a first out of mind

Having, as I’ve stated before, a kind of mania for firsts, it can hardly be surprising that I have duly narrated a series of initial events in a sundae bar of flavors—masculine salty goodness, feminine umami tastiness, and other fruity delights. I have recounted my first blow-job, my first anal, my first this, my first that. Rarely have I narrated my last, but my lasts seem to fade into a crimson emo haze like the final shot of Gone With the Wind.

I have a memory for inaugural experiences. I can recall my first day of every school I’ve ever attended (nine, if you care to know). I can recall what I wore on my first date with Donny over three years ago and where we went and what we talked about on the way there. I remember the first time I ever ate Duck à l’Orange and how much I liked it.

One. One. One. I nearly compulsively count my life in a series of firsts, as if I’ll run out of them, and I suppose some day I will.

Which makes it strange that I cannot recall the first time I came with a person. Sure, I came with Armand when he condescendingly applied his hair-dryer-like vibrator to my teenage clit in his tiny apartment, but that hardly counts as actually coming with another human. It was more like I was a bug pinned to Armand’s seedy poly-cotton sheets, and he observed my coming with the detached distance of a scientist. I came less with him than for him. Anyway, in my mind, it doesn’t count. It doesn’t count at all.

I know exactly who it was that made me come more with than for. I can hardly forbear giving his full Semitic name because it is a gloriously descriptive one. His first name is an adjective, his last name a combination of an adjective and a noun. It’s a beautiful name in its lubricious puissant grace—it’s one of those names that you cannot believe parents would actually opt to saddle a child with—and as much as I’d like to offer it to you like an amuse bouche, I must not.

Ok, his name was Randy. That’s as much as I may give you.

Randy was his name. He was a groundskeeper at this awful Newton, Mass condo development where I was spending the summer of my sixteenth year as an au pair to this just awful divorced woman and her rather sweet, if dim, child. Randy was the one bright shiny spot on my otherwise depressing summer horizon. This woman whom I was working for was narcissistic to the nth degree, vain and stupid, always going on about the length of her legs and the depth of her tan. She didn’t work, and yet she needed me, a fulltime nanny. It was fairly deplorable on many levels. Fortunately, I found Randy.

He had a Jew-fro and a Yes t-shirt. I didn’t know what Yes was. It read to me like he was answering my question before I even asked it. He tied his fro into a reluctant submission with a bandana and he sweated glistening rivulets over his tanned skin. His nose was big and he was older than me and I was immediately entranced. I didn’t have to work that hard to seduce him, but seduce him I did.

Almost before I knew it, we were making out in long elliptical sessions on the deep white shag rug of my employer the nights she was out with one of her series of terribly gold-laden boyfriends. Almost before I knew it, I found Randy had stripped me of my terry romper shorts and my rainbow t-shirt, and almost before I knew it, I was succumbing to Randy’s big-haired, big-nosed, receding-chin charms, and almost without remembering it, I know I shuddered my first orgasm under the methodical ministrations of his mouth.

Sitting here and writing this piece, I can nearly summon bits and pieces and details to this first. I can almost create a seamless narrative studded by exactitudes that very nearly convinces me I do remember this first in its entirety. I can see the tiny stalactites of the condo’s blown ceiling; I can visualize the bobbing of Randy’s hair between my adolescent thighs. I can feel the tip of his tongue nudging against the tip of my slit. I can nearly fabricate a whole out of these scraps.

But these bits and pieces and details I summon to mind are untrustworthy. They happened at one time or another, possibly all at once, but I can’t unquestionably ascribe veracity to them—not the stalactites, the bobbing afro, the parted tan teen thighs, or the nose on the slit. I cannot, like Tristram Shandy’s wounded Uncle Toby, put my finger on the map and say, there, there exactly is where it happened.

It happened, though, I know it did, for I fell into a love of sorts with Randy. We “dated” for two years, a word I must put in quotes for to “date” me then was to assume a kind of open relationship (and anyway we lived four hours apart) because I fucked whomever I wanted. I still fell in love with Randy, and I know that he made me come with his mouth, and he did so consistently, and he did so enough that I knew finally that I could come with another person, even if I can’t exactly recall coming with him.

I do remember this: I remember the first time I ever spent a night sleeping with Randy, which was, parenthetically, the first time I ever slept with a man. I was visiting him for the weekend at his college in Amherst, and after a long night of drinking and eating and probably fucking, I wrapped myself around him to sleep.

He promptly pulled himself away. “People don’t really sleep together like that,” he said, “it only happens in the movies.” Somewhat chastened, I retreated to my side of the bed. I stayed there, carefully, sleeping as conservatively as I could, while Randy slumbered on beside me.

Not much time later, I discovered Randy was wrong. (Donny and I sleep wrapped together like a burrito, entangled as wild roses, enmeshed as chain mail.)

I don’t know what happened to Randy—I imagine him with a receding hairline and a small middle-age paunch somewhere with grown kids and a tiny McMansion, but he could be dead or fabulous or something else. I wish him well, wherever he is, even if I can’t exactly recall why.

Comments

[Kristin]

Brilliant!

His name must've been Randy Longtongue or ... Sorry, I lose myself. I must read this again. Thanks, Chelsea.

[chelsea g.]

Kristin,

Funny, but no. And it wasn't "Goodhead" either.

kissykiss,
chelsea g.

[badinfluencegirl]

rofl

now i feel like i should make up a name for him just for the honour of commenting. hrm let's see...

erectrod?
eagertongue...

lol

[Marcelle Manhattan]

Origins and orgasms are both pretty mythic in status, aren't they? No wonder the stories of our "firsts" get constructed in hazy hindsight, like History looking backward. Now that you mention it, though, I don't recall the first time I came with someone, either. I can recall more mature milestones, like my first multiple finish or the first time I squirted. But my initial tremor of sociosexual satisfaction? I'm afraid I'm drawing a blank.

Very enjoyable and absorbing story. I love your details! Newton, Mass., is such a great setting for the event, and Randy-Who-Must-Not-Be-Surnamed is delightfully described!