Inside Of You, The Restless Find Their Dreams, Inside Of You, This King Has Found His Queen, Inside Of You, All The Stars Unfold

--"Inside of You", Infant Sorrow

The first time I fingered a girl wasn't when I was high school. Sometimes I wish it had been because that's when it seemed a lot of people I knew had first experienced that particular rite of initiation. Like with many events in my life I blossomed late when it came to my sexual career. It happened when I was already the ripe old age of nineteen and well into my second year of college. Before then, I'd been limited to the confines of kissing--and polite kissing, at that--and the nether regions of heavy petting and unscrupulous making out. If you asked me at the time I would have told you that this was a conscious decision on my part, of course. I was saving myself; I was waiting till I was ready; I needed to wait for the right person--all the reasons sounded politically correct. Yet the truth was I wasn't forward enough to suggest such a step with people I was only casually acquainted with and I hadn't yet had a serious girlfriend that would make forwarding the suggestion more accessible.

It all came down to a matter of timing. I've never possessed much of it to begin with, and, even when I had it, it was always somewhat off. Like both my cousin and Breanne like to say, I've never had much game.

In another sense, though, it did come down to a matter of timing as well. Taking a look back, all the great relationships I've had--Breanne, Tara, DeAnn--have all involved me being with someone with great patience when it came to my sexual experience, young women who have all been blessed with that rare gift of true understanding that my lack of experience wasn't a conscious decision as much as a decision of circumstance. All the girls I went out before them either made me nervous with the great amount of experience they were willing to tell me about or they were in just as much of a rush to progress past where we were, who we were, as a couple. I don't know--in either situation I just wasn't ready to leap to their level of interest. Curious, yes? But if they were both swimmers who had already been to the deep end or were ready to dive off the high dive headfirst I was somebody still mucking around the shallow end. It put me off to be made to feel like I had to rush headlong into something I was still quite nervous about.

When it happened, again, when I was nineteen, it wasn't something either of us planned. It wasn't like we had penciled into our calendars "today Patrick will place his fingers inside of her." In fact, I remember we were both very careful not to do anything that we might construe as being forward and especially not anything that we might be caught at. I was still in her parents' house and she, at fourteen, was still in her first year of high school. Maybe that's why I always associate fear and some modicum of shame with sex because my first few stabs at it always carried the added stigma of being done with someone considerably younger than me. I sort of got in the habit of frowning upon it because that's what I felt like society at large would be doing in they ever knew, if not more. I started looking my desires as something to be hidden from most people because if I ever deigned to reveal them in full I knew there would be a cavalcade of individuals who wouldn't understand. Indeed, because of the whole age stigmata, it's always been truly difficult for me to even admit I've even liked a girl from the outset. I've always had to test the waters, so to speak, to ascertain whether or not they would even reciprocate my interest, for one thing. Then, I've always had to gauge the young woman's family to discern whether or not the difference in years would pose a prominent concern for them. Then, at the end of all this careful tiptoeing around, and only then was I able to fully reveal the depth of my feelings for someone.

Given the hoops I had to jump through to even say to someone, "hey, I like you," one can appreciate how much of a whole other headache actually getting to touch someone or connect with someone actually posed. It was like, there I was finally able to wrap my head around the conceit that I was finally with someone who wasn't weirded out by my looks, by my age, or by the fact that I had my hang-ups about both, and the only thing I could think about was how I'd never been to that step before. It was like there I was, to continue the swimming analogy, finally able to step out from the shallow end and clueless as to how to swim in the deep end because I never thought it was possible to leave the shallow end in the first place. I'd spent so much time on step one that I never even entertained the possibility of progressing through step two.

When the knock came on the guest bedroom door where I was told to sleep while I was there, I imagined we'd be continuing the kissing/exploring/discovering session we had while she'd been in the guest room with me. But when she told me to go downstairs with her because it "would be quieter down there" I knew I was in for something more. I hesitated. I admit that fully and freely. It felt like she was using me for something that I wasn't prepared to use her for. I was content playing it safe--of not actually penetrating her in any fashion--because, apparently, safe was more than I had had before. I'd never spent two hours in bed with a girl, spooning, touching, kissing, embracing--almost everything but anything that involved being inside of her. Safe involved learning there was to know about her body without actually entering it. As Lucy likes to put it, I was being the person who wanted to read up about a place with books and websites and testimonials and putting off actually going there for as long as possible. I just didn't think I was in that big of a rush. I liked safe. I didn't like "dangerous". And anything more than what we were already doing I considered dangerous.

I mean it's dangerous to allow yourself to move to a step of that immediate intimacy when in your heart you're still very frightened that it can be stripped away from you at any second. All it would have taken is her parents waking up, thus breaking my promise to them that we weren't fooling around big time, or for her to decide that the age difference did bother her and was a concern. All it would have taken is for me to get attached to her, to feeling what it's like to be let in that deeply (even if only with a finger or two) and for me to have gotten used to the feeling, and then suddenly have it taken all away from me. You can't feel the sense of loss for something that you never had in the first place; you can't regret something you never did. It was dangerous to want someone that you wanted in every way and had right from the second you met her and to fall inches short of going all the way. It was safer to keep things at a manageable distance that either of you could still walk away from and not be disappointed, or sad, or angry, or whatever.

I still followed her downstairs, though, because whatever she had planned was not something I could have ever said no to. Whatever my concerns, I still believe she was and is the right one for me. I would never say no to her--not for anything that matters.

When we got downstairs the fireplace still had its last few embers glowing. The pillows on the couch were still in some disarray from the time we spent watching television with her parents. Everything was covered in a weird greyish hue from the moonlight slitting in from the window. We dared not turn on a lamp. In fact, most of the next minutes were spent conversing in hushed tones and stifled laughter. We started on the couch where it creaked the first time we sat down, which we were sure was going to wake her folks up. We even waited far longer than we needed to to ensure that neither of them had been awakened by our descent onto the cushions of the couch. Once we had made sure the coast was clear, we pressed on like horny little soldiers.

It didn't take long for our shirts to be off. Shirts were always that comfortable border. They were easy to slip back on in a hurry if necessary and yet, with their removal, they afforded access to heretofore shores unexplored. Bras and other assorted articles of underwear were another matter entirely. I knew once we discarded those ten minutes later there would by no easy road to recovering them nor suitable explanation for her folks why we'd discarded them in the first place. I don't care how much I used to joke around about it, there would have been no excuse I could have given them that would have been either witty enough or plausible enough to escape a world of hurt and possibly a world of legal troubles. With all that riding on the simple act of disrobing, I'm a little surprised that I didn't balk more when the suggestion came up to "lose the britches". In fact, in certain conspiracy theories, there's enough evidence to suggest that the whole nudity decision had originated with yours truly and not the young woman in question. It's hard to determine such particulars so many years after the fact. Yet naked we decided on and naked we became. To this day I still remember the awe I had in both being able to see and caress her resplendent form against the failing light of the late night. Before that night I was a blind man feeling his way through the world. I got the general layout and knew enough not to get lost, but, upon seeing the land's many contours, I knew my days of fumbling around in the dark would forever be behind me.

She was beautiful.

And she felt beautiful.

She was like music given form.

And she instantly became my favorite melody.

At that moment I didn't care I was a whole school level ahead of her. At that moment I didn't care that I considered the thoughts I was having were evil. I didn't care about anything much at all. I went to work in getting to know the graceful being laid out in front of me. I wanted to have her. I wanted to own her. I wanted all of her to be mine. She was my treasure and I was prepared to cherish every moment of every second I had with her.

Time passed.

When she suggested we move things down near the fireplace, I was having a difficult time getting up off the couch. Not only was I sinking in, but with her nestled on top of me, I was having problems getting enough momentum to rock us both up off of it. Finally, she took her sweet time standing up, grabbed my hand, and moved us both to near the screen in front of the last dying cubes of orange the hearth held. Wait here, she told me. I felt a tad awkward standing in my nakedness directly in front of the main light source to the room, but all feelings were quickly pushed aside once I realized just how far I'd come in the intermittent minutes we'd spent on the couch. And, it seemed, the night was not over. She came back with a green and orange towel that I was too afraid to ask if she kept for such an occasion as that. Whatever its original purpose, when she laid it on top of the carpet a foot from the screen and then got on her back on top of it, I knew what purpose we'd be using it for that night.

"One good turn," she said simply and right away her message came in five by five.

Fingers are such funny things if you really think about it. They're slender from far away, but if you consider them one by one, they're all funny looking. Their curves move in and out along their length. They're bony at the joints, yet the skin directly above and below each joint usually has a lot of give. They're flexible when curled up in fist and when you're in the midst of the simple of twiddling them, but they can also can become quite rigid when you hold them stock-still. And each of one's fingernails has its own shape. No two fingernails are ever rounded the same or of the same length. Even from right to left one's fingers are not mirror images of one another; one's right hand thumb does not ape one's left hand thumb. One's index finger on one hand is often subtly shorter than one's index finger on the other hand.

All of these facts I considered as I slid my right hand index finger inside of her. Slipping the delicate moisture from in between her folds, it was kind of like testing a depth of a well. I kept expecting to running into some sort of obstruction, I kept expecting the next millimeter to be the end of the line. Even when I finally did reach the end of the line I had to rethink of just how shallow a woman can be. Then when twisted my finger around the edges I became more aware of the exact shape of the walls beneath her. Gone was the blueprint of a simple tube, to be replaced with something far more intricate and nuanced. With every pinpoint inspection of my fingertips she proved a willing host. Every slight jerk or twist of her face or back betrayed only a fraction of what I could only imagine she must have been feeling; every breath or sigh hinting only a morsel of what her brain was telling her to feel. The only physical reaction I could discern she was not in full control of was when I would slide my one finger out from her and I would feel all of her angle up to keep me from retreating completely. Then her thoughts would catch up with her body and she would pull down again to allow my exit. I would study her face for a few seconds to attempt to gauge her true reaction before pushing in again.

Once my thumb sussed out her clitoris the same time as I had my finger inside her was the next major reaction I noted. After that discovery there was a dramatic shift in how every bit of movement affected her. Slower, faster, harder, softer--I was able to measure every slight shift in her mood. Moving from joyous to frantic to frustrated to even funny; it was like I had found a remote control to every inch of her body through one access point from between the sheaths of her vulva. Twisting her face to the side, moving an arm this way, even straightening out her lovely legs all became a matter of pressing the right combination. More than anything, I didn't feel stressed about what I was doing. I didn't feel nervous. She had told me to open the gate to her playground and just have fun. It wasn't about going here or doing that. It was about trying all the equipment out in whatever order I fancied and, metaphorically, for as long as I wanted.

I wasn't nervous until she finally gave me instructions.

"Try two."

What the hell, I thought. There was no way two was going to fit up there. One was barely managing to tunnel through. I couldn't imagine the havoc I would cause two. I told her I wasn't going to do it. I told her it was like trying to fit two hot dogs into one bun. She laughed a little at that. Then she responded that she herself had attempted the double digits. Well, yeah, because your fingers are smaller than mine. There also a lot shorter than mine.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't hurt me. It won't hurt me," she assured me.

I admit, it felt weird at first. I felt like I alternately scratching her and shoving my way through. It was not comfortable for me. And when I saw her soft, little face grimace in what I could only imagine was pain, I stopped and pulled out. Are you alright, I asked. I'm sorry I hurt you. I won't do it again. She took my hand and guided my fingers back to where they had just come from. Once more, she said. I'll tell you how fast to go this time. I gingerly placed my index finger back to her opening. Slowly I then extended my middle finger as well. They both went up at a snail's pace. That's when she started telling me to slow down even further. Again, as soon as I started moving it delicately around within her, I saw the hint of a smile return to her face. She moved onto instructing me to twist my fingers a bit so that my index finger was almost on top of my middle finger. Now try, she said. Push them in there slowly but with some oomph behind them, she continued.

And I did.

And it was like I had broken through the Berlin Wall. It was a whole other world on the other side, a world that I had no idea existed from where I had been only hours before that night. I knew once I stepped across that particular line that it would only be that much easier to come back again later on.

----

Maybe fingering someone for the first time was never a big deal for most people. Theirs came and went like the passing of the tide, rushing out just as fast as it rushed in. But I always seem to hold the details of that night as succinctly as the first time I had sex. It's not only because it was the main course for the night in question, but also because I had all this pent-up worry about what I was doing and who I was doing it with. Sex for me has always carried additional weight of what it means for me in the world at large and not just the world that existed between me and the young woman I was with. I've always had to run whatever I did or whatever I wanted to do through all the angles and through all the possible repercussions. It was never just about fulfilling a need, but fulfilling a need safely and without any kind of unfavorable outcome. The fear associated with sex was never a simple one about doing it wrong or not liking it. My fears always ran to liking it too much and what liking it said about my proclivities. I was always afraid what kind of a person I would be if I admitted to anyone that I liked with whom just as much what kind of sex I was having.

I think that was the first night I finally figured out that I'm always going to be the person I am. I'm always going to have the likes I have and that there was no use in being ashamed of them or regretting them in the least. It didn't mean I had to be stupid about it or go looking to announce it to the whole universe.

But it also didn't mean I had to hide it from whomever I was with at the time.

And it didn't mean I had cause to deny it myself either. We are what we are or, more succinctly, as Lucy likes to say, "I can only be me--no more, no less."

Not even a finger less.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers