Wednesday Briefs - It's hard to forget your first love

 

It’s hard to forget your first love.

After my first love, no matter what relationship I had, it got compared to it - compared to him in some way. Mainly the kiss - Was it better? Was it worse? Did it need more or less tongue? How did our height compare?

Regardless of whether my first love was a sinner or a saint, or who broke up with whom; the fact remained that, we shared a number of firsts. And they became the benchmark for every relationship that followed.

I’m not saying that my first love was the first man I was in a clinch with – hell no. If anything my first few kisses scared the bejesus out of me. Most of the time I kissed and ran, stupidly believing my nana’s words, “Leonard, kissing will give you cooties.” That was her advice after she saw me in the playground kissing my friend Beano. Then again I was only ten and too curious not to give it a go. At least I had ice cream after.

It was a few years later that I fell for my first love, Michael Devenish. I was fourteen, and I thought he was the best thing since sliced bread. He had tanned skin, short dark hair and an athletic body – at least athletic for a teenager. His was the outline I frequently watched from the bleachers as he ran around the track.

At an end of the summer term party, we got together. It was nearing the end of the evening, and I was buzzed from alcohol I shouldn’t have been drinking; Michael pulled me behind a long curtain by the door, “I thought you’d like some privacy,” he whispered, before his mouth descended on mine. After that, I was his.

I was already out at school, but he wasn’t, and that caused a few issues. It was Michael that needed the privacy. Over the following two years, we broke up and got back together several times. Michael’s indecision over his sexuality and keeping us a secret caused some, my generally being fed up and teenage strops, others. Though, I will admit; once I went out with him purely so that I could break up with him. It was an action of spite that I regretted later.

Eventually, he came out of the closet, and we spent a whole six months together without incident. It was during that time that we shared the remainder of our firsts. We’d already groped, kissed and gotten each other off, but that was as far as it went. Damn, the first time he put his hand down my trousers and felt my bare dick; it was unexpected and wonderful. One cough and I’d have come without him doing anything else. There again, I was of the age where any private surface that supplied friction was fair game to be humped.

Michael was the first man, romantically, to see me completely naked and he was the one who took my ass cherry. Can’t say I was in heaven over it. Given it was my first time and we weren’t experienced, I expected it to be uncomfortable – and it was – though Michael seemed to enjoy it. After that, we stuck to blowjobs for a while before I had the urge to make love again. The second time was much better.

I thought Michael was my forever. And I believed I was grown up enough to know my heart. Unfortunately, life kicked in and we went to separate colleges. That was the kiss of death for us and despite trying we drifted apart.

If I knew then, what I know now, would we have stayed together?

Probably not.

The truth of it was that Michael kissed like a codfish, but considering my own lack of experience at the time, I thought his kisses were the best. I’ve since discovered my love of a long-dominant tongue.

After Michael had set the benchmark, I compared subsequent encounters to him. One person would kiss better, another not. Another played my body like a harp, but there wasn’t enough chemistry between. It was a relationship of lust, no conversation. Still, it was a time of learning. I discovered what I wanted in a partner, and more importantly, what I didn’t.

Nowadays, I’m happily married to a man who is my, everything. He’s a fellow college teacher of the sciences – him biology, me chemistry. He’s perfect for me, in body and soul. The way he touches me sends me to the stars. I wouldn’t swap him for the world.

I’ve forgotten several of the names of previous boyfriends, but occasionally, Michael comes to the fore. In class, when a student comes in with the surname of Devenish, I can’t help asking if they have a relative called Michael. To date, the answer has been no.

I don’t want to meet up with him, but am curious as to what happened to him. In the age of social media, I could probably find out, but there’s also another part of me, that doesn’t. I like the memory I have of Michael, especially the way he held and kissed me behind the curtain. But I’d like to keep that memory in a special place, where it can’t be tainted.

 

 

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