César F.
There needs to be a time when we remember our past, and the moments that shaped us.
Our first love, our first fuck, our first kiss, our first heartbreak.
César F. was my first everything in terms of men.
I was 19, slowly moving into being 20. Just starting my first year at Uni. I was so incredibly shy: when people, regardless of their gender, said something nice to me, I would blush as bright as the sun (I still do, but I've gotten better at deciding who I want to show such vulnerability to). Just starting to know my way around my city, shedding layers of fears and doubts that I always carried around me. This time, I was starting a new path: studying what I wanted, choosing my clothes. Even the simple act of deciding what to do with every moment I had for myself became a liberation declaration.
One day, as I was going into choir practice, I stopped to say hello to one of my brother's friends. He was with another guy I didn't know, so we started to talk and went to have lunch instead of practice. He asked me for my number and we started to hang out more. I was 19, he was 34. Fine Arts major, still not graduated, living with his parents. Biggest nose I had ever seen on a man, bald and super tall and thin. So funny and we could talk about everything-he had and still has a smart mouth. He seemed to know everything and everyone around campus and around him I felt so safe and protected.
I don't remember what day of the week it was anymore, but we were sitting down and talking. I had to go to the library so we said our goodbyes. He kissed me. It was a simple and light kiss, but it was my first.
Things come and go in terms of memory, but I remember how my legs shook from the emotion and the heat A man kissed me. A man thought I was pretty. What the fuck do I do now? I had never seen myself as beautiful or desirable or sexy or whatever. Going to the library was hard-the shaking, the nerves, the I have no idea what to do with myself now.
Weeks started to pass and I knew he wanted more than just my kisses. I was starting to fall for him, and I knew something had to be done about it. I was scared, but I knew this - to go to bed with someone and give up more than you ever expected - had to be done. I read a bit. I asked friends what to do. I brought an Ibuprofen pill and a pad to stop the bleeding I knew I was going to have.
You never forget your first time in bed with another human. Not asleep, but loving. I have forgotten bits and pieces of it, but I still remember it as a warm and quiet moment. It wasn't as painful as I thought it would be, thanks to his kisses and tenderness towards me.
I did bleed, but there was acceptance and no taboo towards it, which made me feel safe. I knew, thanks to my mother, how the body worked. But there was no explaining the shaking of my legs, discovering another body that wasn't mine, knowing that I could feel so much without ever having words to verbalize such a feeling. It was wonderful, and I knew I wanted more. So we became lovers.
I posed for him in my underwear and naked, with a simple schoolgirl style miniskirt and one of his shirts. I stole my mother's satin shirt and went to bed with him, trying new positions and extending my natural instinct into something more elaborate and enticing. He drank tea from my back and my belly button, showing me that the body and intimacy could be fun, and explored in so many different levels that still, to this day, I am still learning from.
I wanted to introduce him to my friends - my mother liked him from the few times she saw him. My brother hated (and still hates) him, because he suspected he was no good for me. Papa never imagined the true nature of the relationship between us.
There was a fire that went out quickly, because he never had time for me. I wanted to become more serious, and he was interested in playing around with other women. So we stopped being lovers after a few weeks time, and remained friends with occasional benefits. He was one of the first men who gave me an orgasm by going down on me, and who I wasn't afraid to cry with when I came. Thanks to seeing his face when he came, I became obsessed with seeing the faces of men come over me, inside me. I still am - it is one of my biggest turn ons.
I saw him not so long ago. He still is thin, bald, and has a smart mouth. Still smokes like a whore in prison, and still can make me laugh like before. Still sees me as the pretty girl from all those years ago, saying that I look better now than ever before. Still going after girls years younger than him, and still having the hots for me (but none from my side).
There's in my heart nothing but love for him, because even though we ended on a sour note, I will always thank him for making those first experiences for me sweet and luminous and wonderful.
Our first love, our first fuck, our first kiss, our first heartbreak.
César F. was my first everything in terms of men.
I was 19, slowly moving into being 20. Just starting my first year at Uni. I was so incredibly shy: when people, regardless of their gender, said something nice to me, I would blush as bright as the sun (I still do, but I've gotten better at deciding who I want to show such vulnerability to). Just starting to know my way around my city, shedding layers of fears and doubts that I always carried around me. This time, I was starting a new path: studying what I wanted, choosing my clothes. Even the simple act of deciding what to do with every moment I had for myself became a liberation declaration.
One day, as I was going into choir practice, I stopped to say hello to one of my brother's friends. He was with another guy I didn't know, so we started to talk and went to have lunch instead of practice. He asked me for my number and we started to hang out more. I was 19, he was 34. Fine Arts major, still not graduated, living with his parents. Biggest nose I had ever seen on a man, bald and super tall and thin. So funny and we could talk about everything-he had and still has a smart mouth. He seemed to know everything and everyone around campus and around him I felt so safe and protected.
I don't remember what day of the week it was anymore, but we were sitting down and talking. I had to go to the library so we said our goodbyes. He kissed me. It was a simple and light kiss, but it was my first.
Things come and go in terms of memory, but I remember how my legs shook from the emotion and the heat A man kissed me. A man thought I was pretty. What the fuck do I do now? I had never seen myself as beautiful or desirable or sexy or whatever. Going to the library was hard-the shaking, the nerves, the I have no idea what to do with myself now.
Weeks started to pass and I knew he wanted more than just my kisses. I was starting to fall for him, and I knew something had to be done about it. I was scared, but I knew this - to go to bed with someone and give up more than you ever expected - had to be done. I read a bit. I asked friends what to do. I brought an Ibuprofen pill and a pad to stop the bleeding I knew I was going to have.
You never forget your first time in bed with another human. Not asleep, but loving. I have forgotten bits and pieces of it, but I still remember it as a warm and quiet moment. It wasn't as painful as I thought it would be, thanks to his kisses and tenderness towards me.
I did bleed, but there was acceptance and no taboo towards it, which made me feel safe. I knew, thanks to my mother, how the body worked. But there was no explaining the shaking of my legs, discovering another body that wasn't mine, knowing that I could feel so much without ever having words to verbalize such a feeling. It was wonderful, and I knew I wanted more. So we became lovers.
I posed for him in my underwear and naked, with a simple schoolgirl style miniskirt and one of his shirts. I stole my mother's satin shirt and went to bed with him, trying new positions and extending my natural instinct into something more elaborate and enticing. He drank tea from my back and my belly button, showing me that the body and intimacy could be fun, and explored in so many different levels that still, to this day, I am still learning from.
I wanted to introduce him to my friends - my mother liked him from the few times she saw him. My brother hated (and still hates) him, because he suspected he was no good for me. Papa never imagined the true nature of the relationship between us.
There was a fire that went out quickly, because he never had time for me. I wanted to become more serious, and he was interested in playing around with other women. So we stopped being lovers after a few weeks time, and remained friends with occasional benefits. He was one of the first men who gave me an orgasm by going down on me, and who I wasn't afraid to cry with when I came. Thanks to seeing his face when he came, I became obsessed with seeing the faces of men come over me, inside me. I still am - it is one of my biggest turn ons.
I saw him not so long ago. He still is thin, bald, and has a smart mouth. Still smokes like a whore in prison, and still can make me laugh like before. Still sees me as the pretty girl from all those years ago, saying that I look better now than ever before. Still going after girls years younger than him, and still having the hots for me (but none from my side).
There's in my heart nothing but love for him, because even though we ended on a sour note, I will always thank him for making those first experiences for me sweet and luminous and wonderful.
Comentarios
Publicar un comentario