The Night I Lost My Virginity Before I Was Ready

I arrived at the building feeling broken to the bone. I’m not sure whether my legs hurt more from the double set of squats Esteban, my trainer, had made me repeat, or my head from the two exams I’d taken before the break. Add to that Andrés calling me since noon with that “hold on for me, I’m having a bad time” that was already starting to get on my nerves, and the drunks at table ten in the restaurant, the same ones who every Friday think they have the right to put a hand on my waist because they leave big tips. I told Andrés to go to hell on the phone between orders. I smiled at the restaurant drunks and poured their beer, because that’s what you do when you’ve only just spent six months paying your own bills and you still have two years left to finish your degree.

I had just turned nineteen. Until that night, I felt more grown-up than I really was.

Camila, my roommate, was asleep curled up on the couch with the TV on. I lowered the volume, tossed a blanket over her, and went into my room without making a sound. The first thing I always do when I get home is take my clothes off. I don’t like sleeping with the smell of work in my hair, or with my socks leaving marks on my calves.

As I pulled off the black uniform pants, I thought again about the men at table ten. It annoyed me, yes, but there was something there I didn’t even dare admit to myself. I had felt desired. Attractive. One of those women people look at and forget what they were doing before. I felt a familiar tingle between my legs, a wet pull that suddenly tightened my cunt, and I cursed Andrés for not having been decent that afternoon. If he hadn’t ruined my day with his drama, we’d already be on the phone, me with two fingers inside my pussy and him whispering in my ear how he was going to fuck me, fantasizing about things neither of us had done yet.

My phone vibrated on the dresser. It was him.

—I’m downstairs. Come down for a second, please. I brought you something.

I sighed. I cared about him too much to tell him to go sleep at his place after crossing half the city by bus. I told him to come up. I put on a long sweater, one of those that almost passed for a dress on me, and nothing else. My head kept repeating a mantra while I went down to open the door: two kisses, one caress, that’s it. Tomorrow you have to be in literature class at eight.

***

When I opened the door and saw him holding a bouquet of white freesias, all my plans shattered at once. Andrés wasn’t the kind of guy who gave flowers. Freesias were the flowers my mother put on the table on Sundays. Something in that detail softened me completely.

I let him in. While I looked for a vase in the cabinet, he watched me from the living room as if he were seeing me for the first time. I came back with the empty jar in one hand and, before I could put it down, I was already in his arms. I wrapped my arms around his neck, jumped, and locked my legs around his waist. He smelled like his cologne and the smoke from the bus stop.

His hands held me by the ass. The sweater had ridden all the way up in the jump and I felt his hot palms against my skin, sliding over the elastic of my panties, trying to slip his fingers underneath. He tugged the fabric to one side and pushed the tip of his middle finger straight into my slit, dragging it from my ass to my clit, and found me completely soaked. A rough groan escaped him against my neck.

—You’re dripping, Sofi. Fuck.

At the same time, his cock grew against me, separated only by the denim of his jeans. I felt it pulsing against my pubic bone, thick, wanting out. I, who a moment before had been thinking of stopping him, started moving against him as if he were already fucking me, slowly, rubbing my wet cunt against the bulge in his jeans, against the hallway wall. I bit his lip, shoved my tongue into his mouth all the way, and he squeezed my ass with both hands, spreading me, sinking his fingers in.

If I had felt wet before, now I was soaked. I could feel a trickle of arousal running down my thigh.

—Let’s go to my room —I whispered in his ear—. Don’t make any noise. Camila’s asleep.

I took his hand and led him down the hall. I closed the door carefully and turned the key. I thought we were going to stay with a long caress, making out until we fell asleep wrapped around each other, without crossing the last line. But Andrés pulled the sweater off over my head before I could react. I was left standing beside the bed, barefoot, with my panties clinging to my body and the wet stain visible in the fabric, a dark oval marking my pussy like a sign.

He jumped on me before taking off his clothes. He shoved me against the bed, sucked one breast and then the other, biting my nipples until they stood up hard as pebbles. He licked them in circles, sucked them fully into his mouth, and every tug shot straight down between my legs. He kissed his way down my stomach, hooked my panties with his teeth, and dragged them down my thighs until he pulled them off. He dropped them on the damp floor.

He stopped to stare closely at my cunt, breathing hard. My legs were only slightly apart and I felt a new kind of shame, different from the one in the gym locker room. He spread my thighs with both hands, opened my lips with his thumbs, and buried his face. The first pass of his tongue made my whole body arch. He licked me from bottom to top, long and flat, then sucked my clit until he held it between his lips and tugged gently. I grabbed his head and pressed it against my pussy, not thinking, moving his hair, fucking his face. Little shrieks kept slipping out of me, and I tried to swallow them by biting my wrist so Camila wouldn’t hear.

—Shh, shh —he said with his mouth full, his lips shining with my juices—, shh or she’ll hear you.

He slid two fingers inside me and kept sucking. He curved them deep, searching for something I didn’t know I had, and suddenly he pressed a spot that shook my legs. My whole belly clenched, my ass, my toes. I screamed into his hand for him to finish me, not to stop, and he sped up, sucking hard, pumping his fingers in and out with a wet sound that even made me embarrassed. I came in his mouth, biting my arm, eyes shut tight and hips raised, pushing his face into me. I was trembling all over.

When I lifted my head to look at him, his chin was drenched and he had a little-boy smile.

He undressed in front of me awkwardly, getting tangled up in his jeans. When he pulled off his boxer shorts, I saw the fabric was also stained with pre-cum. It was the first time I’d seen a man like that, real, not a body in a magazine or an actor in a pirated movie. His cock stood up pressed against his belly, thick, with a blue vein running along one side, the purple glans shining from all the pre-cum. It scared me and fascinated me in equal measure.

I kept staring at it and, without thinking, knelt at the edge of the bed. I took it in my right hand —I couldn’t wrap my hand around all of it— and ran my tongue from his balls to the tip. Andrés shuddered and let out a long gasp. I got bolder. I put it in my mouth, first just the head, sucking slowly, tasting the salty pre-cum on my tongue. Then I went lower, trying to swallow as much of him as I could, until he hit the back of my throat and I gagged. I pulled it out with strings of saliva hanging from it and took it back in, this time keeping a rhythm, helping myself with my hand at the base. I licked his balls, put them in my mouth one by one, and went back up to suck his cock whole.

—Sofi, Sofi, stop —he begged, grabbing my hair—, stop or I’m going to cum in your mouth.

We were both virgins. We’d talked about it a lot, had even promised each other that when the time came it would be different, slow, talked through. What happened that night didn’t resemble any of the versions we had imagined.

***

I lay on my back, closed my eyes, and let the weight of his body cover me. I felt his mouth on my neck, on my ear, on my shoulder. I also felt him searching, without getting it right, for where to go in. He rammed against my thigh, against my stomach, leaving a trail of sticky liquid on my skin, everywhere except where he needed to go. His cock kept slipping along my slit, rubbing against my clit, hitting my belly with the tip. His clumsiness softened me a little; I thought we’d laugh about the mess and then start over.

But desire won. I took his cock in my right hand, felt it throb in my palm, hard and hot, and with my left hand I spread my pussy lips and guided him to where I thought he was supposed to go. The glans found the entrance, settled there, wide, and pushed. Barely an inch. The pain was much stronger than I expected, a hot tearing that shot up to the pit of my stomach.

—Slowly —I asked very quietly—. Please, Andrés. Slowly.

He didn’t hear me. Or he heard me and didn’t care. Or he felt, as he later explained to me, that if he stopped he was going to break. He let the full weight of his body fall on mine and, with one dry thrust, shoved his cock in as far as my body would let him. I screamed. I don’t know if loudly or softly, I don’t know if Camila heard me on the other side of the wall. I know I dug my fingers into his back, scratched from his shoulder blades to his waist, and the tears started coming on their own, not from the emotion I’d imagined, but from the burning of being opened by force.

He tried to move, out and in, copying what he’d seen in a thousand videos. He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back into me, without rhythm, chasing his pleasure and not mine. Each thrust set me on fire inside; I could feel him scraping my walls, hitting me deep with the tip. I wanted to ask him again to stop, but the words barely came out. His hips crashed against mine making a wet, obscene sound, mixed with my broken gasps. After a few minutes —seconds, maybe— I felt him harden even more, seize up on top of me, and then a different heat, liquid, thick spurts filling me from inside, one after another. Andrés collapsed on top of me, panting, his cock still throbbing in my pussy, emptying, whispering in my ear that he loved me, that it had been incredible.

All I could think about was getting him off me. I pushed gently, then harder. His cock was still semi-hard and the way out hurt almost as much as the way in. I felt semen sliding down between my thighs, warm, mixed with something thicker and darker I didn’t want to look at. I sat on the edge of the bed, hugging my knees, and told him to get dressed and leave.

—But, love…

—Go. Please.

***

Camila showed up in her robe worn wrong and her eyes swollen with sleep. She didn’t ask me anything. She lifted me by the elbow like I was a feverish child and took me to the bathroom. She turned on the hot shower, tested the water with her wrist, and helped me get in. She sat on the toilet lid and stayed there in silence while I cried under the stream and watched the water carry the remains of him from between my legs, white and pink threads going down the drain.

When I came out, she had changed my sheets. There was a cup of linden tea on the nightstand. Camila said only one thing before turning off the light.

—It wasn’t your fault. Don’t start thinking it was your fault.

That night I promised myself, with the ridiculous solemnity of a nineteen-year-old making promises, that I would never let another man into my bed again.

***

Three months later I broke the promise.

With the same man.

Andrés came back to look for me with a patience I didn’t know he had. He invited me to walk along the seaside promenade four afternoons in a row without asking me for anything. He asked me what I had felt, what had hurt, what I would have wanted to happen. I, who had learned at the restaurant how to send men away with a smile, didn’t know what to do with one who listened.

The second time was at his apartment, with the lights on and the windows open. He asked permission for everything. We started talking, then kissing dressed on the couch, then he knelt on the floor between my legs, sucking my cunt like he was learning a language, looking up at me every so often to make sure he was doing it right. He made me come twice with his mouth before he touched me with his cock. When he put it in, that time yes, slowly, a centimeter at a time, asking me “like this, is this okay?”, I realized my body could open without pain, suck his cock inside, squeeze it, move with it. I finished on top, fucking him myself, my hands braced on his chest, setting the rhythm, watching him cum while I came for the third time that night.

What came after was a long, orderly, almost methodical affair. Every encounter began with a conversation. We tried things that at the time seemed daring to me and today feel tender: I sucked his cock with ice in my mouth, let him put it in my ass with patience and lots of spit, made myself cum on his face, ate him out after he came inside me. I learned to say what I wanted and ask for what I didn’t. I learned to cum in spurts, soaking his hand. I learned, above all, that a woman’s body doesn’t surrender to force: it gives itself when it feels like it, opens when it wants to, and closes when it doesn’t.

That relationship lasted a little over a year. What was born that night of white freesias and wet panties turned into something that didn’t resemble the teenage fantasy I had carried around before. It was dirtier, more talked through, more mine.

What I took from that first time was an uncomfortable certainty: the pain wasn’t entirely Andrés’s fault, nor entirely mine. It was because two virgins tried, with their bodies, to do what no one had explained to them in words. Today, several years later, I still write in notebooks what I discovered that night and every night that came after. But that’s another story, and I’m going to tell that one too.