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Regretting My First Time Wasn’t With A Girl Who Thought I Was The Sun and Moon.

by Arpad Nagy 6 months ago in Teenage years · updated 6 months ago

Standing at the threshold of the Promised Land when the ground beneath me fell away.

Photo by Alejandra Quiroz on Unsplash

I would love to tell you I was a confident, popular, ahead of my time stud back in high school. If that were the truth, I would likely have knocked the dew off my lily before graduating. Instead, I was an outlier, and my approach to girls came from my father’s directions.

He would tell me things such as;

“Look at the girls no one looks at.”

“The pretty girls aren’t only the popular girls.”

“Girls aren’t trophies. So don’t treat them like it.”

“Never pass up an opportunity to make a pretty girl smile.”

“Get to know a girl. Listen to her. Seduce her mind before you think about her body.”

That last one has proven to be solid gold.

I’ve just recently learned the term “demisexual,” which means that I need an emotional connection with someone before I feel sexually attracted to someone. It all starts with the mind. Show me a woman with an intelligent, witty, sassy mind, and I’m halfway there. I am 100%, demisexual.

I took my father’s advice earnestly back in the day and have never ignored it since. My father had charisma and charm in spades. A Hungarian who made his way to Canada after the 1956 Hungarian revolution, his natural talent to pick up languages (he spoke five) made his English very good. However, he still carried the slight European accent that made him sound cultured, smooth, and suave with his rich, pear-shaped tones. His ability to flirt seemed effortless and second nature. He adored women, yet as far as I can account, he remained faithful. He simply loved, loving women.

Many of those traits were handed down, and now, as I approach the age of his final years, I too can see why he was so constantly inspired by the beauty women hold. I am in awe of women, and the most attractive quality a woman can have, for me, is a sharp and playful mind. Everything else is just a bonus.

And so it was, back in high school, that I maintained a “good guy” relationship with the popular girls, but I wasn’t bad enough, big enough, or cool enough to get much further.

* * * * *

My focus shifted to the wallflowers.

I was intrigued by these smart girls, with pretty but plain faces buried in books. The girls who were the first to raise their hands in class. The girls who dressed down instead of up. Popular girls were cool and carried that “status” in the silly world of high school, but the smart girls?

They were mysteries, and I was curious.

All these years later, I still remember “Sandy.” Her hair was jet black and held in tight, natural curls. A very slender frame that traded voluptuousness for sleekness, Sandy didn’t stand out and was far too determined to be top of the class than showing off, yet, despite it all, she couldn’t hide a fantastic ass. It was a seriously cute bottom with hips that couldn’t help but sway that way when she walked by.

I began showing her attention, and the first surprise was that she was not a shy, fragile introvert. She was the opposite. She was a bubbling volcano just waiting for someone to watch her burst. I had never seen eyes so dark and yet in a constant eruption of tiny fireworks. When she pulled her nose out of the textbook and gave you her smile? Wow! This girl lived with joy. She was excited when absolutely nothing was going on. She was radiant, and with her small features, sharp cut jawline, high cheekbones, and delightful petite nose, she was a rock star hiding in a library.

* * * * *

We lived close to one another at the top of our mountain town and shared walks home where we talked the whole way about everything except that feeling that was palpable between us. Both of us were shy to say those first words.

Then, one afternoon, as we stood at the junction of the street that sent her south and me north to our respective homes, I looked at her and felt as though she were waiting for something.

I still feel a faint surge, even now, just recalling that moment.

“Sandy?” I asked.

“Yes?” she answered back, her hands held together and swinging gently in front of her waist.

“I like you,” I said.

“I like you, too,” she replied softly with a smile.

She was smiling. Looking right at me and smiling. I still feel a faint surge, even now, just recalling that moment. A girl looking at you like that? Keep your million-dollar lottery win. I’ll take that look that every day of the week and twice on Sunday.

I stepped in, took her hands in mine, and kissed her.

The ground beneath our feet turned to lava. From that moment on, we were on fire for each other. Sandy was amazing. Amazing! How had she gone all these high school years overlooked? I was stunned into a storm of emotions for this girl.

* * * * *

We “went steady” with both of us vigorously proclaiming the wonderful qualities in each to friends who were suspect of our affair. We were smitten and bitten with first love. Teenage hormones raged, and we felt brave and brilliant, sharing our ideas, stories, and romantic desires with one another.

We stood on the precipice of taking that final step and doing “it” and, Lord, we wanted each other, and we did everything but.

Sandy was my first third base. My first frantic, breathless, lustful dive below the waistline. My first glorious introduction to the sweet treasure beneath a pair of panties. I still can’t say what heaven smells like, but my nose was buried in the orchards of Shangri-La and my lips tasted the fruits of angels. We both learned what an orgasm was, and we only wanted more of that delicious euphoria.

* * * * *

Then I knocked it all down and broke Sandy’s heart.

I still haven’t been able to forgive myself for that. Sandy did nothing wrong. She thought the sun rose and set with my words and fell asleep with the memory of my touch on her skin.

My mother watched us closely and disapproved of the direction Sandy and I were heading. While my father was an open romantic, our house was run with strict rules and staunchly repressed sexual ideals. She called my father in to intervene.

My father came down like thunder. What was okay for him, as an adult, as a married man was one thing but acting like a man while still a child? In his eyes, was something else entirely.

I was forbidden to see Sandy any longer.

“Nothing good is going to come of it,” my father told me. My mother interjected herself into the conversation like an apparition that suddenly materialized from the kitchen, an apron on and a wooden spoon in hand. Then her shrill voice was in my ear, and her lectures were long. But, my father’s word was law, and he wasn’t to be challenged. He told me that the only thing left to do was for me to walk to Sandy’s house, take her aside and tell her it was over.

* * * * *

I had to tell her honestly and face-to-face I wouldn’t be seeing her anymore. I needed to say to her what my father told me. That we were too young, and we didn’t understand the things we were doing.

And I had to do it right then.

To make sure I obeyed my father’s instructions, he would walk with me to Sandy’s. He told me to expect things to go badly. He told me that a man can never predict how a woman will react when she’s told something she doesn’t want to hear, much less accept.

He was coming to make sure I did what I was supposed to do, and if necessary, he said he would go and talk to Sandy’s father to explain.

On the dark green wooden planks of Sandy’s back porch, in the shade of the massive pines in her backyard, I held Sandy’s hands, and with tears in my eyes, I broke her heart and watched as the tears from her eyes washed out the lights that had danced for me.

Sandy didn’t say a word.

Her dainty fingers held my face while she kissed me a dozen times, then simply nodding her head, she stepped away from me, back into her home, took her coat from the wall and rushed past me, then headed to the end of the street and down onto the trail leading into the woods.

Sandy’s mother felt her daughter’s anguish, jumped out to call her daughter, then watched her flee with her fingers to her lips. She looked at me standing there frozen to the space where I hurt her daughter, returned to the house, and called her husband.

By the time Sandy’s father was at the back door, I was walking away from the backyard, and my father was walking up. So I stood there, at the end of the alley, as the two fathers spoke. Sandy’s father nodded, and then they shook hands and parted company.

My father and I walked in silence for some time. We didn’t walk directly home. Instead, my father took me up along the forest road and into the woods. The silence was as heavy between us as our footfalls on the pine needle carpeted forest path.

Finally, he said to me, “You won’t understand it now, but this was the right thing. You’re not ready for that or for what comes after. You can do everything else with a girl, but you can’t do that. Not yet. You’re not a man, and doing that won’t make you one.”

* * * * *

When I finally did cross that last boundary, a few years later, it was with a girl I dated briefly years before, back when I first learned what a French kiss was. It wasn’t bad. It was still exciting, and then, as my father had said, everything else changed.

I only wish it had been with Sandy. I’m almost 50 years old now, and I can count on one hand the number of times a girl has looked at me the way Sandy did.

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Thank you for reading!

Teenage years

About the author

Arpad Nagy

1st generation Canadian-Hungarian

Father, Fly fisher, Chef, Reader, Leader, and working on writer.

Feedback appreciated anytime. Tips always appreciated.

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