Fresh out of high school and desperate to be rid of my virginity, I strode down the beach in my black bikini. I didn’t work out, but I had a flat stomach and a nice round ass like most girls at eighteen. The bikini was just cheeky enough to make you wonder if I wanted the attention. My boobs were small but lifted and only bounced slightly as I walked. My long brown hair hung loose and wavy, from the salty breeze. Not a hint of bikini stubble showed. I went to great lengths to make sure everything, even my asshole, was completely smooth.

I’d been tanning nearly every day since school let out, chain-smoking weed on the chaise lounge while binge-watching shows on my laptop. Tanning was a bit of an exaggeration because I mostly just freckled. If enough freckles clumped together it could be a tan, I thought. Regardless, I barely left the house so what were the odds I’d get laid? Practically none.

Sure, there’d been a couple of close encounters: the guy on my teen wilderness trip who I sucked until he made me stop because “it was hurting,” the stoner I smoked with the next street over. He had erectile dysfunction, or maybe it was performance anxiety. Then there was that guy from band class. Anyway, I was painfully shy and debilitatingly awkward. I’d need someone to really show me how it was done.

It was sunset and the drum circle would start soon. I should probably turn around and walk back, I thought. I didn’t regularly attend these sorts of things but I was trying to put myself out there. Maybe there’d be someone for me.

Then, there he was, like a surfing Adonis, his profile illuminated by the setting sun. He had the typical surfer body, all lean muscle and tousled brown hair. He sat and gazed off into the distance with his topaz eyes contemplating his deep surfer thoughts. His yellow lab lay beside him.

As I got closer I could see he had ten years on me at least. But this was certainly not a deterring factor. I didn’t have a good opener so all I said was, “Is your dog friendly?”

He responded with one of those smiles that go all the way to your eyes. He may have been stoned, but that was also more of an intriguing than deterring factor.

He mentioned being an instructor and how he liked to just sit and watch the sunset after surf class. A romantic, I thought.

In order to appear mysterious and cool I ended the conversation quickly, but not before putting my number in his phone.

When the text came asking me to come over, I giddily accepted. My parents waved out the door as I rushed to the car, my dad calling out, “Don’t forget a condom!”

He lived in a carriage house in the quaint historic beach town of Sag Harbor.

We exchanged greetings and I took in the space, noting the sparse furniture and kitchenette. It was clean. He kissed me with one of those knee-buckling kisses, grabbing my ass with both hands. I felt a wetness like I’d never felt before between my legs.

He rolled a joint, lit it, and passed it to me. I knew what to do. I inhaled deeply, but not too deeply, and passed it back. This became our before-sex ritual.

I sat down on the edge of the bed tentatively.

He pulled off my sundress, as I raised my arms over my head, then my bra and underwear, and then stopped briefly to admire me. He removed his own clothes, and I salivated at his appearance.  He had those ab lines pointing like arrows downward and in toward that thing I’d yet to fully experience.

He picked me up by the waist like I weighed nothing and placed me further on the bed. There was no going back now, no pretending I just came to talk or to go for a neighborhood stroll. I was going to be fucked. Dicked. Shafted.

I’d been warned the first time might hurt a bit but the last thing I was going to do was let on that this was my first time. No, I was an experienced woman.

He leaned over me, kissing me, his arm and chest muscles flexing. He smirked that classic fuckboy smirk. Maybe he was a boy but to me, he was a man.

“I’m going to fuck you now if that’s alright.”

“Yes, that’s alright,” I managed.

When he entered me it didn’t hurt. It was actually quite pleasant. He started slow but went deep.

The main question on my mind was what I would do with my hands. I’d seen some porn but do I just let them hang there? No. I’d have to grab at his back or his head or something. But after a while I found it was very intuitive and I had no reason to worry. I couldn’t be very self-conscious as he was slamming himself into me; I could just hold on for dear life.

“Good girl,” he growled, continuing his assault on my pussy.

I’d only ever heard that phrase in reference to a dog. Still, I swelled with a strange mixture of shame and pride.

He pushed my legs above my head so that he could have better access. I’d never felt so exposed.

While certainly not a monster cock it was plenty big enough to satisfy me. It brushed against my asshole as I straddled him on top, so I figured, Might as well shove it in the ass, show him I’m a freak. Guys like that, right?

I’d been practicing taking whole vibrators in the ass, so it wasn’t painful. It just slid right in. It was even pleasurable. I shouldn’t like this so much, I thought as I lifted myself up and down on him. He helped, his hands gripping my waist, my boobs.

This is too good, I thought, as I came, shuddering on top of him, my hand steadying myself on his chest.

He came in thick spurts on my stomach, then diligently wiped it all off.

He kept me at a distance and was quite clear from the start that he was not looking for a relationship. I wasn’t one of those girls who thought “I can change him” and I never questioned why he didn’t want to do this or that. He’d mentioned that he was in N.A. or A.A. or something like that and I wasn’t going to pry. I was also in no place for a relationship, having recently come out of my latest stint in a psych ward.

I never slept over. I always drove home whether it was 10pm, 12pm, or afternoon.

It was with him that I realized I loved sucking cock. Not only was it comforting, a nice warm dick in my throat, but with each bob of my head I’d get wetter and wetter. It was more soothing than a cup of tea.

The man didn’t care if I was on my period. He’d go down on me nearly every time, and I’d be a convulsing quivering mess before he even put it in me.

“I’m on my period.”

“Well, then let’s make a fucking mess, Rebecca.”

Sometimes I’d angle my head up so I could see what was happening. I’d see his shaft going all the way in and out of my cunt like my own personal porn channel. ‘Big dick surfer guy bangs mentally unstable girl.’

“You like to watch my cock fucking your pussy?”

“Yes, I like it,” I said between thrusts.

There was a moment where I could feel my brain shut off, and I didn’t have to do anything, just let him arrange me into different positions and accept the sensations.

Soon it was all I could think about. I’d be in the car driving to my class and I’d get a flashback to a night or two ago and I’d just need to cum. I’d tuck a heel under me and start grinding into it as I drove.

He had some signature moves, one where he would rub the length of his cock up and down my slit for what felt like forever all the while making me beg for it. He wasn’t going to put it in unless I was begging hard enough.

What started as a timid ‘please just fuck me’ quickly progressed to ‘fuck your whore, all my holes, fucking split me in half with your cock.’

He often leaned down or gently turned my head to kiss me mid-fuck.

It was so simple, but my whole body melted just a little.

“Are you one of those nymphomaniacs?” He asked one night after a particularly wild session.

“What? No. Maybe?” What I really wanted to say was, “You did this! You did this to me, you fucker.” If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be salivating out of my pussy at just the thought of a cock like some Pavlovian dog. I wouldn’t even know what a cock felt like inside me. As if it were my idea to start skipping meals because nothing could taste as good as his cock and nothing could fill me up more than a long and thick dick.

In actuality I’d been dealing with eating disorder stuff for a while before then, but it was just a good new excuse.

People said he should want to take me out, should want to date me properly. They might have been right. But how I saw it, he didn’t have to love me. He just had to want me and need me and I know he did. I could see it in his eyes when he greeted me. He didn’t want to be so dependent on my showing up, but he was. He knew he should be dating someone closer to his age, someone he could see a life with. But he craved me, my body, my voice, my mouth and the way I looked at him even though it scared him. And that was enough.