Profile: The First Lover

I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 22. Not because I was waiting until marriage or anything (I’m an Atheist anyway), but it just didn’t feel right with my main high school boyfriend or my college boyfriend. When I met Antonio, though, I knew I wanted him to be my first lover.

This was totally inappropriate for several reasons. Firstly, he spoke no English. Secondly, he was a smoker, which I detest. And thirdly and most critically… he worked under me at the horse farm that I managed for the absentee owners. “Worked under me” was not (in the beginning at least) a sexual innuendo. I was the manager and he was one of four illegal immigrants that we illegally employed to take care of the horses and the facility.

This was no innocent puppy love accident. I made up my mind that I wanted him and very deliberately went about seducing him. Which was ridiculously easy to do, as you might imagine. I still remember the first words that I said to him (in Spanish) as a calculated flirtation: “I like your smile.” To which he responded instantly “Why?” And so it began.

Within a week of acknowledging the possibility we had slept together. To my very great surprise, he was a virgin, too. He had never even kissed a girl, but let me tell you… the boy was a quick study. We were pretty sure that we were the first people ever to discover sex and it was the best thing ever.What both of us lacked in experience we more than made up for in enthusiasm and creativity. More than one morning we were late to work because one of us had kissed the other goodbye and we wound up on the floor. We broke a bed. We came down from the hay loft with rumpled clothing and hay in our hair. We had to pull off the road driving together many times because we were making each other so hot. Once, his brother nearly walked in on us on his living room floor and later discovered one of my socks on a stack of dinner plates on a kitchen shelf. “How did you start?!” he asked in disbelief. I blushed.

Our relationship remained a secret from the clients and our boss for the two years we were together. My Spanish got really good. Funnest way ever to learn a new language is to fuck a beautiful foreigner.We had very little in common besides intense physical attraction, and that plus probably the excitement of a forbidden romance and the fact that we worked together and saw each other every day took us surprisingly far. Our fights were spectacular. I’m not easily provoked to anger, but Antonio could push my buttons like no one before or since. He had technique of deflecting any sort of attempt to talk about something that was bothering me by saying “So, you want to break up. You’ve decided you don’t want to be with a Mexican.” That was guaranteed to drive me crazy! I’m most ashamed of the time I responded by shrieking “Don’t be such a child!” while simultaneously flinging a handful of baby carrots at him. I was so furious at the time that the irony completely escaped me. In bed afterwards, we laughed our asses off. Naturally, the make-up sex was mind blowing. Looking back, I suspect he sometimes goaded me into fits of temper because it brought out my “inner Latina” that he claimed to adore.

And then I got pregnant. I was not prepared for how this would effect either of us. I knew I didn’t want to have a baby, I grew up liberal and fiercely pro-choice, and to me an abortion was the rational, logical, obvious solution. But I had a fucking emotional meltdown. I told no one except Antonio, who really wanted the baby and also went to pieces. I’ll never forget a horrible night of him pleading with me and then literally sobbing in my arms once he realized I couldn’t be talked out of having the abortion. That terrified me. I realized that I was totally out of my depth… Antonio wanted someone to be with forever and raise a family. He had decided that “someone” was me. And I didn’t want that at all.

I miscarried the day before I was scheduled to go in to pick up the pills that would cause the abortion. I had decided for some reason that the pill option would be better and more private somehow than the surgical option, even though the pills were less effective, would cause me to be sick, and would required extra visits to the clinic. Not having anyone to talk to, because I hadn’t confided in anyone other than Antonio who was more clueless that I was and was an emotional wreck himself, I panicked over the bleeding and called a crisis hotline when I couldn’t reach my doctor at night. The crisis hotline I had picked from the phone book ended up being a Pro-Life counseling center in disguise. The woman on the phone talked down to me implying that I was getting what I deserved when she found out that I had scheduled an abortion and wasn’t Christian. She was still trying to talk me into considering adoption when I hung up on her. I was bleeding and crying all over my bathroom floor. All I wanted to know was whether or not I was miscarrying and if I needed to go to the hospital and she wouldn’t even tell me that. I’m still not sure how she could justify her behavior as the “compassionate” stance….

That was the beginning of the end of Antonio and I. We continued dating for a few months after that, but it wasn’t the same. The fact that I was going to break his heart loomed over us both and it wasn’t fun anymore. We couldn’t enjoy the present when we knew that I didn’t want the same future together that he did. The fighting got worse. We broke up. He quit working at the farm. We got back together briefly, but it didn’t last.

I look back fondly at much of that time, even if the end was bittersweet. I wonder how he sees it. We are totally out of touch now; it’s been more than seven years since I last saw him. I imagine he’s married with children by now. I hope he’s happy.

You never forget your first love.

~ Sex Kitten (with claws)

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