My memories of our encounter are fragmented into snippets of heavy petting and bra-flinging, but I do remember one thing clearly: going down on her.
I was 22 the first time I ate pussy.
It kind of came out of nowhere (pun unintended). I was under the influence of about seven or eight Smirnoffs (the budget-conscious uni student’s choice drink) at the time.
One moment I was chatting to a girl from class – let’s call her Jill – leaning against the door frame of a stranger’s bedroom (university parties had a way of ending up at random people’s houses; to this day I don’t know whose doorstep it was I vomited on at The Great House Party Of ’04, but if you know who I am, I’m sincerely sorry for your pot plant); the next, I was falling into bed with my legs scissored around her, sans underpants.
How we got there will forever remain in the black hole of booze-destroyed brain cells, but I do have a foggy memory of looking at her lips as she spoke, standing in the doorway, wondering what they’d be like to kiss.
We shared several classes together and had always been quite friendly, and though I’d admired her beauty before, it was an envious kind of fascination, rather than an attraction.
Jill was opposite to me in almost every way. Short and voluptuous, with waterfalls of vibrant copper hair. I looked dull in comparison, with a limp over-straightened dark bob awkwardly draped over my spotty face and a chest that left me questioning if I’d actually undergone puberty.
And, as someone who’d previously only dipped my toe into the waters of vanilla hetero sex, I was intrigued by the possibility of her.
