that was still a mandatory meeting point. A few beers to warm up and let yourself be carried along by the rhythm of the street.

Then came Plaza del Carmen, a tapas area where people ate, drank, and danced right in the middle of the street because the places couldn’t handle the crowds. As the afternoon went on, we hopped from bar to bar, always with the inseparable glass of manzanilla in our hand. Local wine that, while nothing special, went down nice and cold at that time of year, though we all knew it would later become that quarrelsome friend responsible for more than one headache.

By five o’clock we were already in a narrow street off Calle de la Palma. The atmosphere was unbeatable: loud music, laughter everywhere, and a crowd surrounding that bar whose name I don’t even remember, though it hardly matters for what came next.

The place had large windows open onto the street that served as a makeshift bar for a thirsty tide of people shouting for their drinks. In the middle of the street, a spontaneous dance floor had formed, where some girls in their flamenco dresses were dancing sevillanas with real flair.

We were pressed up against the bar. A tinto de verano in hand helped beat the heat of the day and loosen us up completely, already nicely tipsy from the alcohol and the party.

Without a doubt, that day was turning out perfect. Since we’d arrived, we hadn’t stopped laughing. I was enjoying the freedom of my newly turned twenty-two years, without worries or responsibilities, with only one certainty: I had to live those unrepeatable years to the fullest.

Being able to go out partying every day all week was simply fabulous. A luxury only available to those coming from out of town to spend the summer or to girls like me, who felt proud to be from here and to live in this blessed land.

Music, laughter, and alcohol. An explosive mix, especially if you added friends and boys. Boys above all.

That afternoon, in that bar, a group of guys stationed at the other corner of the window were trying—rather clumsily—not to flirt with us. Laughter, looks, and the occasional awkward wink were the weapons they used to get our attention. It was one of them who, gathering his courage, dared to come over to our little corner.

“Are you girls from here?” he asked, trying to hide his real intentions.

From his accent we immediately knew they weren’t local. It wasn’t that we knew every person in the city, but the way he spoke and a few other details gave them away. Without a doubt, they were from Bilbao.

We took a liking to the guy and, after making it clear that yes, we were locals through and through, we invited him to join us along with his friends.

They gladly accepted and, between glasses of wine and other stronger drinks, we spent part of the afternoon laughing, failing miserably at sevillanas, and watching one of them shamelessly show what he was after without the least subtlety.

That scene started to wear on me. I didn’t feel like putting up with a bunch of annoying drunks for the rest of the afternoon. I suggested we change places, hoping to lose them around some corner and get rid of them once and for all. But the rest of the group preferred to stay, so I gave in and we carried on there until the afternoon began to fade.

***

About half an hour later, Adrián showed up.

He came alone, which was very unlike him. He was always surrounded by his friends, and when he went out partying, it was with a group. Seeing him there, walking toward me by himself, surprised me.

After we said hello, he told me he’d lost sight of his friends. He’d gotten distracted chatting with some acquaintances from work, and by the time he wanted to go back, he couldn’t find anyone.

“I’m on my way to the parking lot to get the car. I’m heading home now,” he said.

I insisted he stay with us a while. It didn’t take much convincing, and it seemed almost providential to me: the perfect excuse to get rid of the guys from Bilbao, who were already starting to get too pushy.

It only took one drink for Adrián to get in the mood to dance with me. He wasn’t one to throw himself in without hesitation, but the atmosphere invited it. It wasn’t the first time we’d danced—though not that many times either—but this time something felt different.

Adrián was my great friend, my confidant. Ever since that summer before high school, we’d shared a special bond. I talked to him about everything: my loves, my heartbreaks, my doubts. He was my refuge and my comfort, the shoulder I ran to whenever something hurt. He had always been someone special to me.

But that afternoon, while we danced, something changed.

His hand on my waist, firm and warm, gave me a new sensation. With every look we exchanged, I felt an unknown fire. Our bodies drew closer, breaking the air between us, and his scent—so familiar yet so different—wrapped around me and awakened something I didn’t even know had been asleep.

That dance became dangerous. There was a determination in his gaze that undid me. I wanted to pull away, but I couldn’t. I stayed there, trapped in a feeling that was foreign and mine at the same time.

What’s happening?, I thought. Our friendship was too valuable, but that current connecting us was impossible to ignore. Without realizing it, my fingers traced over his chest the outline of something I shouldn’t have been feeling.

I had never looked at him like that before. I had never felt attraction for him. But in that instant I understood that something in me had been waiting for him all this time.

We weren’t dancing anymore. There was only his arms around me. I felt at home, protected, lucky. His hand caressed the back of my neck with restrained tenderness, and it was as if everything else disappeared. I felt alive, trembling, my stomach full of butterflies.

That was when we realized the others had gone.

“Could they really have left without saying anything?” I thought, amused and annoyed at the same time.

Adrián soothed me with a smile. His hands on my back dispelled any anger. When he offered to take me home, I agreed without hesitation. We’d done it a thousand times, but this time the ride meant something else.

On the way our hands brushed, and in an almost involuntary gesture, his fingers searched for mine. That slight contact changed everything. The silence turned thick, full of unanswered questions. I knew what I felt, but not what I should do.

It’s Adrián, I kept telling myself. My best friend. If we cross that line, there’s no going back.

But sometimes the heart doesn’t listen to reason.

***

When we got into the car—a large, very spacious SUV—he put his hand completely openly on my right thigh. He had already made up his mind. His determination spread to me, cleared my thoughts, and made me surrender to the desire for his lips.

Without thinking, I went for them.

It was an urgent, needy kiss, the kind that leaves you licking your lips and wanting more. Short, simple, full of hope and a newly born excitement. I didn’t really know what would come next; only that if we kept going like this, I would want more of what he was giving me. My addiction grew.

Hungry and a little rough, he trapped my mouth with his. I felt my body relax. No one had ever kissed me like that, as if he wanted to suck my soul out through my lips. With primitive, blunt desire, he bit my lower lip.

The fear of my own inexperience hit me full force when I saw that Adrián was reacting to those kisses too. I was a virgin, and although I’d had hot encounters before and knew my way around the art of teasing, I had never allowed myself to go all the way. Feeling him get hard for me, I was afraid of disappointing him.

He must have read it in my eyes. When he moved me to the back seat, he whispered in my ear not to worry, that he had everything under control and all I had to do was let myself go and enjoy the moment. Comforting words, but not enough for the huge unease running through me. It was hard for me. I was afraid of making a fool of myself, and that absurd worry—absurd, but not unreal—followed me through every movement.

Very calmly, he undid his pants as if the urgency had vanished and he wanted to show me a big secret. What I had already sensed was soon revealed, showing me just how many centimeters the matter involved. I swear I tried to hide it, as if the size didn’t matter to me, but the truth was that even if I managed not to look surprised, I was scared at the thought of being split open by what was surely going to destroy me.

“Relax, it’ll be easy…” he told me as he lifted my skirt to my waist and, with a small tug, tore the thin fabric of my thong.

He placed his big hands on my hips, holding me firmly, and, lifting me slightly from the seat, positioned me exactly where he wanted me. Straddling his legs and facing him, I sat down, leaving my breasts at mouth level and his sex just millimeters from my entrance.

I was nervous, too much so to think about seducing him. I knew perfectly well that I wanted him, but everything crossing my mind distracted me.

He, on the other hand, was running the game. With his hands still on my hips, setting the slow descent that gave him direct access to my insides, he penetrated me.

It hurt when I felt him enter. Feeling my skin tighten, stretching to make room as he sank in deep, claiming me and filling me completely, tore through me. I didn’t want to stop feeling him even though the pain held me back. I had come this far and owed it to myself to find the exact point of pain that would let me enjoy it. He stayed still, waiting for a signal, for something to tell him I was ready before he started moving.

I arched my back a little, aligning my hips better to find an angle that made his entry easier. That softened the pain, and with a slow but seductive movement I let him know I was ready to go on.

He moved with ease—he knew what he was doing—and without a doubt he knew how to make me, for moments at a time, stop thinking about things that didn’t belong in that instant.

His mouth on my breasts became hungry, devouring every millimeter of skin within reach.

In the sway of his pelvis, fighting against the seat, he found a more forceful rhythm, more passionate, which culminated when his body slammed hard against my open legs. The groan that escaped him was deafening, and it quickly died inside the small cabin.

Then I felt something hot and liquid spreading inside me, spilling afterward down my thighs until it soaked his legs.

***

That was when I panicked.

He came inside me. God, what if I get pregnant? That was the emergency alarm that went off over my head at that very moment.

Nothing else mattered now. After that signal was triggered, everything became a rush. I wanted to go home and try to forget the possibility stalking me—remote, but one I experienced as an imminent risk—wait for the days to pass, or maybe run to the ER for the famous pill.

Adrián stopped me when I got out of the car in a hurry after he dropped me off on my street.

“Calm down, everything’s going to be fine,” he kept telling me, trying to soothe me. “I’m here, look at me. It’s me, I’d never leave you alone.”

With his words and a kiss on the lips, I got home wanting not to think about anything.

It had been my first time. And it had been a disaster.

My best friend became my first time. And my first time turned into a nightmare that haunted me.

After that, the days passed without any news coming. Adrián kept checking on me. Every day he called and we talked about our things, as we always had, only now we added a flirtatious moment—“I’m thinking of you,” “I miss you,” “I’d like to…”—and the fateful question that had become our new routine, reminding me of everything I wanted to forget.

“Has your period started?”

Each day the answer was no, the more anguished I felt. But Adrián was still there, as a friend, as a confidant, and now also as an accomplice.