SEX ON THE FIRST DATE. 1

*I still remember that year all too well, 2015. The events that occurred then, keep playing in the back of my mind like an overplayed, poorly done love song that sticks in your head involuntarily. A song that you grow to hate and would love nothing more than to stop singing subconsciously*

The precursor.

I was nursing a broken heart. The first man I had ever loved and the only man I thought I’d ever love had severed my heart. Coming to think of it, he not only broke it but he discarded the darn pieces leaving me disconsolate, hollow and void. He had left me high and dry, disappearing without a trace. He meant the most to me and he had been my friend long before we became lovers and with his departure I had lost both a good companion and an astounding lover. I should have been mad at him for leaving, but truth be told back then I was veraciously in love with him and getting mad at him was a luxury I could never afford.

Over time I became irate. My heart was bleeding, my pillow was tired of soaking up the salty tears that flowed freely from my woebegone eyes and my mind was exhausted from constantly thinking about him. I wanted to move on. I deserved to move on. I knew somewhere on the face of the earth he was busy living his best life and that made me both angry and jealous. Angry because he was living OK without me, angry because I knew I never crossed his mind, not even for a second and jealous because I wanted the same. I wanted to live in a world where he was a nonfactor.

His days were fine, and mine were not. I was in agony and my best friend knew that, more than anybody else I had let into my life. She had seen me love that man with everything I had. She had also seen that love extirpate the vibrant girl that she once knew, turning her into a shadow of her former self. She wanted me to get out of that misery that so actively consumed me, that sunken place that had become my humble abode; as much as I wanted myself out. I wanted both my freedom and my life back. I wanted control of the life that had for a long time been defined by him. I told her as much and that’s when she sent me Don Juan’s number. The number of the man who’d help me forget and make me question my demisexuality. A sexuality that had forcefully been inculcated in me, by my former lover.

Don Juan.

When we started talking we immediately hit it off. He was just as sexual and as lascivious as I was, and to me that was a good sign. It made everything effortless for me, because my sexuality at the time was something that I craved to explore. I wanted to know and test my limits in all matters sex. I was on the road to self discovery and Don Juan would prove to be a very fine co-driver.

He selectively chose the photos that he sent to me and I must admit, he was a handsome man, anyone could easily give him that. Our conversations had turned sexual within the first week of our communication and if his goal was to stir something up in me then it was working, because not before long I found myself sending him undraped photos of my dark, slim-thick body.

He generously returned the favour by sending me numerous photos of his awe-inspiring dick. I’d stare at his pictures for hours, wondering what he tasted like and what he’d like. I started yearning for him, fantasising about him even though he was just a stranger on the other end of the phone, a stranger I wasn’t even sure existed.When he finally asked me to meet him I said yes, with no hesitation, no second guessing and certainly no doubts.

I was curious, I wanted to see the man behind the words and the arousing pictures. Pictures that would make my clitoris stand with excitement. He had promised to ‘slap and tickle’ me in ways that were unfamiliar to me, if he ever got hold of me and I was secretly looking forward to it as much as I tried convincing myself that I would not let him fuck on the first date. There was something in me that wanted to see if he could put his money where his mouth was, if he could walk the talk and my curiosity got the better of me outweighing all sense of repercussions.

When he told me to meet him the following week on a Wednesday I was elated. I lay in bed, my back against the mattress and my eyes fixed on the fake stars that had been plastered on the ceiling, for some reason they were shining so bright that night, almost like they knew what had transpired and were sharing in my elation. I smiled, a Monalissa half smile as my mind wandered off to the unknown.

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