I Still Remember the First Woman I Slept With.

Cosmopolitan magazine once had a poll for guys: do you remember the name of first girl you slept with?

Well, I remember the names of all the women I slept with. As of October 2001, there have been a grand total of eight. (And two of those were one-time affairs because both women ran-off after morning broke.) And of November, 2001, this number changed. That might sound like a lot, but understand: like many men, I often go a few years between sex partners. I spend much of my time in a sexual desert. Most women, on the other hand, live in a sexual rainforest: they get so many offers for sex on a daily basis that it becomes an irritant.

Women say "oh, men only care about one thing..." Well, that's because a lot of men don't get as many chances to enjoy sex as you do, princess. Furthermore, every woman likes to think of herself as great in bed... my experience tells me that that it just aint so.

This accounting of mine isn't because I have a ledger of conquests that I boast about to guy-friends: it's because that I've always been careful to store all of my sexual experiences in a special part of my memory. I've made it a point to remember who they were and the circumstances under which the experiences took place because I attach a high sentimental value to it. When I share my sexuality, I consider it to be something meaningful and worth remembering. Whenever I get intimate with a woman, a little piece of my identity always stays attached to her- for better or for worse. I should also indicate that the number 'eight' could've been as high as eleven, because I've also politely turned-down three women who had asked me for sex (one of whom was already married). See? I'm not only interested in sex. (Please understand that as time progresses, I'll be adding updates... since the time of writing this, I've met several other women with whom I've been intimate. Oh, and two of the three single moms who offered to have sex with me? EvilGuy accepted their offers...)

This will be the first part of a small series showcasing the women I've shared intimacy with; in many cases they turned-out to be living lies who promised happiness, but couldn't deliver. This is not going to be porn! If you're looking for a story in which I bang a cheerleader on a desktop, shouting "Who's your daddy, bitch?!" then you're going to be sorely disappointed.

I think that most women have totally separated intimacy and sex. For a lot of women, sex is what you do to keep a boyfriend or motivate him to do things. Intimacy and sex are intertwined in my mind; it's the ultimate consummation of a man's longing and desire for a woman. Naturally, women don't see it that way anymore, they see male sexuality as something that's irritatingly omnipresent, cheap and meaningless. It's something that they'll deign to let a man enjoy- if he can meet her requirements. She considers male sexuality to be worth less than a plugged nickel, because she knows she can get it anywhere.

I'm not sure why Cosmo asked this question. Are they operating under the idea that guys are ribald, unromantic pigs who screw everything that moves and thus don't remember their first time? That guys don't have two brain-cells to rub-together, much less remember the first of their million or so sexual conquests? I really don't get it.

Most women I've slept with have had more previous partners than I did at the corresponding time... The second woman had sex with at least three other guys before me. The third woman: at least four other guys. The seventh: nine before me. Eighth: (Lying Whorebag) at least ten that she'd admit to, but I think the actual figure was higher than twelve. One woman even had the privilege of sleeping with enough men so that she could lose count!

But maybe I read too much into their polls: it's only Cosmo, fer crying out loud, not the Oxford Literary Review.

Well, I remember the first girl I slept with. Blech. In fact, I remember too much about her. (Out of my head! Out of my head!)

Number One.

Well, it was my second year of college. In February, most of the college students took a Valentine's Day questionnaire asking all types of personality questions. The forms were fed into a computer and the confidential results were returned to their mail boxes. I participated just for the hell of it, and my college was small enough so that we could do that sort of thing. I looked at my list... Number One: Harriet.

I didn't know who she was and I was curious to find-out. And I wanted a girlfriend more than anything.

Chuck, my roommate... he... was kind of nice. He was somewhat overweight. He had an odd, nasal voice. He had no fashion sense. But he still hung-out with me. Or maybe I hung-out with him. To this day, I can't tell which one of us took the initiative to hang-out with the other.

I was ultra-lonely that year: my roommate had a girlfriend, Kristen... a nymphomaniac of a girlfriend, in fact. I dunno what it was... Kristen was screwed-up. She wasn't operating on all four cylinders. She had emotional issues. But she *loved* sex. Sometimes, she'd jokingly point-out that I never got any. Har-dee-freaking-har. Well, at least I didn't lose my virginity when I was thirteen; that's not something to brag about, honey. At least I didn't spend my high school years stumbling-around in a haze of weed-smoke. She was kinda... trashy.

So, Chuck, my Pillsbury Doughboy of a roommate is getting it almost constantly. I felt like crap. I felt lonely. I felt less attractive than my roommate, hell I know I'm more attractive than he is!

What the heck is wrong with the women on campus?? They're out dating total dicks, and I'm spending most of my spare time alone! Seriously, in my freshman year, one guy on my floor, Brad, was one of the most enormous assholes I've ever met in my life. He was a bigot, an open cold-sore on the lip of life. He was a pathological waste of human skin and treated everyone around him like garbage. He also happened to be athletic and good-looking so I don't need to tell you that he always had a line of women practically waiting outside his door. I once questioned one of them about her attraction to him, pointing-out his more obvious bad qualities.

She replied. "Yeah, he's mean to people and he's kind of a bigot and I don't like that. But *Shrug* oh well..."

So, Back to Sophomore Year...

I'm online one night. I look-up what university users are logged-on to the network. Oh, Harriet is on. Maybe it would be a good time to introduce myself? The Valentine Day's date-o-matic said we were 89% compatible.

I send her a message: "Hi there... just wanted to send a message to someone at random."

She writes back. "Hi... why me?"

I type-back: "The key word was 'random'. This dubious pleasure falls to you. Congrabulations, honeybun!"

We start chatting online. I invite her over for the next night to watch X-Files.

The next night...

I'm waiting outside my dorm for Harriet. Waiting, waiting. It's kind of chilly. It's dark, too.

Finally, a figure approaches in the darkness. Harriet? Ugh.

She was... she was... distasteful.

"Harriet?" I asked, unhopefully.

"NiceGuy?" Yup, it was her. It looked as if someone had stepped on her face and kept right on walking.

Still, it would be rude to not follow-through on tv-watching. I invite her up to my dorm room. We watch X-Files. (This was back when it was fresh. Back before the series began to suck.)

"Wow, Krycek is about to betray Mulder? Who'd have thought that Krycek was a backstabber? What a rat-boy."

Chuck and Kristen walk-in. She is hanging-off him like an oversized pendant.

"Oh, hi NiceGuy! It's X-Files night, innit?" Kristen asks. "Who's your girl?"

I introduce Harriet to Kristen and Chuck.

"Well, since you two are busy, I guess I'll just have to fuck my sweetie over in my dorm!" She giggled. They left.

Okay, that does it. With one, swift motion, I lock the door and I put my arm around Harriet. She looks nervous. I kiss her. Her lip is trembling.

"Are you okay?"

She nods.

"I won't do anything you don't want me to. Okay?" I tried to use my most soothing, comforting voice. She nods.

I decided years before that if it would ever come to my first time to have sex... I wanted to do it right. No pressure. I wanted the woman to know that I was safe to be with. I wouldn't ask her for sex, but I'd let her know that I was available if she wanted it.

We kiss. We grope. She struggled-off with her shirt and I start to kiss her breasts.

Wow, the first pair of breasts I've touched in 16 months! (The preceding times, it was with Tricia, my high school girlfriend. Tricia didn't go to my high school by the way, so she was actually nice. We only went-out for 5 months before I left for college, until November of my freshman year. She was the girl who I worked-out for in the gym that year.)

I'm excited as all get-out as I caress Harriet's bosom. Wow, I'm actually touching breasts, and they're quite substantially-sized too! She seems paralyzed. I'm not sure why she's not acting like she's enjoying it. Well, fine. I don't want her to think that I'm only after sex... I let her have her shirt back.

"Thank you for letting me touch you." I smile. She nervously nodded and put her head on my shoulder. We snuggle. "I hope I didn't make you upset." She shook her head.

We watch the rest of X-Files, and I bid her farewell for the evening with a hug and a kiss.

Sad Story

Some months later, I found-out why she was acting the way she was. She'd lost her virginity not more than a month before: she'd been raped. She acted 'paralyzed' when I kissed her breasts because she'd been petrified with fear. Not only that, but a second guy boxed her in the temple earlier that week and forced himself on her. She was just getting-over a concussion the night I met her. Yeesh.

(Sometimes, I really hate males. By the way, neither of these two assholes were students at the college, and they got-away with what they did to her. She'd never reported their assaults until they were long-gone. They got-away scot-free. Part of me wishes they'll get stomped to death by amphetamine-crazed bikers some day. The poor girl was in therapy for years. Post-traumatic stress disorder is a bitch. By the way, I met Harriet several years before I got desensitized to rape entirely.)

With Harriet, (Dun-da-da-DUN!) Captain FreeTherapist put-on his cape and cowl on a twice-weekly basis. *HUZZAH!* Until I began to get sick of it. She was a black-hole for emotional support... a singularity of crippling emotional trauma so densely-packed that not even the NicestGuy can escape it. I'm not a professional therapist, yet she expected me to somehow augment the professional help she was seeking at the time. I couldn't handle this. Aren't I allowed to enjoy myself, too?

Some months later, she told me that she was relieved I was gentle and caring with her. She said that if I'd tried to be more forceful in having sex on her that first night, it probably would've been the last straw. She said that if I'd tried to have sex with her, she'd have been too terrified to say no... (and then, I might've been arrested on rape charges! It's a good thing that I wasn't planning on going all the way with her!) At best, she said she probably would've been afraid of men for a long, long time. I was the first guy who treated her as if she mattered. (Her words, not mine.)

It wasn't until several years later that she said something profound to me: I, Captain FreeTherapist, single-handedly cured her fear of males.

Think of it! Captain FreeTherapist! A hero? Get out of town!

But, Anyways, this took place before the constant whining about rape completely desensitized me to it...

Harriet and I, we had sex later that year. Because of her experiences, I'd never asked her to have sex. Here's how it went: in May of my sophomore year, she told me that I'd proved that I was wonderful. I was gentle. I was there for her. I gave her support. She felt safe with me. She said that I made her happy and she said she'd be comfortable sleeping with me. Since I was going to be going to Taiwan next year, she said she wanted me to remember her. I would be the first guy with which she'd willingly have sex.

For me, it was nice but it wasn't great. She... she said it was great. She often orgasmed multiple times when we had sex. After the first few times, she really began to enjoy it with me and began to want it regularly. But Harriet... well, I'll be bluntly honest. She wasn't good looking. On a scale of 1 to 10... with 1 being the folklore toothless hag of the woods and 10 being an airbrushed supermodel... On a good day, Harriet managed maybe a 4.

I know, I'm being shallow... but I'm also being honest.

She had moles and body-hair in the weirdest places. She had a large scar between her breasts (from a heart operation). Her hair was frizzy. She was the clumsiest person I've ever met. Just... ugh. I know, I'm being really shallow. Her younger sister, on the other hand, was a freakish picture of beauty. Her sister was at least an 8.5. How does that possibly work? Genetics can sure be random sometimes.

Harriet's personality, although sweet from time to time, wasn't totally stable either. She was a manic-depressive. She had the PMS of a banshee. She was co-dependant. An innocent little comment could hurt her feelings. I'm positive that people made fun of me behind my back because I was dating her.

Oh: she'd never let me look at her rear, either.

Maybe If You're Good, I'll Show You My Cyst

One time, when we were nekkid in bed, I grabbed the sheets and began to pull them off her butt. She grabbed the sheets and yelled.

"NO! Don't do it!"

"Why?" I smiled. "Do you have, like, a third eye down there or something?"

"No... it's... I don't have a nice butt." Well, I had to agree. Through her jeans, her rump was formless. Like bread-dough.

"Come on! Tell me?" I insisted. "I won't make fun of you."

"Okay... um... don't tell anyone, all right?" I nodded. She took a deep breath. "When I was thirteen, I had.... a pilonidal cyst."

"Oh. A what?" It sounded kind of gross.

"It's just a growth, okay?! I had to get it removed or I might've been paralyzed. And there's a big scar on my butt and I don't want you to ever see it, all right?!"

"Okay. I won't look if it'll embarrass you." And I never saw her butt.

Afterwards...

I went straight to the library. I picked-out a medical reference book and looked-up 'pilonidal cyst'. I started reading, and there was even an enlarged picture-

"Gah! Mother o' God!" I stepped back; I put my arm across my face like Nosfaratu being hit by sunlight. I slammed the book-shut with my free hand. "Jumpin' Jehosophat! That's... just... just... sick!" I shook my head to get the image out of my mind.

It looked like... Jabba the Hutt's prostate... with matted clumps of hair all over it! Eek!

Time Passes

Eventually, I kind of want to disentangle myself from her. She's just... not my type. It bugs me because I feel sorry for her and I don't like hurting her feelings. And- I know it's not her fault- the thought of a certain ass-growth gives me the willies. Maybe in future relationships, she'd best keep the exact nature of that info under her hat.

I mean, women regularly dump guys for extremely shallow and capricious reasons, so why aren't I justified in doing the same thing? Why should I be held to different standards? What's good for the goose is good for the gander. If a woman will reject me because I'm not good-looking enough, then why shouldn't I be expected to do the same? The reason I seek out a relationship is for fun and stability, not for me to stabilize someone else for no fun in return.

That Didn't Go Over Too Well...

At the end of the school year, I quietly say that I'd like to break-up because I'll be abroad next summer. She bawls. And bawls. Yeesh. There's no nice way of doing this! Do you think this is easy for me?

"I'll still write to you! And I'll be back senior year. And, hey, maybe you'll meet someone else while I'm gone?" That doesn't console her.

"Why the hell did you start a relationship with me if you knew you were going to leave next year??" She cried. She called me a jerk. She said she felt betrayed. In fact, she says that she hates me for not liking her more. I apologized as best I could and bid her farewell for the summer with a hug and kiss.

Study Abroad

Next September, I went to Taiwan for my junior year. I sent her an email from Taipei wishing her well. Maybe I shouldn't have given her my email address? She starts writing me regularly. She hasn't let go of me yet.

Her emails were long, rambling. How much she missed me. How much she wanted to be with me. How depressed she was that I wasn't there for her. How awful she felt...

It got to the point that whenever I saw an email waiting for me in my mailbox, the first thought to go through my head was 'Jeez, what's wrong now??' Getting mail from her was a sure-fire depressant. It was 100% joy-free. I was hoping that she'd try to have fun with her friends in her sophomore year.

In More Recent News

It's been a while since I've graduated from college. I get an email from her every now and then, and I'm glad to say that her emails are a lot happier in nature nowadays. Based on what she says, I think she's doing just fine. She's in her hometown and got a job teaching in a public school. Every now and then, she still says she wants to meet a guy like me.

Anyways... the point is, I remember the first girl I slept with. For better or for worse.

I wasn't happy with her: she depressed me. She constantly brought me down. She was clingy. I had little physical attraction to her. She expected me to be her emotional crutch, and being a crutch is no fun at all. Sigh.

You know... I'm convinced that the two guys who attacked her before I met her really screwed her up for at least a few years. I had to help clean-up their mess. Damn them. I bet you anything they don't remember her name.

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You've read-about One, that is true; continue now to Number Two.

In case you're curious: a pilonidal cyst is a localized collection of pus or a chronic draining sinus located in the opening between the buttocks muscles, in an recess near the base of the spine. This cyst may have a deep cavity containing a collection of sub-dermal hair and debris. The cyst may create running pus discharges through the skin and may cause paralysis below the waist if it becomes infected. And yes, it looks as gross as it sounds.

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