Sexy Storytime: First Touch.

 I was 17. 

She was 42. 

She was my best friend, Latte’s “cousin.” A term loosely used for relative of some sort, or even a close family friend. Michelle was small, had short hair, and was visiting from the US. She had a cutesie thing about her. Her carefree sophistication indicated that she was in her 40s, but her face and built would confuse you. She was divorced and her 9 year old son was somewhere with some grandparent or another. She was here to party. She loved alcohol, she loved dick, and she loved mischief.

I guess this post isn’t really about what happened, since the actions itself were not that remarkable. It’s more about how I experienced it as a 17 year old, and the way women are made to feel about their bodies. 

I’m very happy it happened the way it did. To be frank, anytime someone touched me after that, it fell short. It’s 20 years later, and still that’s the best anyone has ever touched me. It makes sense, though. An older woman is bound to get it right, unlike some fumbling dude in his 20s. Plus, her hands were smooth and velvety. 

It was late afternoon and the three of us were already inebriated. Latte liked to keep her room dark. She was a Scorpio, that way. Charming but introverted. Could read people like a laser, and preferred not to be around them. 

Anyway, the time did not matter because it was night time in the room. Some 2000s pop was playing. Michelle put her arms around me and started making out with me at some point. These weren’t my first kisses, and I was laughing through them. I didn’t see it coming, but went along with the playfulness. 

Before I knew it, I was lying on the bed. Michelle’s lips moved from mine to my neck. Her fingers slid down my underwear, and I gasped. This experience was foreign to me. 

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked,

“Just enjoy it,” she guided. 

No one had ever had such deep access to me before. It was all delicious, but I was too excited to know how to process it. Plus, Latte was still in the room - unaware, eyes closed and dancing away. 

“Oh, Honey,” Michelle said, “You’re so wet,” 

I paused a bit in embarrassment. I didn’t know that was a good thing. She continued until sobriety hit me and my eyes sprung open. I remembered that I have my period. Thick pad and all, the works. Shit. Did she notice? Maybe she didn’t. I wouldn’t tell her. If I didn’t mention it, I might get away with it. 

All of this probably didn’t last more than four minutes. Michelle went to wash her hands. My face was all tingly from the aftermath. 

“I have my period,” I confessed, 

“I know,” she said. I was relieved she didn’t care. 

If only I’d known then, that my secretions were nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, they were to be celebrated. And how a woman’s wetness is a man’s highest honour. I hope this story helps more women in realizing their worth and wonder. 

Michelle was wonderful. We went back to our old dynamic of being friends. We kept it private between us, but when I told Latte a few days later she made fun of us for 16 whole minutes.