He was a virgin. That was something I’d sworn I would never do. It felt so sex negative, judging someone based on their virginity. After all, it was a social construct that really meant very little. However, I just couldn’t bring myself to deal with the responsibility of being someone’s first let alone the awkwardness and having to be patient with someone learning.
Okay, I admit it: I’m selfish. But I’m okay with that, and I’m fine using that as my excuse not to sleep with virgins. So how exactly did we get on the topic of this virgin?
Now, I didn’t know he was a virgin at first. He was a reasonably good-looking guy I scrolled past on one of the many dating sites I frequent. And by frequent, I don’t mean that I troll them for NSA encounters. I’m not opposed to them, but if that’s the kind of mood I’m in, it’s Tinder for me.
So I see this guy who isn’t totally offensive to my eyes and whose profile has better spelling than a middle schooler. I flick through his photos and see a couple of tattoos and decide that asking about his ink will be my ice-breaker.
Flash forward a few weeks and daily messages. The conversation is fun, and I think I might actually want to meet him, and I never would have gotten this far if he had advertised his virginity. It wasn’t something he wanted to brag about, and I understand why. People like me would have looked right past him.
But I did look at him and the idea that maybe I want to meet him has crossed my mind a time or two when I sign in one night to see a picture of his newest tattoo, an intricate tribal-inspired sleeve that shoots right down his perfectly-sculpted bicep, flows across his arm and ends right below his fingers. I may be a sucker for ink, but his artist definitely had skill, and the design was done well even if it wasn’t something I would have chosen for myself.
So I express my admiration for this new tattoo while wondering what exactly that arm might look like with his fingers buried in my cunt, and he takes me by surprise by offering to show me in person. It was certainly an offer I couldn’t resist.
A few nights later and we’ve sitting across from one another at my favorite dive bar. It’s a quiet night, with a few rough-around-the-edges trucker types and a pair of barely-legal patrons who are taking turns picking top 40 hits on the jukebox.
I’m surprised I took note at all, to be honest. This guy, the virgin, was even better looking in person. His hair was artfully tousled, and he wore a pair of glasses he’d neglected to post photos of. That was quite all right with me, however; I’m a sucker for a guy in a nice pair of specs.
We do the awkward introduction thing, but the ink conversation gives us a good excuse to talk about something, anything, other than the weather. But it doesn’t feel forced like all those terrible first dates I’d been on in the past. He seems genuinely interested me, smiles often and teases me the way guys do when they’re attracted to you. I can tell I’m blushing. I can’t help it, but I’m not sure I want to, either.
We sip a few drinks, volley questions back and forth and make commentary about the other customers. He, as it turns out, likes little dives like this, too. I nod approvingly as one of my favorite Bad Company songs comes on the speaker, and my head begins bobbing to the music.
He surprises me with a completely casual comment about how he’d always wanted to have sex to the song. I’m pretty sure my ovaries are singing his praises, and that’s when he says it.
“But I’m a virgin.”
I try to pass it off that this sexy, flirtatious guy with ultra-hot tattoos has somehow avoided having sex. I’m sure my lack of a poker face did me no favors, but I tried to hide it by taking a long drink from my glass.
He’s obviously accustomed to negative reactions, and he rolls with it, segueing into a question about my own tattoos, which we have somehow failed to remark upon. I show him the symbol of my favorite singer on my forearm, and a spiderweb lace piece on my shoulder while talking about my plan for a black-and-white sleeve on the other arm.
I mention the sugar skull on my left thigh, regretting that I’d worn jeans so he won’t be able to see it, but he doesn’t miss a bit as he grins mischievously and asks if I want to drop trou in the bathroom to show him. It’s so hard to believe he’s a virgin.
While I certainly would have declined that invitation had it come from a stranger at the bar, it didn’t seem quite so odd coming out of his mouth, and his charm was irresistible. I downed my drink and we made our way to the bathroom, trying not to be obvious in a bar with only a handful of customers.
There’s a strange sort of anxiety I feel about virgins, and it certainly reared its head as I wiggled out of my jeans. I wonder if this was the first time he’d seen a woman undress in any way, or if he’d perhaps had heated make out sessions with a former fling that just never lead anywhere.
Under the unflattering bathroom light, my tattoo comes into view, and he seems to take it all in while the last few notes of the sexy song faded away through the door behind me. I take a moment to myself, trying to quietly exhale while his inquisitive eyes were on me.
But then they are back on my face, and I am reaching to pull my jeans up from around my knees. This wasn’t part of his plan, it seems, as he steps forward, pressing my back against the door and leaning down to kiss me fiercely. It’s unbelievable, the type of chemistry I am feeling with this, this, virgin.
It was like electricity courses through his mouth, straight to my lips, jolting across my tongue and igniting throughout my body. If I’ve ever considered breaking my virgin rule, this was the best reason I’d yet had. And if he were to bend me over that grimy bar bathroom sink, I would have my legs and braced my ankles while greedily taking every inch of his cock.
He doesn’t. I knew he wouldn’t, so why is it that his hands have pushed my jeans further down my calves? Why would he carefully lift one foot out of the leg of my pants? And why is he leaving the other entrapped? The swirling has barely stopped from our kiss. Now, my head is swirling with other thoughts.
I don’t know if everyone else experiences it this way, but when someone’s mouth and tongue first make contact with my clit, it’s like a switch flips. There are no more thoughts. It’s feeling, it’s energy, it’s adrenaline and it’s noises that can barely be qualified as human, but it’s not about thinking.
So when he pulls aside my panties and pushes his tongue between my folds against my clit, I’m not relieved that I had worn underwear worthy of showing someone else. I’m not thinking that we’re in a dingy bar or that the bartender, a friend who willy surely give me hell later, has likely noticed our extended absence.
What I do is sigh, my chest heaving with the effort, gasp and allow him to lift my free leg over his shoulder. I lean back to support myself, ruffle my hand through his hair, and let this near-stranger swirl his tongue around my clit and lap at my body with wide, soft licks that cause my legs to quiver.
I bite my lip to stop myself from moaning loud enough that anyone in a two-block radius could hear me, and I push my hips toward my new friend as he adeptly slides three fingers into me, my most sensitive parts surrounded by my body. His tattooed arm, just like I had imagined it, stretches out between my legs.
His mouth and his hand work in tandem, as my body threatens to give out beneath me. For a brief moment, an image flashes in my mind of the bathroom door breaking behind me and us tumbling out, me with only one leg in my jeans and him with his hand up my cunt.
But his eager attentiveness to my needs quickly snaps me back to the present, and I press his face against my body with renewed vigor. As best as I can, I grind my cunt against his face, glasses be damned.
Now, I may be lucky that I can cum easily, but there’s denying that this guy is damned good at what he was doing. It’s one of those moments that feels like it both takes a lifetime and is over in a heartbeat, but I’m sure it’s no more than a few minutes before I am cumming — shuddering and nearly collapsing against him as only the muscles in my pussy seem able of working correctly for that brief moment.
And then he is done, sliding the fabric of my panties back across my vulva, lifting my jeans back up to my hips and buttoning them as he leans into me for another fiery kiss, the taste of me still on his mouth. I can feel him, his hardness and heat, as he presses his body against me.
Sure, he might have been a virgin, but he won’t be one for long.
