Where it happened: in my apartment
Langauge: English
Sex: Male
Rating: 9
Category: Straight
She was my classmate in the _________ School of Law in Metro Manila. Not
the kind of girl who immediately haunts your dreams from your first sight
of her: a small, flat-chested mousy girl with thick glasses, tiny nose and
mouth, a year older than my twenty-two years when we met. I’m of average
height, and when she stands next to me she comes up to about the top of my
ears. Whenever she wears her hair in a page-boy style, she looks a lot
like Marcie, of the Peanuts cartoon strip. She has a fantastic memory, and
is just as smart as the cartoon Marcie. So although her real name is the
sweetest sound I will ever know, I’ll call her Marcie.
She helped me through law school. I made heavy weather of it for four
years, and without her constantly coaching me I couldn’t have graduated.
Some time in the second semester of the first year, I proposed to her, and
after “taking it to the Lord in prayer” (“Lord,” she asked, “is he the
one?”) she said yes.
But all throughout our relationship in law school we never got beyond
chaste kissing. She is very religious, while I am a lapsed Catholic. I
respected her decision as to how far she would let me go, primarily because
I was deeply in love with her (and still am). Although the Philippines is
changing fast, especially when it comes to young people’s attitudes to
pre-marital/non-marital sex, Marcie could not shake off the old-fashioned
attitudes of our parents’ generation. The other part of it was that I’m
terribly romantic, and I always wanted my first time to be special, with
someone very special, which isn’t that strange considering my background
(I’m illegitimate).
So we both graduated in 199___ (she was third highest in the batch, while I
just about made it), and then we buckled down for the bar exams. Around
this time we were seriously discussing marriage, but for years she had been
afraid that her parents would disapprove of me. So she never introduced
me to her parents back in her home province of Leyte, though they knew
enough about me all right; while on the other hand I had no one to
introduce her to (my mother is in the States, and my father, whom I’ve
never met, is now a Taiwan-based executive).
The results came out in the national newspapers several months after the
bar exam, with all those various papers carrying photos of the top ten
examinees on the front. Marcie’s picture was the first. I congratulated
her, and even dared to hug her tightly in the presence of other people when
we saw this. But when we both looked for my name among the successful
examinees listed in the newspapers, there was nothing.
She started to cry, and I did my best to make her feel better, so that I
wouldn’t fall prey to feeling sorry for myself. Four years of my best
effort – and hers, too – with nothing to show for it. The day that I would
finally make her my bride receded into the horizon’s vanishing point.
We went home to my Makati apartment, not very far from the law school, and
for the first time she seemed comfortable about being alone there with me.
My phone kept ringing – probably people looking to congratulate her and
trying to reach her through me. I did not answer. So she shut off the
phone’s ringer, so that we could both talk.
Perhaps it was the tension that held us tightly together, the doom and
gloom that charged the very air around us, eventually to break out into
lightning. I’ve heard that sometimes people greet the news of the coming
of war by throwing everything to the wind; it felt almost that way as
Marcie and I tried to forget, if only for one day, that there was a world
beyond the two of us, and on that one day we arrogated unto ourselves
privileges that we still think of as marital prerogatives.
There, in the stark light of the buzzy overhead fluorescent lamp of my
apartment, she let me kiss her, closing her eyes behind her glasses, and
when I bravely let my hands roam on her body through her clothes, she
stiffened and yelped through my kiss, but did not lift her hands to fend me
off. I pushed my tongue deep into her mouth, which was the most she would
allow me until that day. I ran my fingers through her short hair, ruffling
it horribly, but neither of us cared. My heart racing, I put my hand on
her crotch, and despite there being the thickness of her jeans and panties
between her and my hand, she instinctively put her knees together; then,
realizing what she was doing, opened them wide, so that my hand rested more
easily between her legs. Through our long deep kiss I could feel her
swallow a lump in her throat as she did so.
We broke the kiss, and I took off her blouse, unbuttoning it with shaky
hands, and inhaled the sweetness of her natural scent as I pulled it away.
Her bra was more difficult; although the clasp was in front, I had no
experience with these things and had no idea of how to undo it. Trying to
figure it out was impossible, for my head was in a whirl. I was buzzing
madly from crown to toe with desire for Marcie. I was about to debauch a
little angel, a hesitating virgin, but there was nothing of my ego here at
all. I did not feel proud, or manly. I was in love with her, and this
was something I had dreamed about every night for four years. It was
finally happening, but I never knew that I would be plucking her flower
with the rumbling of tumbrils in my ears.
“Turn off the light, Tom,” she murmured to me, head bowed, her hands
instinctively covering her chest as the bra finally dropped to her lap. I
stood up to do so, and the room was plunged into half-light. The dark
green shades were drawn, the windows closed tight against the summer
humidity, and much of what illumination there was came from the crack
underneath the apartment’s door. I came back to her, and stood looking
down at her as she tried to conceal her body from my eyes that fairly
brimmed with tears – of frustration and joy, of mixed pleasure.
I must have stood there for quite a while, mute, paralyzed by the avalanche
of sensations that seemed to be radiating from her: the nakedness of her
light brown skin, the quick throbbing pulse at the side of her neck, the
shy brown eyes behind the thick round glasses, the faint exciting smell of
the sweat that was beginning to break out on her scalp, the remembered
touch of her bra’s fabric still tingling on my fingertips, and the small,
clicking sound of its clasp coming undone like a pistol shot forever burned
into my brain.
Finally she raised her face to look at me, still modestly concealing
herself with her hands. “Do it,” she whispered through a dry throat.
Although her body, almost against her will, was responding to my
hands-lips-tongue-breath, she was struggling against her upbringing, her
very nature, and being brave about what was to come.
I gathered her in my arms. She weighs next to nothing. I carried her
through the open door of my bedroom, my bed still unmade. Gently I lay her
down on the rumpled sheets that still smelled of sleep, and, still fully
clothed, I took off her glasses, shoes and socks, while she covered her
breasts with her arms. I started undoing her belt buckle when she said,
“No, Tom, I don’t want you to look at me.”
“But I want to look at you,” I said. Without her glasses she can barely
see anything, while I favor contact lenses. She felt herself to be at a
disadvantage.
She pulled the blanket from underneath her, and hid her body under it. She
waited. So I put my hands under the blanket, and continued with the now
invisible belt buckle. It came undone, and I pulled her jeans away. It
could have been the sound of the denim brushing against her legs, or she
could have sighed; I don’t know. I dropped her jeans onto the floor, and
my hands dived under the blanket again for her panties. Again, she
stiffened involuntarily, then relaxed. The blood was thudding in my ears
as my fingers curled around the sides of her panties, and peeled them off.
As her panties joined her jeans on the floor, I caught a whiff of something
new and unfamiliar, pungent, raw and exciting. Her panties were wet.
“Don’t look,” I said, as I took my clothes off. She shyly turned her head
away, but kept her eyes open. I know she could see me undressing albeit in
her certainly blurry peripheral vision. The pulse in her neck became even
wilder; even in the dimness I could tell she had reddened.
I joined her under the blanket. I hesitatingly moved my body closer to
hers, and before skin touched skin, my fingers accidentally brushed against
her pubic hair. I felt her shiver.
I got on top of her, and the full impact of this new sensation made her
gasp. I kissed her, again, long and deep. It was a while before she
responded, lightly brushing her hands on my back as she wrestled my tongue
with hers. We broke the kiss once in a while because she was
hyperventilating. Underneath the thin Shanghai-made blanket we were
soaking the bed with our sweat, because we had forgotten to turn on the
airconditioner. Though we had left the door to the living room open, the
air in the bedroom became close and hot, and began to smell of the mixing
of our body fluids.
Finally, I tried to penetrate her, as gentle a violation of her sanctum
sanctorum as was possible. I was nervous, and so was she – she was still
hyperventilating. I could not do it. She winced every time I tried to
push in past her outer lips. She seemed to have dried up down there
suddenly. This went on for another two minutes, when I finally rolled off
her and, panting, said, “Let’s take things more slowly.”
She relaxed visibly. Her breathing slowed to normal, but her hair was
matted with sweat, looking as if she had just stepped out of the shower and
lain down on the bed without towelling the water off.
When I did remember to turn on the airconditioner, I gingerly took my
undershorts from one of the bedposts, not knowing that I had thrown it
there. I took care for her not to see anything of me, putting on the
shorts before emerging from the blanket to turn on the airconditioner.
That done, I returned to the bed, where Marcie and I lay for the next
twenty minutes, acquainting ourselves with each other’s body. In a way I
was cheating, because I started off this little parlor game partly clothed,
whereas she hadn’t a stitch of clothes on. I just waited for her to bring
up enough courage to tell me to remove my shorts so that the whole thing
would be fair. Halfway through, she told me just that.
So we were there, only our heads sticking out of the blanket, talking,
while our hands played five-blind-men-and-the-elephant underneath. She
even managed to laugh as her fingers curled around my wedding tackle.
When I felt she was ready, I got on top of her again. We kissed and rubbed
against each other, then I pulled my tongue from out of her mouth and,
keeping it stiff, brought it down her chin, her throat. I had gotten to
her breastbone and was proceeding between her breasts, making a beeline for
nectar due south, when she realized where I was headed. She was horrified,
and with both hands brought my head back up so that our noses were inches
from each other. “No,” she said, with disgust on her face. We argued
about it for a while. I tried to persuade her that I wanted to taste her,
that it wasn’t an exotic perversion, that a lot of people did it. I
stopped short of telling her that probably even her mom and dad did it.
She was adamant. I did not insist.
Keeping my weight off her with my arms, I tried to enter her again, keeping
my eyes on hers all the while. Since I was under the blanket, and on top
of her, she could not hide her breasts from me under the blanket. She
stopped trying. This time we were less tense, and I gently rocked back
and forth while slipping slightly deeper into her with each stroke. She
winced, but kept her eyes on mine all throughout.
I could never have imagined anything like it. It was hot, slippery wet,
and oh-so tight inside her, that it actually hurt. I had always imagined
it would be easy to tell just when the hymen was broken, but it was not in
this case. My brain, my senses, my heart were all overloading – there was
no telling the split-second when both Marcie and I gave each other our
virginity. When I was halfway inside, I pulled back slightly and eased
forward all the way into her. The feeling of her enveloping the whole
length of me sent shivers down my spine. Involuntarily she closed her eyes
and bit her lip. After a moment, she relaxed again, while I stayed
motionless on top of her. “We forgot to kiss,” she said, presumably
meaning the great moment of the mutual deflowering. So she had been
looking forward to the memorable moment,that special instant, too. I
lowered my upper body so that I was supporting my weight on my elbows, and,
our bodies as close together as they could ever be, we kissed. I could
feel her throbbing around me.
We stayed this way for a full minute or so, then I pulled out of her
without coming. We were both sore. It was over, and I showered her face –
sweaty despite the airconditioning – with kisses.
We made love several more times that day, taking breaks for snacks and
showers, despite being sore. It was nothing adventurous; missionary
position, missionary position, missionary position, missionary position.
The second time, I came deep inside her, giving her all I had. The third
time there was less come, but what there was I injected deep into her body
as well. The fourth and fifth couplings were terminated not by my orgasm
but by my running out of breath.
As for Marcie, well – I don’t know if she got anything out of it. Maybe
she didn’t expect to get anything out of it, and was behaving the way she
thought a dutiful wife was supposed to behave, submitting to the normal
desires of a husband (and refusing me the delights of “abnormal” requests
like changing to a different position, letting me suck her breasts, which I
ached to do, and so on).
Finally my arms and back gave out. Marcie showered for the second time –
alone, despite my asking to join her there. Then I took a bath myself,
and, with our hair still wet and clothes a little rumpled, we stepped out
of my apartment to look for a place to eat, two tired worn-out just-ex
virgins, aged twenty-five and twenty-six. We ended up eating at a fancy
restaurant in a five-star hotel despite not being dressed for it. And
though the glow was still in my heart, once more I could hear the tumbrils
coming to fetch me.
We hit the jackpot, you might say. Marcie got pregnant. I thought this
would be a way of blackmailing her parents into accepting me as a
son-in-law, but they indignantly yanked her back to Leyte and and are still
keeping her there, where our daughter was born three years ago. Despite
her having topped the bar exams, she is still stuck there in the provinces
running a nowhere practice, her skill and talent going to waste while all
the sophisticated action and big money were to be had in Manila.
Marcie and I have been writing to each other through a law-school
classmate, using double envelopes. Our daughter is named after my aunt, my
mother’s sister, who took care of me when I was growing up parentless.
Marcie and I discussed the matter in our letters; of course, her parents
know nothing about the genesis of their granddaughter’s name. They don’t
have to know.
I’m reviewing for the bar again this year. When I pass, I’m going to
launch an all-out campaign to win Marcie and our daughter back. Wish me luck.
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