My First Time

They say we never forget our first time.

I didn’t forget mine.

They say that the first time is never good and that you do everything wrong.

With me it was no different.

The room was warm. My hands, cold. My heart, scorching. My head, in a swirl.

She was lying in bed as if not caring about what was going on around her. The faint light in which we found ourselves was annoyingly cozy. Sunlight seeped through the slits in the window and formed small lines of life that cut through the room. Two of these lines caressed that pale and velvety face that rested upon the pillow. The sheets went up to her waist, delicately covering each centimeter of her legs. Only her rebellious left foot stuck out gracefully from beneath the bed cover. I crudely approached the bed from the side. My arms seemed to weigh about 100 pounds each. My legs had life of their own. I couldn’t coordinate my movements. My gaze was static, like a lion about to attack its prey.

She on the other hand showed complete control of the situation. Hers was a vague stare, somewhat unworried, even pretentious in a way. She focused on the horizon, pretending not to know I was even there. For a moment our eyes met. No word had to be said. She needed me. I went.

 As any beginner, I had a false start. I advanced voraciously. I hopped on the bed using my knees for support. Before she could react I grabbed her clothes with my hands. Like a hungry wolf, I bit the middle of her shirt with my fingers. In one pull, dry and abrupt, I freed her breast from that prison. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples stared at me, lost. They barely knew we were together.

 The time had come. For five days I massaged her. The clock counted only ten minutes, but I know days went by. My arms couldn’t bear themselves. My shoulders were chastised. She seemed to give up on me. During the whole time she didn’t react to my approaches. I failed.

 And thus life left, like an innocent whistle amidst the wind…

 The heart monitor that rested beside the bed registered ZERO beats per minute. A straight red line crossed the screen letting out a continuous sound that stubbornly refuses to get out of my head. It told me the obvious, the end was clear. CPR – Cardiopulmonary resuscitation – had been of no effect. The nurses that had been assisting gave me two gentle pats on the back. There is nothing more humiliating than those damned consoling pats on the back. They seemed like mercy shots going in to my chest. They ripped through my backside like the whip of a slave lord.

 My shame was lancinating. She, on the other hand, didn’t seem to worry.  Since the very beginning she had that same look of detachment. The nurses covered her face with the sheets. It was the end of the show. The curtains went down and there wasn’t even one hand of applause.

 I left the room and took off my coat. It was clean, unsoiled, spotless. It didn’t even seem to have covered me during the worst moment of my life. Some call doctors Angels. Today I made a delivery for Death. In that room, two people had lost their innocence. The difference was that one still had a beating heart. I zigzagged along the Hospital hallway. It was time to go home. It was time to light up a cigar.