First Love by Rebecca L. Brown

We used to swap stories, swaggering on the spot as we boasted about the smooth, tanned legs we’d spread the night before. Tits like melons filled our minds as we gestured – this big; this round. Last night, we told each other, her long, smooth legs were wrapped around our waists. I closed my eyes and imagined how she would have felt, the way she would have tasted, if I had taken their place with her.

I used to think that I was the only one who lied.

How could something yielding and feminine be so frightening? Woman was an undiscovered place, both alien and familiar. Something which I seen but had not yet been allowed to touch – or perhaps to taste. That fear – it was a different kind of fear from the one which drove me into fights and – ultimately – out of school. I grew my hair long to hide the way I blushed and tucked my hands in my pockets where the fingers could coil together nervously.

The first time was nothing like our stories. She was a pale, pasty girl with nervous eyes and doughy skin. There was no flirting, no perfectly delivered chat-up line. I blushed at her from across the room and she darted at me like a moth towards a beacon.

When she invited me to go upstairs, I followed. The only desire I felt was to get it over with, to lose the thing which set me aside from the others. She was a means to an end and I used her to get me there. She was a tunnel to the light at the other side.

She was drunk, I think. Her hands were clumsy as she opened my jeans. When she climbed on top and started to move, her breasts flapped against her ribcage, a mole poking out from underneath the left one sprouting a curious hair.

The weight of her crushed my ribcage and I arched backwards more from instinct than anything else, thrusting my hips up against her. She gasped, leaned forwards, crushing her tit-flaps against my face and guiding one nipple to my mouth. The stubble on her legs grated over my thighs and I closed my eyes and thought of the women from our stories. She was barely on me before I finished. She left in a hurry after that, carrying her shoes in one hand and her dignity in the other. I lay there for a while longer, pressed down into the sweat-sticky mattress by the weight of discovery.

In my stories, though, she was a goddess. I licked her hard, red nipples (tits this big) and pleasured her all night and into the morning. They jeered as I described the faces she made (once, twice, three times…), clapped me on the back and passed round the bottle.

In my mind, though, I had no illusions. I could see her fixed smile and the desperate longing in her eyes to find something that I couldn’t give her. I don’t remember her name now. I not even sure I ever knew it.


Rebecca L. Brown is a British writer. She specialises in horror, SF, humour, surreal and experimental fiction, although her writing often wanders off into other genres and gets horribly lost.

© 2012 Rebecca L. Brown