I have been sexually active since I was 15 years old, but when I was 21, I orgasmed for the first time.
For years, I told partners that I had never climaxed and every single one’s answer was the same: “I can fix that.”
Sure, buddy.
The first time I had an orgasm, I was in the back of a soccer mom van. He had been in between my legs for the better part of an hour, and every time my body made a weird noise or I apologized for being too loud, he whispered to me, “It’s okay.” I felt so comfortable, so warm, so content — and with my fingers buried in his hair, I came over and over and over again.
When it was over, our eyes met and we laughed in tandem, his arms wrapping around me in a tight hug. The seat beneath me was sticky and soaked with warmth, and I felt safe in his arms. The environment was less than sexy, but it remains one of the most intimate moments I’ve ever shared with someone.
It wasn’t about love, it wasn’t about accomplishment — it was about making me comfortable. I think that’s what it’s about.