The One - No one said it would be easy (4 page)

In the end I took all my courage and told Number Two about my visit to the gynecologist and the resulting insight. By then we had been together for approximately three-quarters of a year and our first botched attempt was months ago. He stared at me, eyes wide open, and nearly burst into tears, laughing at the same time from sheer relief. “And all this time I thought it was me! I thought all this time that I’m incapable and you think I’m a failure,” he beamed joyously. He picked me up and whirled me around. My gynecological diagnosis was a load the size of the Himalayas off his mind. It cannot be said too often: talking with each other really helps! We should have talked about this much earlier. But now it was finally sorted. (And for years thereafter, he badgered me about how I’d flattened him with the infamous question “Is that all?” and how it still echoes in his ears at times.) But we still didn’t quite dare to try again. The problem itself was still there: how to break through the holy wall inside of me? In spite of his relief about the fact that none of this had anything to do with his tackle, my Number Two was still scared to try again. And so we continued to do nothing.

But I did not want to leave things undone and was playing with the idea of allowing Number Three, who had suddenly appeared on my radar, to deflower me. Of course, this was just to make it better for me and my Number Two. But it didn’t happen. I backed out at the last minute, I just couldn’t get myself to hand the completion of the drilling operation to someone else.

And so, after the lucky failure of my defloration attempt with Number Three (for details, see the next chapter), I still had this invincible concrete wall inside of me. Was it to protect some Holy Grail that dumb-ass Mother Nature had bestowed me with such a bulwark? I was getting mightily fed up, was pissed off as hell and started to consider the Mr. Zucchini option as a viable solution.
But then, finally – the release! Number Two and I spent an alcohol-laden summer evening with friends and afterwards I dragged him home with me. Without further deliberation we got naked and just went at it. I knelt backwards in front of him, took his hard cock and just stuffed it in me, somehow. He helped things along nicely and all of a sudden I felt that the barrier had broken. It didn’t even really hurt. I think he was too drunk to realize what had just happened. The entire thing was over very quickly. He was so drunk and so tired that he just stopped, without coming. I sneaked off to the bathroom and found that yes, I was bleeding. A big grin wrapped around my face, I was delighted with this discovery! Finally, was all I could think, finally the spell of virginity is broken! I climbed back into bed with my sweetie and gave him the Breaking News. He just stared at me in disbelief. Nah, I don’t believe it, he stammered. What did we do differently, how come it suddenly worked now, did it hurt, and why didn’t I notice? All of that practically gushed out of him. As we were both too tired for another test phase, we decided to sleep on it. The next morning he remembered the magic of the night before. He immediately tried it out again, in case it had been a dream. It hadn’t been a dream. All of a sudden it all worked really beautifully and after three-quarters of a year of frustration, we finally had our proper first time. And it was wonderful! I especially enjoyed how happy he was. While we did it, he kept moaning and saying, “If only you knew what that feels like!” Man, we were so happy! And relieved. And I had actually managed, within spitting distance of my seventeenth birthday, to finally break through those hallowed virginal walls. Hallelujah.

From this spell and dam breaking event onwards, we screwed each other senseless. After all, we had nine months of no-sex to make up for! And how we made up for it! We did it everywhere, all the time. In bed, next to the bed. In the garden, in the sunshine. We did it in the changing rooms at the local open air swimming pool, because lying next to each other in the sun, half naked, got us so hot that we simply couldn’t stand waiting until we got home. We discovered dirty talk. We tried all kind of role-playing, some of which sexed us up like crazy, some not so much. And again and again he told me how happy he was that, finally, it worked. Once, just after screwing, he said to me out of the blue: “I still can’t believe there’s a pussy walking through my room!” Then he told me how much and how often a boy dreams of this. They practically die from longing for a naked woman and finally being able to fuck. I’m pleased that I was able to help him fulfill his dreams. It was somewhat less dramatic for me, but I too was happy that, with regard to sex, things were finally working out. And what did I do, ruthless as I was? Even though everything was quite all right with Number Two, I kept looking around. And ran into Number Four (see the chapter after next). The awakening of the Bad Girl...
 

After some one-and-a-half years with Number Two, it was over. We had somehow run out of steam. He mutated more and more into some kind of macho and I was pissed off to the hilt with his self-involved cynical behavior. A final holiday together ended in a complete love disaster. And, well, there was another reason to split up. I met Number Five.

Apropos: Over and done with, and then what?

When a love affair comes to an end, you are always left feeling weird. It doesn’t matter how you part: by mutual agreement or full of anger, drama and fury, hugely hurt, deceived, betrayed or simply because somehow you’ve drifted apart. Desertee or deserter, you’ll both feel as though your heart is being torn apart and your belly has turned to stone. Granted, we each have our own way of digesting such an event; some suffer obviously and briefly, others secretly and for a long time. But eventually we always come to the point where things have moved on, and, as the saying goes, it’s always darkest just before the dawn – that’s really true! Even though you can’t imagine this, of course, when you’re in the throes of deepest lovesickness, when your world has crashed and burnt, your heart has fragmented into shards of ice ripping your body apart, you find every other man or woman detestable and you can believe all kind of things but not  that this pain will ever end. But it does. Time is and always will be the best healer of a broken heart. It just is. Honestly. How often have we been through times when we thought we’d die of lovesickness, and now we just laugh about it? And how often have we seen our friends go through it? Exactly! See what I mean! Remember that! And make sure you believe and hope – really strongly! – that this time, when another bout of guy-sickness lurks in the wings, it won’t take so long!

And what exactly are you supposed to do with all the devotional objects an ex leaves behind? This was the dilemma facing me after splitting up with Number Two. Each relationship era has its own collection of little cards, letters, photos, notes, pictures and those useless but often deeply meaningful items and presents (cuddly toys, wooden figurines, contents of Kinder Eggs...) that kind of document your time together. I had gathered everything neatly into one cardboard box and now stood in front of it, perplexed. What the hell was I supposed to do with it? I simply didn’t know. And so I decided on a particularly radical solution: I binned the lot. Not for reasons of emotional unburdening or clearing, it wasn’t in any way therapeutical. I was simply unable to figure out what else to do with it. I was sure that I didn’t want it standing on my shelf or stuffed into the farthest corner of some cupboard. And I certainly had no intention of pulling it out from time to time, to dwell in memories. What’s gone is gone, that was and still is my motto, as far as love is concerned. Binning it therefore seemed the simplest, most logical, most appropriate and most practical solution. A bit harsh maybe, but since I’ve never been fond of useless stuff that clutters things up in a pointless sort of a way, I didn’t have any other option – flats stuffed full of assorted junk, kitsch and bric-a-brac are a nightmare for me. It’s the same with all the other bits that assemble around you during a lifetime. With very few exceptions, I live entirely in the here and now. Nothing survives: old school or exercise books, old clothing, toys etc. – all thrown out. Mercilessly.

And once I decided on the full-disposal approach for all relationship leftovers, I just kept on going with it and still use that approach today. I simply have to stay true to my chosen course of action. I can’t just change now and start to set up love-commemoration cabinets to showcase all my love affairs to date, like in a museum. That’s contrary to my inner need for consistency. Still, sometimes I kind of wish I hadn’t been quite so radical. Nowadays I might quite like to look at old memorabilia and dig them out every so often, take a trip down memory lane, and pack it all away again with a smile and a blissful sigh. Even though the love may have died, the memory of having been in love is wonderful. And of course all those little notes, letters, photos etc. would be helpful. But what the hell – now that I am on the road to disposal, I’m staying on it. And every so often, I’ll open the virtual memory box in my heart.

And what are you supposed to do with each other once love has died? Let’s stay friends? Don’t make me laugh! I’m just as radical there – gone is gone. Full stop. You can remain “devoted” for life in all other interpersonal relationships, even if you fight and argue every so often. Like, parent-child relationships, friendships, acquaintances, colleagues. But love affairs? For me, that’s all or nothing. For me, love is like a box of wonderful chocolates. During a love affair, you eat up all the chocolates. And only if it’s a real, huge, superlative love, the one we all dream about, only then does that box contain so many chocolates that they never run out. That’s magic. But just how you get hold of such a magic box, I have no idea, I’m still looking. I still end up panicked and full of disappointment when I realize that, shit, this box doesn’t have a use-by date the far side of eternity, either. To date, my relationship boxes tended to empty out towards the end of the second or third year. Suddenly, no more chocolates. And when the box is empty, what do you do? You throw it out. Naturally. What would be the point of holding on to an empty box? That’s why I think it makes no sense to try and remain friends after a relationship ends. It’s not possible. Just leave each other in peace and go your own, separate, ways. Anything else is nonsense. You’ve used each other up. Friendship is forever if you look after it. But love – no, not possible. Two lovers are so close and so intimately connected that there is no room in their hearts for any other flower than love.

And once that love is over, nothing remains. You’ve shared too much, been through too much together to become just normal friends on a day-to-day basis. And who – be honest! – doesn’t know this: even if it’s years and years ago, if you suddenly run across your ex, all those weird emotions pop right up again: hate, sadness, pain, cynicism, shame, envy, jealousy or maybe even deep love, admiration and longing. And this unpredictable cocktail of emotions is supposed to form the basis for a relaxed friendship? Exactly! That’s why I say: get away from each other, put a cross over it, have a happy life and good-bye, au revoir, auf Wiedersehen and adios!  

Number Three: Rock-hard

Number Three made a guest appearance during a time when Number Two was still the leading man. It was summer; another holiday without parents was on the cards. While Number Two traveled to France with his parents, I went sailing on the Ijsselmeer in the Netherlands, with a group of young people. And when we set off, it was just like before: first of all, check out the males on offer. And just like before, I was mildly disappointed at first because really, there wasn’t anyone I found particularly attractive. But, again: a few days later, someone managed to attract my attention after all. The previously learned lesson about how sharing cool experiences increases mutual attractiveness was confirmed once again, most impressively! The young man in question, Number Three, was a small wiry guy, quite cute and eighteen years old already! Wow!

However, a friend of mine, also on board, actually fell in love with the guy. I was only moderately interested in him to start with, but felt that I could do with some butterflies in my stomach, to enliven the relaxed atmosphere of our high-summer boat trip. And so I decided to compete for the young man. I realized that, by competing with my friend, I risked our friendship, but I was still curious to find out how far I would be able to go. Running my head against the wall, full speed ahead, regardless of the consequences. Yes, that was mean and selfish, especially since I wasn’t even really in love with the guy. Maybe I, too, have some of that male hunting gene within me!

Since the summer was hot, we spent a night or two on mattresses out on deck. During the night in question, Number Three was to my left and my friend to my right – in other words, she was out of reach of her beloved. I was entirely aware that there would be a giant drama. But I didn’t care. We talked about all sorts of things. And I kept sliding ever closer to Number Three. Until our hands touched, under the starry summer sky. And again, a moment of sheer magic. At that moment I was oblivious to the girl, my friend, who was lying on my other side, who wanted to be where I was. Oblivious to my boyfriend far away in France. I didn’t care about any of that, little love-crazed hussy that I was. I let it all happen, without the slightest qualm. And again there was the incredible thrill of hands caressing each other. And again I held my breath and it was like in the movies. Sailing boat, summer night, starry sky – just WOW! And then our faces moved closer and closer together. And then we kissed. My friend stayed there for a while, lying next to me, pretending that she didn’t notice. At some point she picked up her stuff and disappeared below deck. I was quite sorry about it all, but my passion for the young man, for doing something so forbidden and wicked, was much bigger than that little bit of guilty conscience.

The young man’s kissing was surprisingly peculiar. To date I’d had only two kissing experiences, and both of them had been excellent. Soft kisses with a soft, gentle tongue. But Number Three’s kisses were completely different. To be honest, they were crap. But I continued anyway. You have to give these things a chance! Number Three kissed with a hard, pointed tongue, and his mouth was somehow dry and chapped. Not exactly nice, and suddenly I thought of Number Two’s gentle lovely moist tongue. But in spite of all that, it was so exciting that I carried on and, even though the kissing was so lousy, I was really turned on. We then disappeared into his cabin, where his older brother was asleep on the bottom bunk below us. Or pretended to – no idea! We didn’t care whether he could hear us or not. We climbed into his bed. What happened next was a weird but also lovely experience. We both kept our clothes on. He touched me all over underneath my stuff but I wasn’t allowed to touch him. Instead he took my hand and guided it into my panties, which were by then soaking wet again. He kept his hand on mine and moved my hand between my legs. Guided masturbation, so to speak. I was so aroused that I had trouble keeping halfway quiet and not breathing, snuffling and moaning to loudly – after all, his brother was on the bunk below us. And I came very fast and very hard. And Number Three had to clamp his hand over my mouth to keep me from making too many suspicious sounding noises. Wow, I thought, that was kind of cool.

We left it at that for the moment and I crawled to my own cabin next-door, where my disappointed friend was lying on the lower bunk. She just looked at me and said, “It’s OK. I am kind of sad, but it’s OK.” Wow – I hadn’t expected that! I’d expected some major drama, which would have been a pity since we generally had a great time together. And I would not have blamed her for making a scene. After all, I was the rotten lousy cow who’d snatched that guy out from under her nose. I was so relieved that my friend reacted like this. She really showed what she was made of. I don’t think I would have been able to be so calm and cool about it!    

Number Three and I spent the remaining days on board like a newly enamored couple. And, naturally, there were one or two more couples on board by now. Which further goes to prove said theory (joint experiences encourage love affairs). Or maybe it was the sea air?

Number Three and I tinkered about with each other during the next few nights. We didn’t have our own cabin, I couldn’t very well ask my martyr-friend to move out of our cabin so that Number Three and I would have a love nest. So we were always on the lookout for possible places – his brother had given us one or two strange looks and I wasn’t keen on spending another sex-filled night with him “sleeping” on his bunk below. So we spent our nights in the public galley, which was furnished kind of like the ship’s living room and connected the cabin part with the exit on deck. Which meant that everyone had to pass through there. We assumed that nobody would come through – after all, they were all in bed by then – and we holed up on the comfy corner sofa. It was my turn and I wanted to reciprocate. So I uncovered him from the waist down and out popped a thing that fairly knocked me over. He didn’t only have an insanely hard tongue, his cock was hard, too. And how! And long. Maybe a little thinner than the specimens I’d seen to date, but really really long. And extremely hard. It really felt like a wooden truncheon. Hard as steel – that’s the only way to adequately describe it!

I got down to work, greatly impressed. I had to labor for a long time, mouth and hand, until he finally came. I enjoy giving blowjobs (What a terrible expression! Sucking him off? That’s no better. Indulging him? Yuck, even worse! Satisfying him orally? Like from a technical manual...) provided he looks after himself and isn’t a grubby filthy dirtbag. And I like to try all kind of techniques because every guy likes different moves, and am guided by his groaning. Also the odd softly moaned “oh please do so-and-so”. Also, I like a tortured softly whispered “oh please don’t stop!” What I absolutely don’t like is when it takes hours! He needn’t come in two minutes flat, but an eternity of sucking and licking really takes it out of you. And I don’t even want to mention the infamous lockjaw! Anyway – Number Three really took his time, I was getting truly desperate and beads of sweat were appearing on my forehead. All I could think of was: WILL YOU JUST COME, GODDAMN IT, PLEASE JUST COME! I did my very best and, finally, both our release! He spurted all across the galley and we tried, as best we could, to wipe all suspicious looking liquids away. Luckily, none of our fellow sailors seemed to notice anything.

After a week, our time together was over. We arrived back home, having exchanged phone numbers. I was kind of sad, since it was unlikely that I would ever see him again, even though what we did together had a touch of the bizarre. In addition, I kept wondering about his extremely hard equipment. Should I meet up with him one more time, so that he can deflower me, with his considerable drilling apparatus? I was certain that with him, my still persisting problem would be solved within seconds. My Number Two was very well equipped too, but, compared to this hard long thin pointy instrument – no contest! I was quite pragmatic about it. I didn’t honestly want to sleep with Number Three because I was eternally in love with him. I just wanted to utilize his equipment for my own purposes. And, so I kept telling myself, I would be doing it really for my Number Two and me. But before all that, I met my Number Two again. He was back from his holiday and I was delighted to see him again. And to kiss him! His soft, gentle kisses were like paradise after those hard scratchy kisses of late. Plus, he tasted so much better. Immediately, my guilty conscience piped up, but nevertheless I didn’t tell him about my holiday adventure.
But still I was not done with Number Three. I truly considered implementing my wild deflowering plans with him. Some days later I called him, and since it was still holidays, he dashed over straight away in his car. I told my parents that a good friend was coming to visit. They were a little surprised; they’d never heard me mention a good friend before! And when the sweet little wiry guy appeared in my room, my mum of course cottoned on. She didn’t comment, though. Then Number Three and I started to make out again. It was the middle of the night by the time we were really going for it. We were both in our birthday suits; he had his monster appendage ready and waiting for attack. But suddenly my head was full of second thoughts, scruples even. You can’t do this, it’s not on, do this with your Number Two, but don’t let this guy do it – that’s the kind of thoughts that were wafting through my head. Followed by utter panic: how do I get out of this? There’s a guy lying here with a giant hard-on and all I want is to be shot of both guy and hard-on! In the end I did the inscrutable-mysterious-coy-little-girl number. I delivered some “I really like you blablabla but I’m not ready yet” rubbish. The poor guy got up and drove home, in the middle of the night. I don’t even want to know how painful his swollen balls must have been! I was just so relieved that he was gone. I barely managed to evade my mum’s questioning gaze the next morning. Number Three called me up a few times but I pretended to be out. And after a while the whole thing with Number Three was over with completely. So, what lesson did I learn? Well: making out can be good fun even without love and other heart-related fuss!