Before I met my first boyfriend at university, I’d never masturbated, let alone had sex. It just wasn’t something that came naturally to me, like a second language I hadn’t learned to speak yet.
Sure, I’d get turned on, but never to the point of needing to do something about it. When I confessed this to my friend in our last year of secondary school, she looked at me in disbelief, as if I was lying. But it was true. It wasn’t like the idea of sex (solo or otherwise) made me feel awkward or ashamed; I just wasn’t really that interested.
Then, in Freshers’ Week, I met Luke*. He had beautiful brown eyes, soft brown skin, and a laugh you could hear from two flats away. I was immediately drawn in. The attraction was mutual, and when we finally started sleeping together it was as if a switch had been flicked on. Like the whole chemistry in my body changed. Suddenly I knew what it meant to be turned on, like really turned on, and he gave me an outlet to explore it.
But a year in, I’d still never had an orgasm. It wasn’t something that worried me at the time — I didn’t really know what it felt like, and it wasn’t like the sex or foreplay we had was bad. I’d have plenty of what I thought was an orgasm. That hot lava rising up, tingles all over my body, gripping the covers while my heart thudded in my ears. But then… nothing. There was no real release, no explosion.
Now that I’m older, I realise not all orgasms are made equal, and maybe what I was experiencing back then could still be considered a form of climaxing. But it wasn’t what I know to be an orgasm now; what I experienced for the first time on a hot summer’s day in 2018.
Lectures were out for the holidays, and Luke and I spent the day drifting around in the sun. On the way back to his place, we stopped to pick up stuff for tacos, before holing up in his bedroom listening to Japanese City Pop and watching weird YouTube videos.
Everyone's clicking on...
There was already something quietly electric about the day, as we took the long route home, hand-in-hand, tuning into the birdsong. Everything felt a little brighter, a little shinier. We were laughing at nothing, giddy in that fizzy, untethered way you sometimes get when the world feels luminous.
We were in the height of the honeymoon period, enthralled by one another; and our lack of real-life responsibilities enabled our mutual obsession. We had sex pretty much every time we saw each other — a routine we’d fallen into at the start of our relationship — and we saw each other a lot.
Luke knew exactly what to do with his hands, and this time started like every other. Kissing, then touching, then rubbing. But that day, we quickly became urgent, hungry, like we were trying to outrun something.
I loved the way he touched me, like he couldn’t resist even if he wanted to. I nestled my head into his armpit as he began rubbing slow, small circles over my clit, getting faster and faster as he gripped my wrist with his other hand and whispered into my ear that I was all his.
I sank into the bed, my body loosening like it had finally been given permission to let go. Time stretched out, or maybe it folded in. All that was left was sensation; me in my body, my body with his, everything blurring at the edges. We weren’t racing anymore, we were floating through pure pleasure.
Suddenly my eyes darted open as I gasped. I was back in the room, my whole body pulsing with pleasure, goosebumps rippling all over my skin.
And then it would happen again. Every few minutes, I’d reach the same heights, then surface like that, legs shaking, heart pounding, sweat all over the covers.
I have no idea how much time had passed when we finally stopped, collapsing in a puddle of tingly contentment, nuzzling one another like animals. “What was that?” I asked my boyfriend, the warmth of the sensation still humming under my skin. “Did you enjoy it?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. What would be the point? Words couldn’t touch the intensity of my first orgasm. They still can’t.
*Names have been changed.
