When I was 15 I got my first blowjob. It was in the loo of a Costa and when we left we realised that we hadn’t locked the door. I’d be lying if I said it was the most fulfilling sexual experience I’ve had: we didn’t even finish because he felt uncomfortable with the location, which is fair enough when you’re having oral sex next to a splattering of skid marks and with your knees on a urine stained floor.
Much is said about your first time. You should be ‘ready’, emotionally prepared. In the film ‘Clueless’, Dionne reveals that Cher, the film’s main character, ‘is saving herself for Luke Perry’. The ‘PC term,’ Dionne jokes, is ‘hymenally challenged’. ‘Saving herself’ sounds as though Cher has done a stoic act of self-sacrifice. To this, Cher replies: ‘I am just not interested in doing it until I find the right person. You see how picky I am about shoes and they only go on my feet.’ Likening the choice your first fuck to the choice of a pair of shoes has clear comedic value: it’s tongue-in-cheek, but its sentiment is found everywhere. As a somewhat repressed teenager I spent hours googling sex, and I was often met with the same face of a disappointed person with ‘I wish I had waited longer until my first time’ or ‘I wish I had waited for the right person’ sitting beneath. But what is the right time and how can you tell who ‘the right person’ is?
The guy giving me a blowjob turned out to be an arsehole; and I had to wait three more years before I got another one. It was equally disappointing, before you ask: drunken and delayed, in all senses.
My first year of university involved messy BJs and cumming too soon, hours stuck on Grindr as I jerked off under my desk (in my room, don’t worry), looking for something that would, inevitably, be good in theory but mediocre in practice. So, when Easter Term began and I still hadn’t lost my anal virginity, I was disappointed. I remember being jealous when my friend on her gap year sent me a barrage of drunken texts about how she’d just lost her V-plates, and whether it was acceptable to creep out of the guy’s house while he was asleep.
But it was worth the wait: he was an academic-sort, dark, sad eyed and wolf-like. We met for coffee a few days before we hooked-up, and there was an intensity to him that I liked. I had never felt the need to be penetrated before that night. I know that sounds slightly ridiculous, but I never realised that desperation is just part of sex: a need to fuck or be fucked, to touch or be touched.
There isn’t a good time or a bad time to have sex. Even if you wait until you’re thirty the chances are you’re still not going to be emotionally ready for what happens. You just have to do it, to try it and see what goes wrong, what works, what you think is weird or right. There’s no point beating around the bush when you can dive straight in (although I’d be wary of taking that literally). Remember too that your interests are always changing; don’t be surprised if something takes you elsewhere or changes your perspective about something. As long as you’re safe and all parties consent, keep having first times and fresh experiences.