When the nipple makes its first appearance...

by Giselle Renarde

That's me in the corner...
That's me in the spot...light...
Losing my virginity...

There wasn't any music playing the first time I had sex. I kind of wish there had been. I kind of wish it was Losing My Religion.

I was a pretty old virgin too, by today's standards. I was 21 the first time I had sex. It happened at a Crowne Plaza that doesn't exist anymore, in a hotel room I don't really remember because it was like any other nondescript hotel room you can think of. I booked it. He couldn't. His wife paid the bills. She would definitely notice if a hotel charge popped up on their credit card statement.

The whole time I kept thinking: God, I hope I never have to do this again.

It felt so weird, so gross, having this old man on top of. I kept thinking how much I'd begged for it. This is what I've been dying for? This is what I wanted?

I hated it. The whole time I just wanted it to end.

But we're talking P-in-V, here. What about everything else? Whether or not you think of yourself as a virgin depends on whether or not you feel you've had sex.

So what is sex?

As a queer person, I obviously don't think penis-in-vagina intercourse is the be-all and end-all. You can have plenty of sex and never do the P-in-V thing in your life.

Remember on Seinfeld when Elaine asks: “Hey Jerry, when do you consider sex has taken place?” His answer is pretty damn inclusive: “I'd say when the nipple makes its first appearance.”

So why did I still think of myself as a virgin even after I'd sucked a cock or touched a boob? Because I truly believed I was missing out on something important. I thought the moment I got a cock inside me the skies would open up and I'd become aware of all these cosmic truths.

That... really didn't happen.

But penetrative sex did get better over time. Started to feel less icky.

Every so often I like to write about the uncomfortableness of first-time sex. Maybe it's not weird for everyone. I don't know. I'm not an expert. For an erotica writer, I have to confess I'm not a voyeur of other people's sexual experiences. Actually, I'm the total opposite. I don't want to hear about it.

But I make an exception for those squicky awkward first times. There's something so gritty and real about them.

Maybe I just like to watch you squirm.

Should've Lost It Earlier

I was too hung up on my virginity. I held onto it way too long.

That’s a trap we fall into in modern society — the myth of virginity. We’re told it’s precious and we should hold onto it, that we should only give it to someone special, and that those who are still virgins are more pure and wholesome than those who are not.

So… how was your first time?

If it was anything like mine it was… awkward.

I was a virgin till quite late — my late twenties — and it was with someone who wanted to show me what it was like. Did I care about that person? As a casual friend (at the time anyway), yes. As something more, no.

Losing my virginity wasn’t some earth-shattering experience. It wasn’t the greatest orgasm I’ve ever had. And it wasn’t something that I wish I hadn’t done. I’m glad I did it, despite all awkwardness.

If anything, losing my virginity took away the stigma attached to it — the fear that the world would collapse if I had sex. I grew up in a fairly liberal family, so the hangups over sex didn’t come from there. (In hindsight, I think I got it from my best friend growing up — a super-Christian, if there’s such a thing.)

I don’t think I should have lost my virginity before I was ready — but I think I was ready several years before I actually did it. There should be a level of emotional maturity going into the act of sex — but I’m sure half of the people reading this had their first sex encounter when they were nervous teenagers, doing it long before they were really ready for it. Each experience is unique and nobody is slutty or should be shamed for what they’ve done.

So, I had sex. It was long overdue and it was underwhelming. I had glimpses of what sex could be, with the right person, at the right time, and in the right place. It set me on a journey to find that right person, time, and place. It led me to some stupid decisions, yes, but it led me on some fun adventure.

This is probably preaching to the choir here. If you’re reading this, an erotic authors’ blog, then you’re probably in favor of a healthy relationship with sexuality. But I think we sometimes do ourselves a disservice when we combat the abstinence-only folks. I think we accidentally set up a dichotomy of either total abstinence or non-stop sex, when, in reality, healthy sexuality is likely to be somewhere between those two extremes. (And, of course, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with someone choosing to be abstinent — but choosing of their own volition, not because they were told to — or someone who loves sex and has it often.)

If we would grow up with a healthy relationship with sexuality — knowing that it can be fun and spontaneous, that we should do it with people we trust and care about, and being prepared with the knowledge and tools to do it safely — then I think we could be much better as a society. It sounds absurdly cheesy, but sex can make the world a better place by making us healthier and happier people.



Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is The President And The Rentboy (co-written with Sandra Claire). He is also the publisher and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, a publisher of erotica and high-heat-level erotic romance. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.