Sex for the very first time.
The first time, it hurt. Luckily I was with a guy who wanted to make sure I was okay. He didn’t come out of the doors pumping like a mad man. He was considerate. I never thought I would give this advice, but after your first time, it’s best to just do it a few more times soon after. This way you get all stretched out and it can start to feel good.
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My first time wasn’t painful. I was about a week away from my 18th birthday and it was with my boyfriend of a year. He was average sized and I had plenty of lubrication (I was a horny teenager, so it doesn’t take much to get good and wet), so everything went in smoothly. I didn’t orgasm, but it wasn’t bad for a first-timer! I’ve had much worse sexual encounters since then!
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It was my first year of college. He didn’t even finish. I was very disappointed. Found out he was a real player after that.
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My first time was stereotypical awkward in a parked car. Nothing to write home about, the feelings didn’t change after. But somehow you’re still a different person afterwards.
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I lost mine with no intention that night of doing it. Wasn’t in a relationship, didn’t use protection. (Stupid, I know) If I could go back, I wouldn’t have lost it with the guy I did. He was only in it for himself.
>>>> As always, please have safe sex! Use protection! Think smart! For more info go to: It’s Your Sex Life <<<<
It was the first time for both of us at age 13. It wasn’t so great physically, but I was “in love”. He changed out of his clothes in another room out of embarrassment. I forgot (as did he) to take off my bra. No pain and no orgasm.
great collection of confessions
This great. Here is a poem I wrote. What do you think?
Aberrations Concerning True Love in a Coffee Shop
I could tell by her buttocks that she should be mine
To affirm and consider with my lonely incisors
Like a wayward, rebellious, despairing, drunken, yet mostly holy,
Schizophrenic Jesuit priest.
She mesmerized me by standing there,
At the half-and-half table,
All taught in her Calvin Klein blue jeans
Around her Saturn-like, two-moon butt,
Unrepentant like a Barbie doll,
Though more chunky.
My core and soul retreated
Then acted like a Flying bomb, fire-bang missile
Blasting off from Cape Canaveral
Or Hamburg, Germany.
I looked at her with sex eyes,
And she looked at me back.
Her face was moon-like too,
Gazing at me like a honey bear.
I was rearing all sexist
Like a moo-cow bucking at a rodeo in that backward land Texas.
After I had steeled myself, as Adonis would,
I began to utter my prepared words,
Which I had practiced daily for eight, solid, insidious months now
Before the bathroom glass:
“Would you like to function with me?
I’m apparently judiciously labeled insane,
By a Louisiana convention
Of 11 professional quacks,
But I’m really not. I’m a rocket ship instead.
How to do. I’m Harvey Thrilling, and I like your bangs.
Shall we sit together cozy
And talk of Toulouse Lautrec
And the schizoid-effective mal-effects of old-time, Parisian absinthe?
Or perhaps we should discuss
The protozoan manners of the Japanese in World War II,
The repentant bastards.”
But before I could utter my oral recitations,
She turned like Ingrid Bergman and walked away,
Goose-stepping her fine ass in sway.
I looked for another woman, hoping in my abdominal tract
To discover rescue, redemption, affirmation and ascension,
And I examined, Plato-like,
My mother’s complex.
Sigmund Freud—in prodigious, comatose, cocaine-induced analyses—
Should consider these things.