Here goes. Number one.
The first time, the cherry pop as it were.
It’s true that no one will read this very first post from a brand new blog, although it may receive a quick glance by accident from people searching the tagged phrases. So be it. With this blog I am going to bring my various experiences under scrutiny and under the watchful gaze of well, hopefully some people at least.
I will be blogging as a South African, a gay man, a medical student and a human being. I hope that some may learn from my life or simply end up giggling at how ridiculous this all seems. All of that being out the way, it feels like an anecdote is in order.
The first time. I’ve heard that the first time always hurts. Luckily for me, my first time couldn’t hurt, in the same way it couldn’t hurt a straight man. Not only did it not hurt, but it was not by any means romantic or very exciting, it was rather bland, and so was every consequent meeting of a sexual nature with my boyfriend at that time. See, I was 17 and had never dated anyone with their own apartment, it was new and pretty cool. This man was a good four or five years older than me and beautiful as only high school romantic idealism could imagine. It was splendid and it was going so well. One weekend a few friends and I decide to stay over at his apartment. The first night, giddy with our new found adulthood, we all go out on the town and even pay security a bribe to let the boyfriend’s little sister get in to the local drinking hole. Needless to say, our adulthood did not stretch to our senses when it came to what was an appropriate amount to drink. After partying maybe a tad too hard. We go back to boyfriend’s place and one thing leads to another. Without sharing too much or being too crass, things were over pretty quickly, or at least, for him.
Ah. The memories. The nostalgia. The awkward aftermath.