Today we’re highlighting our very own Rebecca Goodman, who hails from Connecticut and is working here at Trixie Films. One day we were talking about teens and sex (as we often do) and she told us she had sex for the first time at 15 and had no regrets. So we asked Rebecca to get real about the trial & error, pain and pleasure that came along with having sex for the first time.
I was only fifteen when I lost my virginity to a sixteen-year-old boy. Let’s call him Steve. He was my first boyfriend and I was his first girlfriend. As such, neither of us had any experience, and yet it was magical: little candles lit the room, soft music played, he kissed me tenderly, and we both orgasmed for the very first time.
Just kidding. It sucked. A lot.
When I first learned about sex at nine years old, I was, like any other kid, completely grossed out. My mother explained intimacy to me in a scientific and matter-of-fact manner.
Mom: The penis fills with blood, becomes erect, and enters the vagina. Upon orgasm, sperm comes out of the penis and swims to the egg. One sperm out of millions fertilizes the egg.
My thoughts: Ew, gross! Stop telling me this. (A pause.) Wait a second…you and Dad did what?
And like any kid, I thought that I would never, ever do that. But the time came when I felt very strongly about someone. Steve was affectionate, funny, smart, and I trusted that he loved me. I have never been religious, was not planning on waiting until marriage, and was emotionally and physically comfortable with Steve, so why not? This sex thing was what people did when they loved and aroused each other. And of course, there was the matter of curiosity.
I confess that I didn’t know what a condom looked like, and I was a teenager just before the time when everyone began Googling everything. Due to my conservative health teacher’s vendetta against premarital sex—said teacher also brought in a guest speaker to lecture about the evils of abortion—I was completely ignorant to matters of birth control. Luckily, Steve had had a proper sex education, so he showed me all about condoms, right down to leaving enough space at the tip for the sperm so the condom won’t burst. When Steve first ripped open the little square package, I learned that condoms are not made of fabric, as I had imagined, and it suddenly made sense that sperm wouldn’t leak through.
Sex at fifteen and sixteen was a secret between Steve and me for the time being. To this day, it’s not something that I readily admit (oh wait, I’m writing an essay about it). My instinct was to be embarrassed. When I was eighteen, that instinct was reinforced when I traveled to London for two weeks with a group of young women. My non-virgin status came up in conversation one day, and a fifteen-year-old girl couldn’t believe that I had first done it at her age.
“I can’t even imagine,” she said, aghast. Her reaction stuck with me like glue.
Another time I was having ice cream with my cousin and his friends and the subject of virginity came up. I said that I had lost mine early, and was planning to leave it at that, but my cousin’s girlfriend asked what my age had been. I lied and said sixteen. She said that she’d been the same age and gave me a high-five. But then I felt bad about lying and added that I’d been having sex for quite a while by then. Awkward laughter ensued.
My parental units were also informed, thanks to a false pregnancy scare. On one occasion when asked about my virginal status, I had gone so far as to look my mother in the eyes and lie. But when my dad asked I was sick of lying and told him that, yes, I was sexually active with Steve. I was not disowned, as I expected. Dad wasn’t even surprised and took me home so we could tell Mom and all have a talk. (Mom wasn’t surprised either.)
But how did the actual act of deflowering first happen for me? The idea was born when I asked Steve if he felt ready to have sex, because I did. He smiled as a tent instantly formed in his pants. A little later, we got naked, I lay down, he put on a condom, and tried to push into me…
And then, holy shit, pain. I pulled away from him. We didn’t get it done on our first attempt. Or our second, or our third. Apparently my body disagreed with my brain’s readiness. Every time Steve began to push into me, I yelped in pain and shoved him away, repeatedly telling him to stop. Going really slowly didn’t work either, because he would just go limp. I don’t recall how many times we initially tried and failed, or how many condoms we wasted. Eventually, to solve my painful dilemma, we positioned ourselves differently, he shoved his way in on the count of three, and then immediately withdrew. I snapped my legs shut and curled up in pain. I wasn’t even sure whether that counted, as Steve hadn’t climaxed (and obviously, neither had I). It was like we were half-virgin, half-not.
The next time was neither painful nor pleasurable for me, but he climaxed, and that’s when I started to officially say that I was no longer a virgin. And that was my “magical” first successful time.
It took a while before I started to feel any pleasurable sensations. I would just lie there under Steve and wait while he did his thing, like a pincushion being prodded over and over again. One benefit was that tampons suddenly fit much more comfortably. But time after time, it was, just lie there and wait for him to finish, and hopefully I’ll feel something aside from pain at some point.
Then, finally, something did feel good as I lay there. Just a little sensation, at first. It grew as we practiced. But never once did I orgasm.
I knew from masturbation what orgasms felt like, and hence I was disappointed to discover that I am one of the many girls who can’t orgasm by intercourse alone. Steve and I used other methods to bring me to climax. But I still enjoy the sensations that do happen during intercourse.
I’ve never regretted having sex at age fifteen. Though we were both extremely young, Steve and I had a rare kind of first relationship in which we were committed and in love; we stayed together for four and a half years and are still friends.
Oh, and as for what became of that little chat I got to have with my parents, well, Dad wanted to clarify a couple of things…
“Does Steve always pull out while he’s still stiff?”
“Do you need condoms?” To my horror, Dad reached over to his night table, opened the drawer, pulled out a handful, and offered them to me. As my jaw dropped and I lifted my hands to refuse them, he studied them and realized that they were expired. Would I like him to run out and buy me some more?
Oh. My. God. No, Dad, even as young as fifteen, I was capable of buying my own condoms.
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