The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

I vividly remember the “first time.” It encompassed so very many firsts all in one compact little bit of time and space. There was the first touch of soft skin on the tips of my fingers, the first feeling of breasts in my hands, nipples pushing against my palms. The first sight of an arched back and the feel of my lips against another’s, culminating in the single most eventful evening of my life until that point.

It was a hot and humid night in Tokyo and I’d flown thousands of miles the week before to set my eyes upon a girl I’d met online nearly a year prior. It was not your typical love story of two girls meeting in college and falling for one another during their women’s studies class. No, this was more taboo and filled with more half-truths and unknowns than the average lesbian sexcapade.

Whatever brought me to that tiny room one spring evening is long forgotten, but what lingers is that feeling of excitement in knowing that this was the moment that would make or break me; the moment that was at the culmination of years and years worth of sexual frustration, questioning and confusion. This was going to be everything I’d both feared and longed for.

The first kiss we shared was soft and warm and inviting. I felt the corners of my mouth curl up in a grin as my lips pushed against hers. While she’d thought I’d been more experienced (we met online in what was a flurry of lies and deception, only half uncovered in the months leading up to my arrival at her door) the truth had been that she was my first everything: first kiss, first touch and first love. In my fumbling I was sure she could tell, but she never let on and I wasn’t about to let it stop me.

I buried my head between her thighs and felt the taste of a woman on my lips. My entire body was suddenly on fire with excitement and nervous tension as my tongue traversed the slippery wetness of the woman before me. My hands crept over her skin, feeling her naked body as it pulsed and gently writhed. My ears perked up to the sounds of her soft moans, moans that were responding to my tongue reaching for every last crevice. Minutes passed with growing fervor before she pulled me up from between her thighs and somehow managed to get on top of me. I looked on as she straddled my leg and began grinding, growing ever more excited with each push against me. My hands reached for her and pulled her down onto me as she let out one loud gasp and groan. Her body stiffened and weakened almost all at once and she lie atop me breathing heavily, her face buried in my neck.

I smiled bigger than I ever had, victorious in my first sexual conquest and victorious in my lesbianism. I had kissed, touched and made love to a woman for the first time. This event would define not only the next few months we would spend together, but also the years beyond where I’d never again question if the whole “gay thing” was right. I was complete, not by her (as she would prove over and over again) but by the discovery of a part of myself that I had denied and pushed away for so long.