The 19-year-old Virgin Ch. 01

I was that rarest of all creatures, a 19-year-old virgin, in my sophomore year in college. It had started with a silly pledge to my 8th Grade girlfriend that we would, you know, "save ourselves." And, somehow, even though she was a distant memory, that pledge had stuck.

I mean, look, I'm not really vain but I've been told by those whose judgment I trust enough times that I'm good-looking that I accept it. When I look in the mirror I see Mr. Average, and I am that, that's for sure. I save a lot of money by buying the display clothes off of the mannequins when they change the display. I'm 5'10" and a 38R. I weigh 165 pounds and was a swimmer and a long-distance runner in high school, not a wrestler or football layer. In the mirror I see a nerd with dark hair combed back in a style that would have worked in the 1950s.

So I was surprised when she came on to me at a party at a friend's house.

If you've ever been to college you know what I mean. But if you haven't, well, Frank had a house off campus. His dad was rich, well, rich enough that he bought the house and Frank drove a beautifully restored Fiat 124 Spider.

I digress.

Frank had a house, a big old two-story thing about a block from campus. Actually, three stories I guess because the basement was finished. And while I'm kind of a recluse, Frank is the ultimate outgoing guy. When we went somewhere together it would be like he knew everybody and I might know somebody. But we were friends, roommates actually during that first year when we were required to live on campus in the dorms, and he included me in his parties.

So there I was. A Friday night after-midterms party. There was a keg of beer in the basement, a pool game in progress, some folks shooting darts against the wall, and his zillion-dollar stereo was blasting out those oldies he liked so well. I had talked to the few people there I knew and had joined a circle for a while where a bong was being passed around.

I was a bit drunk and quite a bit high in other words.

I was sitting, well, leaning against a bar stool and watching as the pool game progressed. I was thinking that I would challenge the table and give pool lessons next when I felt her hand on my shoulder.

"Dance with me, handsome," she said.

I knew her. Well, I had met her.

I struggled and found her name, Carla. She was a bit older than the rest of us, by which I mean she could buy beer legally. She certainly didn't qualify as a "cougar," but I imagine it was her who signed for the keg.

She was a round woman. Short, what my art teacher would call Reubenesque although no Rueben model ever had boobs like hers, and cute rather than pretty. Her hair was very black and very curly. It framed a round face with wide-set brown eyes, one of those noses with a little bulb on the end although in her case it was cute, and a very generous mouth with full lips that would NEVER need botox.

"Dance with me," she said again, her hand extended.

So I took it and let her to the postage stamp-sized dance floor in the corner. There was another couple dancing.

One of those high-voiced male singers from like the 1950s was singing. Bobby Somethingorother I thought, singing something about "Blue Velvet."

But it was nice and slow and I liked that she didn't do the two arms around my neck thing like we were in fucking high school or something. We danced in the classic slow-dance position, her right hand in my left, my right hand on her waist, and I noticed it was a well-padded waist, and her left hand on my shoulder.

I'm actually a good dancer and I started with a simple box step. She followed well and before long we were doing a pretty sweet waltz.

From the whiny-voiced singer the music went to Jerry Lee Lewis doing "Great Balls of Fire," and I swung her into a Jive dance.

She whooped out a loud giggle but, again, followed nicely, her skirt, and I liked very much that she wore a skirt and blouse to the party, flared nicely when I spun her and I liked almost as much the flash of bright blue panties, matching her blouse, that peeked out when I did.

As the dance ended she was sweating a little and I liked that too.

I held her hand and didn't let her leave the floor. I could have kissed the stereo when the next song up was Elvis Presley doing "Blue Hawaii."

This time she DID do the two arms around the neck thing, and I liked it. She felt good as she molded herself to me and she felt even better under my hands as we danced and I explored her back.

After that song ended, we sat and actually talked.

She was interesting, the first Fine Arts major I had ever met who didn't have her head so far in the clouds, or up her ass for that matter, as to be something I considered an idiot. She could talk about many things and, more to the point, could talk about them in more than bumper sticker philosophy. She was anti-gun, a position I generally find idiotic, but she could discuss it reasonably. Well, anyway she could support her positions with facts and figures.

She surprised me with a wholehearted agreement when I asserted that "Fast and Furious" was a wonderful movie and, excepting the idiotic "Tokyo Drift" the whole series deserved a place in the Movie Hall of Fame, presuming there is such a thing. We laughed together at the antics of the 18-year-olds who drank too much.

"Would you like to come up and see my etchings?" she asked with an absolutely straight face making me chuckle.

"No," she said, "I'm serious. I have some etchings."

And I figured, what the hell. It's not like I knew anybody at this party and Frank was probably engaged.

I looked around and, sure enough, he was holding court in the corner, a sorority sister on each arm.

Well, okay, it's not like they had ΣΔΩ or something tattooed on their foreheads or anything. But they had the look and the uniform. Blonde hair. Dark eyebrows. Pink lipstick. Too heavy blue eyeshadow. White blouses. Short skirts. You get the picture.

I caught his eye, waved, did the thumb and little finger thing held to my face, the universal symbol for "I'll call you," and turned to Carla.

"Okay, beautiful," I said, "I'm all yours."

She looked at me, doing that one eyebrow raised and pursed lips pulled to the side thing only a woman can pull off, and said, "Be careful, David. I might take you up on that."

I smiled and offered my arm.

"Walking distance or did you drive?" I asked.

She did the hand held our flat and rocking thing, this time the universal symbol for, "so so."

"Okay," I said, "we'll take the truck."

I always had a Surburban, since my parents had taken me quarter-midget racing. This one was eight years old, the GMC Yukon version, but it ran well, was in good shape, had very little rust, and I kept it clean.

"Oh my God," she said when I opened the door, "It's a goddam school bus."

I laughed and said, "well, not quite, but if I am ever evicted I DO have a place to sleep. And it IS paid for."

I held her hand for the big step onto the running board and then up into the passenger seat.

"Whew," she said, sitting in the passenger side captain's chair, "I'm pooped."

I laughed as I got in, fired up the big 6.2-liter engine, and then my fancy Kenwood stereo, my one big splurge.

I put on my favorite blues playlist and started rocking with Howlin' Wolf doing "Smokestack Lightning." Nobody can really sing along with the Wolf.

She gave turn-by-turn directions to her apartment, an apartment house that would have been comfortable on the cover of Architectural Digest in 1950. It was tall, eight stories, and slightly concave with a parking lot behind it with designated spots. She guided me to one marked "Visitors."

I liked that she waited for me to go around and open the door for her.

She stepped down, almost regal, looking damn good if we're being honest here, and kissed me.

I liked that she took my hand as we walked to her building.

I liked, very much, the kiss in the elevator on the way up to her eighth-floor apartment.

Okay, I was smitten, and I couldn't help thinking, "could this be the one?"

Her apartment was a very feminine place with big-eyed puppies and kittens featured prominently on the walls. But it turned out, there actually WERE etchings.

One wall was reserved for very fine line art drawings, her etchings, featuring, well, Reubenesque female figures.

As I was looking I felt her fingers lightly stroking my arm, sending goosebumps all over my body.

"You like?" she asked and her mouth was close enough that I felt her breath on my cheek.

"They're beautiful," I said.

Her fingertips on my arms were making me a little crazy.

"Would you like to see the real thing?" she asked.

"Yes," I managed.

"Hold that thought," she said and there was a giggle in her voice but it was husky too.

I felt more than heard her leave and I kept staring at those etchings. God DAMN, but they were beautiful.

I really have no sense of how long I was standing there, looking, enjoying.

I smelled that sweet, burning leaves odor of pot and when I turned she was right there.

She was smiling and offering me the big bomber joint and I took it, hissing the smoke deep into my lungs along with cooling air.

She was a vision.

She had on a filmy, very blue, very sheer, well, I don't know what to call it really. A "veil?" It was like she was draped, completely, in a gossamer cloak.

Everything was covered and nothing was hidden if that makes any sense.

The bright blue panties she wore, and they were big, what I think of as "granny panties," and almost iridescent, showed up clearly, as did her dark nipples and areolas.

The pot took hold almost immediately, it was VERY good pot.

And the kiss was good too.

She felt good in my arms.

And something deep inside insisted she know.

"I've never, before," I said, softly, "you know," I breathed.

Her eyes got big.

"You're a virgin?" she asked.

I smiled, a wan smile I guess you'd call it.

"Yeah," I said for want of anything better to say.

"Oh. my. God," she said, each word a separate sentence.

Then she molded herself to me and THAT kiss was even better than the first.

She stepped back, suddenly, holding me at arm's length.

David," she said, very serious now, her eyes doing that flicking thing some people do as they focus on one eye and then the other.

She took a deep breath and started over.

"David, I want you. Hell, honey, I want to be your first. But I also want you to be certain. So how about this," and she paused to draw a deep breath, "tonight we'll sleep together, we will do anything you want EXCEPT that one little thing because I'm going to leave my panties on."

She giggled a little at, I suppose, the way my face fell.

"Then, in the morning," and she paused to kiss me lightly, "if you're certain, I will gladly accept the beautiful gift of your virginity. Fair enough?"

I didn't exactly answer. I just kissed her.

It was shaping up to be a pretty fucking wonderful evening.

[Author's note: I have said, in other places, that many of the stories I write are, at least in part, autobiographical. This one is. It is in the "romance" category advisedly. I would have married Carla (no, not her real name) if she had said yes and she WAS my first. So this story won't get, well, "kinky" as most of mine do. But if you enjoy a simple love story complete with the "good parts," leave a favorable review and I'll continue it. I'm just now sure how well it fits in Literotica, you know?]