First Sexy Girl
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First Sexy Girl
Brief History
By Gbenga Adesina
Alan Chin’s Infinity Goes Up on Trial
Photographs by Alan Chin
Longer on Moon
By Cindy HY Wu
Cruel World As a Litany Of Stars
By Haolun Xu
© 2004-2022 Guernica . All Rights Reserved.
Photograph via Flickr by Michele Molinari
My mother stands ironing in the kitchen. There is barely room to squeeze between the kitchen counter and her bottom. I am about twelve; she is five foot two. It would be unnatural to turn to face the cupboards as I slip past. I am wearing loose-fitting pants. She is in a skirt. As I brushed quickly by she bends to iron and presses her bottom against me. My penis swells with joy. I will remember this for many years to come, in unexpected situations, soothing, erotic, violent, or clumsy.
It also reminded me of an earlier time, in third grade, when Tawny Collie—that was really her name—the sexiest girl at Elbow Elementary bent over to pick up a red rubber ball during recess and a couple of my friends pushed me onto her behind and she turned around and said, “Clancy, that’s not nice!” I protested, and my friends laughed. In first grade Tawny had had a crush on me and had invited me over to her house at lunch for fish sticks, which I couldn’t eat. But by third grade I was well established as one of the unpopular kids, and flying below everyone’s sexual radar. Still, or for that reason, Tawny should have known better.
The first time I successfully masturbated I was eleven and my older brother and his girlfriend were watching Woody Allen’s Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask) .
Last night our little brother, as my stepsister Teryn told the story the following morning, had come downstairs while the rest of us were out and Teryn was alone watching television in the family room and asked her to “pull on my thing.” The thing was on full display, Teryn claims, out of the pajamas. “It was hard and he was rubbing it.” The little brother was age nine or ten. It is widely known or at least agreed in my family that Teryn is a liar and will lie in particular about this little brother, because she was the baby until we arrived, and then he became the baby, and my mother has never liked Teryn, and often accused her of sexual deviance and promiscuity from a surprisingly young age. So there’s no guessing whether or not the story Teryn tells me is true, though later in life my mother will similarly tell me that she saw the same little brother (now age sixteen) out mowing the lawn with his shirt off in the low, modest Calgary summer sun and pronounced fiery claw marks down his back. Why my mother told me this story also remains mysterious to me, though she once told me that “he got the looks, he could have been a model,” and another time she told me how much he resembled my father, who had no appeal for my mother other than as a sex object. He was a terrible husband, my dad. But the old man had gigantic sexual charisma. I’d seen him, in years past and in many different cities, pick up waitresses right there in the restaurant, before we’d even paid the check.
The first time I successfully masturbated I was eleven and my older brother and his girlfriend were watching Woody Allen’s Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask) . The process was slow and often seemed hopeless: I think it took an hour or more. I could still hear the movie in the background. I imagined my penis as a straw and a girl from school sucking on the straw. When I orgasmed it was qualitatively different than any orgasm I have had since. They say that, the first time you smoke heroin, it is called “riding the dragon,” and after that you are always only approximating that birth into a new world of pleasure and disappointment.
You can French kiss yourself. Take your tongue, fold it back upon itself, and now roll the tip of your tongue back and forth across the middle of the muscle. I learned this after French kissing Denise at the seventh grade dance. We had those at Rideau Junior High: every five or six dances the teachers would play a slow song, turn the lights down low, and we would have a kiss dance, during which, with luck, you would French kiss the entire time. I passed Denise’s house wearing my canvas bag of rolled and rubber-banded Calgary Heralds and tossed one on her porch, while French kissing myself. It is mildly titillating, but seems filthier, somehow, than masturbation.
In graduate school I decided to become gay. Many of my heroes were gay: I had thought Franz Kafka was gay, for example, though it turns out he probably was not.
Age five and I am inspecting statues of nudes in a large museum book my parents keep in my stepfather’s study. The book is fascinating and I take it back to my bedroom and climb on the top bunk—my bunk—to look at the pictures more closely. The fact that the most interesting statues—the ones with breasts—have no penises puzzles me. In the bathroom I stand naked on the toilet so that I can see myself in the mirror and tuck my penis and balls between my legs and press my legs tightly together to achieve the desired effect. Ah yes, that must be what is happening in those pictures, I conclude. Then my mother enters the bathroom—there are two doors into it, one from the hallway and the other from my parent’s bedroom, and I’ve forgotten to lock their door—and begins to shriek. “Never do that again! That’s very bad!” Etc. To be fair to my mother, she has always been hysterical and repressed on the subject of sex (I don’t particularly like the topic either), and my father claimed that this was a main cause of their divorce. It’s true that she avoided physical contact with us for years. She had been abused as a child, though I don’t know in what fashion. On her wedding night there were some problems in bed with my father, and he left their hotel room, returned a few hours later, and threw a pair of woman’s panties at her.
After my mother married my stepfather there are some sexual experiences between age five and age fifteen that I do not recall well and may be inventing that took place between myself and one or more of my angry older stepbrothers behind the furnace in our basement. I was terrified of that small black hot space.
In graduate school I decided to become gay. Many of my heroes were gay: I had thought Franz Kafka was gay, for example, though it turns out he probably was not; Kierkegaard might have been gay; it is possible that Friedrich Nietzsche’s first sexual experience was with a man, a kind of wandering prophet, a forester who walked with a stick and professed to be a wise man, and preyed on school boys; Oscar Wilde was gay; Marcel Proust was gay (I’m told that stuff about the rats and the hookers is invented); Jean Genet was gay; Burroughs was gay (William—Augusten is too, but, capable writer though he is, he’s not a hero of mine, and anyway hadn’t made the scene yet when I was in graduate school, or who knows, perhaps he might have been, I was in the hero-forming business in those days); was Levinas gay?; Plato was gay. My best friend at the time, Robert Ramirez, was gay, and wanted me to be gay too. (Now he is dead.) We danced at a gay bar and while I was dancing with a girlfriend of his, a hanger-on, he came to us on the dance floor under the many-colored lights, the celestial immodesty and grandeur of the sweaty, loud gay bar, and the three of us danced with the girl in the middle, and Robert and I kissed. Nothing. All my modest attempts were useless. Later that night the girl and I had sex—she was a virgin—and Robert’s feelings were hurt that we didn’t ask him to join us. First he passed out and then he stormed out. I never spoke with the girl again. I abandoned the idea of being gay. William Butler Yeats was not gay.
SD and I were in the basement in her bedroom. She was encouraging me to rub my erect penis on the crotch of her black panty hose. She was a natural redhead. When she took off her clothes her slightly fat body shone with the strength of a flashbulb in my eyes. She rolled on her belly, moaned, and lifted her ass in the air. “In my ass,” she said. I had anal sex before I ever had vaginal sex: that was how I lost my virginity, that winter afternoon in SD’s ass.
Clancy Martin ’s writing has appeared in Harper’s , NOON , McSweeney’s , The London Review of Books , the New York Times , and other places. Author of the novel How to Sell (FSG), he teaches philosophy at the University of Missouri in Kansas City.
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11 Women Share How They Lost Their Virginity
May 14, 2013, 03:18 PM EDT | Updated May 14, 2013
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"It's kind of a double-edged sword isn't it? If you say you haven't, you're a prude. If you say you have, you're a slut. It's a trap."
So spoke Ally Sheedy's character in "The Breakfast Club" on a topic that inspires continued fascination: virginity, the v-card every woman is supposed to hold onto at the time in her life when she is often obsessed with turning it in.
Virginity is a tricky concept. As a culture we've explored it in our films , TV shows , books and classrooms , but we still don't have a clear-cut definition of what it entails or why it's important.
To get more answers to those questions, we asked our female readers to send us their virginity stories -- the good, the bad, the simply "meh." We received submissions from women in their teens through their 50s, within the United States and abroad. And even though everyone had a story about their "first time," each of those stories is very different. The diversity of experiences shared with us further underscores the fact that a person's first time can mean a lot of different things. We might be better off if we stopped putting so much emphasis on it.
LOOK: 11 Women Share Their "First Time" Stories
"He was married, 30 years older than me"
He was married, 30 years older than me, and guilty as hell. I kept pushing for it. I wanted it. Until I got it. As soon as I had a naked man writhing on top of me, all I could think was, "God, I hope I never have to do this again!" --32 years old, Toronto
"It didn't hurt at all, but it wasn't good"
I was 15 and he was almost 19. We never talked about if we had "done it" before but I hadn't and I don't think he had either. I had given guys blowjobs and been fingered and made out with people so I thought "no big deal!" Right? Wrong. Making eye contact was embarrassing for me and making out was weird to do while we were "doing it." It didn't hurt at all but it wasn't good. I was not aroused at all anymore and I was seriously wondering if I was asexual or something ... Afterward, [we] talked about [it] for hours and then by that time I was finally turned on enough that we had enjoyable sex. --18 years old, Utah
"I lost my virginity on a trampoline"
All my friends had lost "theirs" earlier than me, but I had told myself I was waiting [until] at least 16. Well 16 rolled around and we went to a gin and juice party. Unfortunately, I laid my eyes on the hottest guy at the party and then laid down with him on a trampoline. It wasn't magical or the special waterfall I imagined. But, saying I lost my virginity on a trampoline has made for some great conversations. --31 years old, Virginia
The first time I had sex with a woman: It was a spring afternoon. We had just gone to the botanic gardens, holding hands the entire time. We made love under a duvet as the sun shone in my bedroom window. It was gentle. It was kind and warm and we are still in love. --30 years old, St. Paul
"He just friend requested me on Facebook"
I was 15. Christmas night. On the basement floor. Partner? 17-year-old steady boyfriend of several months. It was his first time too. He just friend requested me on Facebook. Currently I'm 53, happily married for the second time for 26 years. --53 years old, Illinois
"After we did it, we got out of the car and both went our separate ways"
I lost my virginity with a guy from my class I was in love with. I was 18 years old. I had a crush on him since first grade. He was out of reach until we started joking about it. Then I asked him what if things [went] there and so, the next day we met up. It was also his first time, so it wasn't uncomfortable or anything. It didn't hurt at all. The weirdest part was [after] we did it, we got out of the car and we both went our separate ways. I told him, "See ya on Monday at school!" And that was it. We never dated, but we kept meeting like that for the next three years. I didn't date anyone else. He was my first love and I don't regret one moment of it. The only sad thing is that we weren't even friends. I haven't seen him in ages, but my memories are so great and I love it. --25 years old, Croatia
We were both 17. My mom gave me a ride to his house. His parents were out of town and my mom had no clue of course. Things moved along and all of a sudden there we were in his bedroom with music on. We got to the point of either we do or we don't, so we did. As we developed a rhythm, kind of, the doorbell rings, not once but frantically. My first thought was, "Oh my God, it's my mom!" We start freaking out looking for our clothes. He finds his first and runs down to see who it is. Turns out to be a group of his friends who showed up to invite us bowling. We got back to things, finished and the doorbell rings again. This time it's planned, different friends coming to give me a ride home. These friends turned out to have smoked pot before coming over and proceeded to eat Oreo cookies on white bread dunked in Coke in his kitchen while giggling hysterically. Then they somehow spotted a condom wrapper in the trash. Next of course were high fives and more laughing. Most UN-romantic night imaginable. --Age and location not provided
"I asked what no man ever wants to hear: 'Is it in?'"
My first time is the sort of story that mothers have nightmares about their only daughter having. I was two months shy of my 16th birthday and instead of the sweet seduction of an R. Kelly song in the background, I had [the horror movie] "When A Stranger Calls." It was 2 a.m. and I had snuck over to my "secret-totally-unhealthy-bootycall-who-I-thought-was-a-good-guy-but-actually-a-man-whore" and felt judgement as the guards let me in. (I was a Diplomat's kid and we had security). I remember his body on top of mine asking me "Are you sure?" and my response was "Yes, I'm sure." After a heavy breath I felt something. Not pain but, uncertainty and I asked what no man ever wants to hear: "Is it in?" He replied with "Yeah, it's in, can't you feel it?"
A few minutes later, I had a sweaty guy on top of me, breathing heavily saying how amazing it felt. I turned my face and watched [actress] Camilla Bell scream. I didn't even realize 'til it was over that I never even got a kiss out of it. I walked back home, snuck in and showered before falling asleep until my alarm went off for school. I can't ever look at Camilla Bell without thinking of that time. --22 years old, Los Angeles
"I was squeezing my eyes so tight that my contact lenses popped out"
Well, I was in high school and my mom and sister were away. We did it in the middle of my living room floor. I was squeezing my eyes so tight that both of my contact lenses popped out and we had to stop! --Age not provided, Virginia
"The only thing he didn't know about me was that I was still a virgin"
I lost my virginity quite late, I was 24: way too old. I was dating a guy but the only thing he didn't know about me was that I was still a virgin. Every time we made out I made up a silly excuse not to have sex because I was afraid I'd bleed and reveal the embarrassing truth: that I was a virgin. I say "embarrassing" because I assumed being a virgin at that age was something wrong -- that I was unwanted, ugly, undesirable and therefore, unworthy as a woman, that all the times I had said no to sex because I didn't like the guy or didn't feel confortable with it had made me a prude and that I probably didn't deserve the sex.
I wanted to have sex with [my boyfriend] but at the same time I didn't, because I didn't want him to know my secret. So one day it just happened: we were having drinks, we went to bed and we did it. I didn't even bleed (maybe because I had already broken my hymen masturbating) but he didn't notice it was my first time. I was nervous, I wanted him to feel he was having sex with a "normal" girl (thanks, prejudice) so I didn't particularly enjoy it.
Now I can say I have a very healthy sex life. I'm not ashamed of having sex and I'm not ashamed of my body anymore. Of course, that doesn't mean I needed a man's approval to like myself, but engaging in a very active sex life has made me aware of just how much pleasure the female body is capable of experiencing. But if people want to wait, let them wait: it's ok to do it when you want to, when you feel you're ready and with a partner you want. Do not feel any pressure. Your value doesn't depend on being wanted by others. --25 years old, Colombia
"I had the big 'O' on the first try"
My first time was when I was 16 with my boyfriend of eight months. He was my first love. It was December 30th. I know! New Year's Eve would have sounded much better! But we had been trying for a while. He finally "got in" that night.
There was a blue glow over us. I had a blue lightbulb in the ceiling light of my bedroom. He was a virgin, too. Our friends were downstairs in the living room drinking. Mine was the party house. I had the big "O" on the first try! Yay! I was on top. He had a little pain, I did not. I had always heard about [bleeding] but it didn't happen with me. It was wonderful. We stayed together until after he graduated, for 2.5 years total. I was so heartbroken when we split. Other than my husband, he is the only person I've had full on sex with.
We talked a few years ago after 22 years ... When we talked about our first time he said he remembered the moonlight on me. I had to remind him of the blue light. He remembered the rest. --43 years old, Pennsylvania
By Hannah Orenstein Published: Aug
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