Pieces [Wattpad's Editor's Choice]

49: mArK mY bOdY

You've probably read millions of first-time stories in books or seen them in movies. Maybe your friends have told you about theirs; ya know, losing it in an alley on Prom night or in your unlocked bedroom while you thought your parents would be out for dinner much longer than they were. Maybe you think it's this big, epic moment that's like when Mario eats a mushroom and suddenly he goes from two feet tall to a twelve-foot giant who can crush his enemies with his fists. (Ya know, 'cause it's like growing up and leveling up and suddenly you're a lot more powerful? Whatever.)

You probably also envision it being nice and clean with soft moans, sexy grunts, and beautiful beads of sweat that won't actually drip into your eyeballs while the other person's on top (sorry for the visual) (disclaimer: that was not Isaac and I, luckily. You're welcome, Marks.)

The books and movies make is seem a lot slower than it really is, a lot more pronounced in a lot of ways. Like you're hyperaware of their lips on your stomach because that's what the camera zooms in to, or the cliché hand gripping of the quilts or hands clasping each other's tightly and you know oh my God, it's getting intense. Maybe when it's over, you imagine a beautiful glow on their skin as sunlight streams through a window or the fireplace casts steamy flickering shadows on their skin.

And the aftermath: cuddling under a random blanket like you didn't just get sweaty and gross and your bodies are just sitting in all that. (I'm sorry, I'm not trying to discourage you if you're ready-but the truth hurts.)

I don't know what I expected my first time to be like, but it wasn't really any of that and it also was still the most beautiful thing I experienced in college with someone I was fortunate to have as my first. Not everyone is that lucky.

It went like this:

Isaac and I making out while I sat on the counter of his dark kitchen, hands grabbing everything and roaming everywhere. His sweet, full lips devouring my own; his tongue teaching my own how to dance around our teeth; his hands pushing my bushy hair away from my neck so he could plant one, two, three kisses and suck on the skin at the base of my neck till he marked my skin with a faint purple kiss.

I had a feeling he'd wanted to; I saw how he eyed the ones that stranger left on me.

After pulling away, he hoisted me off the counter, set me down not-so-smoothly (I almost tripped since I thought we were still kissing or whatever), took my hand, and led me to his bed.

Unlike what I assumed based on the books I read, he didn't jump straight to sex. There was a lot of foreplay, so much that I almost thought he'd changed his mind and just wanted to tease me or wait till he thought I was ready.

I lay on his pillow and he moved on top of me, kissing me everywhere: on my wrists, again on my neck, twice on my chest (over my heart), my forearms, beneath my bra, my stomach... He removed my sweatpants so he could kiss each thigh softly and I shivered. What is he doing!?

I loved this, but my nerves braced me for The Moment. I felt like curling up and hiding; he was so close to such vulnerable places I never paid much attention to myself. Despite my efforts, I couldn't shut my insecurities off. Were my thighs smooth? I think I shaved in the shower yesterday... What about the stretch marks on my thighs? Could he see them? Did he think about the girls he kissed before me or compare my body to theirs? Has he done these moves on girls before? Did he assume I'd like what they did? Were his gestures all just reenactments of moments he lived before? What if he realized my sweatpants and hoodies just hid the scars and pudgier skin I had and I was really just catfishing him this whole time?

Counting was the only way to distract myself from my racing heart and churning stomach, so I counted exactly three kisses on one thigh and five on the other, the last one exactly five seconds long.