The First Time I Went Further with a Girl

I was never one of those people who easily walked up to someone. In high school I sat in the back of the classroom, listened to music with my headphones on, and watched the others do what I didn’t know how to do: talk, laugh, flirt without showing how hard they were trying. At sixteen I still hadn’t kissed anyone. At seventeen, either.

What I did do a lot of was spend hours in front of the computer. That wasn’t pride, just honesty. I knew how a woman’s body worked better than my own. I knew techniques, angles, timing. But all of that was theory, and theory doesn’t prepare you for the first time your hand brushes a real breast.

I met Camila when I was eighteen. She was older than me, lived in another neighborhood, and took two buses to come see me on weekends. She wasn’t the thinnest girl in the world, but she had a way of looking at you that made the rest of the room disappear. I liked her without really understanding why. I guess that’s reason enough.

The first time I kissed her, in the hallway of her house while her parents were watching TV in the room at the back, my fingers were shaking. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I let them hang at my sides as if they didn’t belong to me.

In time, I learned how to use them.

I started slowly. First I rested a hand on her shoulder while we kissed on the couch in my room. Then, on another visit, I moved it a few inches. We didn’t say anything. The two of us pretended nothing was happening. But it was. You could tell by the way we were breathing.

One autumn afternoon, while it was raining outside and the traffic noise came muted through the closed window, I was kissing her when I brought my hand to her chest over her clothes. I only laid my palm there. I didn’t press, didn’t move my fingers. I just left it there. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure she could feel it.

She didn’t take it away.

We kept kissing. I kept my hand in the same place. After a while I started moving it gently, as if exploring with no particular destination. She was breathing more slowly. At one point I stopped, unsure, and pulled my hand back without really meaning to. Fear, I guess. Or lack of practice.

It was her who put it back where it had been.

Without saying a word. She just took my hand and placed it on her breast, and kept kissing me as if nothing had changed. For her maybe nothing had changed. For me, it had been everything.

***

My relationship with Camila lasted several more months, but we never went beyond that. We kissed, we touched over our clothes, and that was where everything stopped. I don’t know if it was my fault or hers or the distance or the fact that neither of us knew how to take the next step. When we broke up, I kept that memory—her hand guiding mine—as if it were something valuable. Because it was.

Almost a year passed before I met Marisol. It was at a work gathering, one of those events nobody wants to be at but ends up drinking more beer than they should. She was loud and direct and had no problem saying what she thought. The opposite of me. She caught my attention from the moment I saw her arguing with the sales manager about the quarterly budget with the same calm someone asks for the salt.

Marisol was dark-haired, sturdy, with black hair down to her shoulders and a smile that didn’t ask permission. Two weeks after we met, she asked me to be her boyfriend. Not subtly, not with hints. She asked me directly while we were eating sandwiches on a park bench. I said yes before I’d even finished chewing.

With her things were different from the start. The first kisses were direct, without the shyness that had marked everything I’d done before. She didn’t wait for me to take the initiative: she simply took it, and that forced me to rise to meet her. With Camila I had learned to read signals, to move slowly. With Marisol, the signals came before I even looked for them.

When we kissed, my hands no longer stayed still. I had learned something: movement matters, pause matters too, and sometimes not crossing a boundary for weeks makes crossing it more intense when it finally happens.

One night, while her parents were sleeping at the back of the apartment and the TV in the living room was making noise just to cover up ours, I slid my hand under her blouse. I went slowly, looking for signs. There were no signs that I should stop, so I kept going. I found the edge of her bra and paused there for a moment, my fingers on the lace, feeling the warmth coming off her skin.

She slipped her hands under my T-shirt.

We stayed like that for a while, inching forward and back by centimeters, moving in that space where nothing had been decided yet but everything was already in motion. I went a little further. One finger under the edge of the bra. Her skin was soft, warm, and I was too nervous to put any coherent thought into words.

When I finally touched her nipple, she held her breath.

I understood that was the answer I’d been looking for.

***

The following week was long. I kept getting distracted at work, thinking about that night, the texture of her skin, the sound of her breathing changing just slightly. I jerked off remembering it more than once, and I’m not ashamed to say it. It was the only thing I had until she came back.

When she returned, I already knew what I wanted to try. Not exactly the plan, but the direction.

We started on the same couch as always. We kissed. My hands went back where they’d been the week before, but this time I was more direct. I lifted her blouse. She raised her arms to let me, and there they were, her dark blue bra and those big tits I’d been imagining up close for days.

I looked at her. She looked at me.

I lowered her bra.

I don’t know how to describe what I felt at that moment. It wasn’t what one expects after years of watching porn. It wasn’t a movie scene with background music and perfect lighting. It was real, and reality has a texture completely different from everything else. Rougher, more direct, more intense.

I spent a long time there. I kissed her neck while I ran my hands over her breasts. She tilted her head back. I went down to kiss her there, first slowly, then with more pressure, then grazing with my teeth, and she gripped the back of my neck with her hand.

—Like that —she said in a very low voice.

Just that. But it was enough for me to know I wasn’t wrong.

While I was kissing her, her hand found its way to my pants. I felt her fingers through the fabric first, then directly. I could barely think. I unbuttoned her pants. She did the same with mine. We moved toward the bed without speaking, as if talking would interrupt something that was happening on its own.

I helped her get undressed. I undressed myself. The two of us were left on the mattress and I stared at her for a second, not quite knowing what to do first. She waited. She didn’t rush me. That detail mattered: not being rushed let me think.

I started kissing her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. I went slowly down her abdomen, my hands resting on either side of her waist. When I reached between her legs, I paused for a moment. Not out of doubt, but to process that this was real and it was really happening.

She was wet.

I kissed her there. She brought my head to her with both hands, not forcefully but clearly. I kept going, adjusting the rhythm according to what her body told me. When she squeezed harder, I kept the same motion. When she made a sound, I looked for the variation that caused it. It was like learning a language without words.

After a while she pulled me back up.

—Come here —she said.

I got on top of her. My arms were shaking. I brought my hips to hers and searched for the angle, which isn’t as obvious as it seems when you’ve never done it before.

—Do you want to? —I asked her.

—Don’t you? —she replied with a crooked smile.

—Yes —I said.

—Then yes.

I parted her legs carefully, settling between her thighs while I felt the wet heat of her sex brush the tip of my cock. I was so tense it was hard to take a deep breath. She held my face with one hand and kissed me slowly, as if she wanted me to stop thinking and just push. I searched for her opening again with my hips, feeling around, and the first contact made me close my eyes. The pressure was intense, tight, alive. There was nothing elegant about it, just flesh against flesh, heat against heat.

I went in slowly. It was difficult at first: the pressure, the nerves, the angle I couldn’t quite find. But then I was inside, and that was the only thing that existed in that moment. The heat. The pressure. Her breathing against my ear. I felt her envelop me completely, her body taking me in little by little while I moved forward just a few centimeters and then held still, letting her adjust, letting myself adjust too.

She let out a short moan when I reached the deepest point. She didn’t scream. It wasn’t necessary. Everything was too close for that. I kissed her neck, then her mouth, my forehead sweaty and my hands gripping her hips. She scratched my back over my bare skin, as if she wanted to set the pace herself. Then I started moving. First slowly, pulling out just a little and thrusting in again, feeling every friction, every deep brush against that wetness that was driving me out of my mind. Then firmer. Then faster.

She was moving too. She lifted her hips a little to take me better, opened her legs wider, pressed her thighs against my sides so I wouldn’t get away. Her cunt was soaked, hot, and every thrust made a wet, obscene sound that hit me straight in the nape of the neck. I kissed her while we moved. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was slightly open and I wondered whether my face showed what I was feeling too.

This is what it is.

I changed the angle. I braced myself better on my arms and started going into her deeper, harder, the tip brushing that spot that made her clamp down on me all at once. She gave a whimper and dug her fingers into my back.

—More —she said, almost voiceless.

I did as she asked. I leaned over her, pressed my chest to hers, and started fucking her with more hunger, more need, letting myself go with the rocking of the mattress and the way her body gave back every thrust. Sweat covered us. Our skin slid. Her tits flattened against me each time I dropped my hips, and I slid a hand between our bodies to touch her, to find her clit with my fingers while I kept pounding into her.

That undid her.

She spread her legs even wider, arched her back, and started trembling beneath me. The sound that came from her throat was dirtier, more broken, more real than anything I had ever heard before. I kept going, holding the rhythm with one hand on her hip and the other between her thighs, rubbing her until her breathing broke apart. I felt her whole body tense, contracting around my cock in short, hot jolts. She came like that, clenching her teeth, her face twisted with pleasure and her hand gripping my neck as if she didn’t want to let me out.

I was nowhere near done.

I let her catch her breath for just a second and gently rolled her over. She understood what I wanted before I even did. She got down on her knees on the mattress, braced her hands, and offered me her ass without a trace of shame, breathing hard. Seeing her like that made me even harder. I spread her ass cheeks with both hands and slid back in, this time from behind, feeling the head of my cock slip in and out of that tight heat, rougher, more animal. The change in position made me lose a little control; I grabbed her hips and started fucking her from behind, driving harder, listening to the collision of bodies and the wet sound of each thrust.

—Like that, don’t stop —she told me, her voice broken with effort.

Her ass moved with my thrusts. The soft cheeks marked under my hands, and I squeezed them to steady myself while I wrecked her slowly at first, then faster, until the mattress creaked with the rhythm. Marisol leaned farther forward, burying her face in the pillow, and started rocking her hips to meet me better. Every time I drove all the way in, I heard her pant and mutter a curse through her teeth.

—Give me your cum when you’re about to come —she murmured, without lifting her head.

That got me completely. Not because of the phrase, but because of how she said it: without shame, without adornment, asking for exactly what she wanted. I answered with another harder thrust, feeling the orgasm rise from the base of my abdomen and squeeze my balls with unbearable urgency. I came inside her with a muffled groan, driving my hips into her as my cock throbbed and unloaded waves of hot semen inside, without restraint, until I was empty and trembling over her back.

She kept moving for another second, milking me with her body, and then let herself fall onto the mattress with a tired, satisfied laugh. I moved away slowly, breathing like I’d run a marathon, my chest against hers and my fingers still gripping her hips.

We’d been there several minutes when the phone rang.

Not mine. Hers.

We ignored it. It kept ringing. She opened her eyes.

—It’s my mom —she said—. I have to answer.

She pulled away from me. Answered. From the conversation I understood they were waiting for her, that she had forgotten to say she’d be late. She apologized, hung up, and looked at me with a mixture of guilt and amusement.

—I have to go —she said.

—I know —I said.

We got dressed in silence. I walked her to the corner and watched her get on the bus. I walked home. I didn’t come. We didn’t finish the way either of us would have wanted. But while the streetlights lit my face, I didn’t feel frustration or anger.

I felt that something had changed. That I had changed.

The rest came later, with more time and no interruptions. But that part of the story is another one.