I was a novice at sex and pancakes...

    The first time I had sex I was eighteen years old…after I graduated high school.  I remember this feeling of ‘I am a woman’ on the ride of shame the next morning.  A ride that I shared with a younger and more experienced friend than I.  We had the Wednesday night post club roommate special.  Two guys…two girls.  Nothing so kinky ensued.  As a matter of fact I had no idea what to expect or do or say.  I just wanted to do it and get it over with.  Everyone else was… weren't they?  

    It was a nightmare…a true horror show from start to finish.  Nothing gruesome or disturbing took place other than a man in his mid twenties taking my virginity and me giving it to him with the pliability of a wooden plank.  And to think that I actually thought that after this horrible encounter I was a woman.  I don’t even remember his name.  I do remember his roommate was much sweeter and had a friendlier disposition.  He smiled and talked more freely.  My date was a few inches over six feet and brawny.  Not overtly friendly but amicable.  

    When we got to their apartment we quickly adjourned to our separate rooms.  It was dark.  He turned on some music…some slow soulful love making music…to set the mood.  Only there would be no slow, soulful love making.  We made out.  His hands went under my shirt.  My hands did not go any where.  They remained reticent around his neck.   He told me I had nice, firm breasts which was a compliment that I had received during make out sessions a couple of times prior to this.  And I always replied with a thank you.  Because what else was I going to say?  They must have been some nice breasts back in the day…wish I still had my eighteen year old breasts.  Now firm is a memory my breasts recall like an old dear friend.  

Breast one: Remember Firm?  Why doesn’t she come around any more?

Breast two: She’s dead.

Breast one: Whaaaat?

Breast two: (yelling so that Breast one can hear) I SAID SHE’S DEAD!

   My next make out partner will refer to my breasts as nice and jumbly.  To which I will reply…thank you.

   Before the real artless, tasteless humping began I informed my deflowerer that he was about to do some deflowering.  To which he replied he would be ever so gentle.  More bogus words have not been spoken.  His weight was on top of me.  He was heavy…solid.  And without an ounce of finesse he began.  Not that I knew at the time what finessing would be.  In hindsight it definitely would have helped.  It was like jamming the fall issue of Vogue through a one inch mail slot.  Ramming 500 hundred  fashion filled pages over and over until it squeezed through…certainly not in one piece and not in any readable condition.   My heart was racing and I was panting like a small dog.  Then I would hold my breath and think…why am I panting? Why is my heart racing?  I don’t remember how long this lasted.  The sweet, soulful love making that the music foretold of was perhaps just a notion or guideline to which he need not adhere.  I don’t think I slept when it was over.  He snored without hesitation.  It was done.  I did it.  Finally.  That’s it?  

    The next day I made pancakes for the four of us.  My gentle lover complained that they were not fully cooked in the center.  They weren’t.  They were dark on the outside and raw on the inside.  I was a novice at sex and pancakes.   

    When I got home I remember this feeling of accomplishment.  I wore an ‘I know something you don’t know’ grin.  I felt like Eve must have sitting under the tree of knowledge post apple…So, that’s what all the fuss is about?  There was no date number two.  As a matter of fact I don’t think I had sex again for at least a year.  It was with someone I was in a relationship with and did so for a while.   It wasn’t much better than this incident the first few times we were together but I remember being far more relaxed and happy.  And eventually it got better…and so did my pancakes.  My pancakes are flawless now.   And if I were having sex now it would be flawed but better than pancakes.