Love in the Afternoon

At 13 I entered eighth grade, where I fought the wars against acne, awkwardness and loneliness. The first time that I made love, I was 17. It was with a young woman whom I loved passionately and who returned my feelings. The first time that I had sex, however, I was just 13, and love played no role in the procedure. And my older brother Joey had a hand in that too, though remotely. My first sex partner was a lewd, gruff, 17-year-old scold with a messy beehive hairdo and a brisk, no-nonsense manner.

“C’mon,” she said, leading me to the backseat of a Plymouth parked under a shade tree. Sliding along the nylon bench seat after her, I was wide-eyed with apprehension. My brother had arranged all this, because he was embarrassed that his brother, who was now in junior high, hadn’t yet had any “tail.” Not the least part of it was that Joey’s friends had taken to referring to me as “your homo brother.” Joey had informed me in a brief phone chat that I would lose my cherry to someone named Sharon.

“Get undressed,” she ordered me, removing only her tight skirt and then her panties. Her blouse and her shoes remained on. The beehive danced crazily against the window. I marveled at her massive breasts. Quickly, I disrobed, then waited expectantly. Next to me on the blue-upholstered seat, she spread her legs, pointed to her bare privates and said, “Do your business.” I had devoured Playboy Magazine and so I was surprised to discover that women had hair on their genitals. I took a breath. hovered uncertainly over her prone form for a few moments, before she impatiently grasped my virgin manhood and forcibly inserted it into her vagina.

Yikes! I thought wildly, I’m actually doing it. Blood rushed to my head and time stood still. No more than five minutes later, the experience had concluded and Sharon was impatient to quit the love nest. She donned her panties and skirt again, shoved past me on the seat and left without a word. She didn’t look back.

What a disappointment, I thought, pulling up my jeans. It was so impersonal, more impersonal even than masturbating, which my mother had said would turn me blind. I shook my head, and was reminded of a joke my friends told: “I’ll only do it till I need glasses.” Sex, despite all I’d heard about it, was not what it was cracked up to be. In fact, but for one otherworldy occasion, it was four more years before I took another lover. At least I saved my eyesight, I thought bleakly.