Note: Being bisexual in this phase of my life, I had to include the account of my first time doing it with the opposite sex. Nothing about boys in here. If the idea of having sex with girls doesn't interest you, then you won't find this story too interesting. Just so you know... :)

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The moral of my first time fucking a girl: "Age 14 is not too young biologically to get laid... just don't act like a 14-year-old afterward."

I was always looking for new experiences, as is rather obvious by now if you're reading chronologically. Got drunk when I was 8 y/o, drove the family car at 9. I lost my heterosexual virginity at barely 14 (within three weeks after my birthday), which was three years and a fraction after first "real sex" with another boy (mutual BJs with my friend Alex - see story).

My sexual thinking at this point was multi-layered. On the surface layer, I was telling myself that I liked sex with boys, but that it was just something that would be forgotten once I found a girl willing to fuck me. On a deeper level, I was way, way into the boy-sex for its own sake.

I crossed over to the opposite sex very willingly, one hot August night; and made a jerk of myself afterwards too. Here's how:

Although my family was basically middle-class, income-wise, I grew up in a working-class neighborhood. (My family was not unlike the Beverly Hillbillies - country folk who come into money but don't adapt to it very well).

We had a neighborhood "gang". (Nothing like gangs today, thank god - our criminal activity consisted of stuff like scrawling "Joe sucks" on the railroad overpass in chalk.) Our gang was just kids of the same age, more or less, who hung out together.

That summer, my friends and I had Nothing To Do. I was on a youth-league soccer team, but otherwise didn't have anything set. I had looked for a job, but the only possibility was at the gas station I'd worked at the previous summer, and I wasn't interested in getting yelled at all day by the owner for another 2.5 months, and getting paid illegally-low wages because I was 12 y/o. My friends were mostly in similar straits; we found common ground in complaining. We hung out at the neighborhood drugstore in the daytime, and at night we visited the Golf Course.

The Golf Course was a regular golf course by day. By night, it was our retreat, where we shared cigarettes and drank Mad Dog 20-20 when we could get it. We were all bored, we were all hormonal adolescents, and we were boys and girls together - so in addition to our other nocturnal adventures, inevitably we'd sometimes wander off in pairs to try to figure out this sex thing.

There was allegedly a Golf Course security guard of some kind, but never in the history of anyone's Golf Course adventures was he seen or heard. (My theory is that, if he existed at all, he was either sleeping, watching TV in some maintenance building, or else spying on us kids).

Julie wasn't part of our gang at first. She lived near the neighborhood but went to another school. Somebody brought her to hang out at the drugstore one dull afternoon. We ended up sitting next to each other. Electricity sparked when we found something in common: we had the same musical tastes! Specifically, back then in the South, there was a musical style called "beach music." This wasn't the Beach Boys or Jan & Dean, and had nothing to do with surfing or California. This was good old rhythm and blues music, mostly by black artists, and named after the fact that when you went to Southern beach towns, like Virginia Beach or Myrtle Beach or Gulfport, this was what you danced to. Julie and I really liked it. We got off on the Four Topps and the Intruders and anything Motown. We liked shag dancing. It was cool to find a soul mate (pun intended :)).

It wasn't love at first sight. Wasn't ever love, in fact. Just lust. Over that summer, on the moonlit golf course, we went from sitting together, to holding hands, to pairing off alone, to... well, that's the story.

Julie was already 15, thirteen months older than me, and a grade ahead in school. She wasn't beautiful, just cute, sort of. Her face was plain, and her body wasn't remarkable. She was bottom-heavy, not overweight but close. She had small, but nice, breasts, well-padded thighs, and a big butt (not a defect to me.) Her most noticeable features were long brown hair and nice white teeth covered by braces. Think Winnie on "The Wonder Years," then add about 10-15 pounds on the hips and butt. I was short and skinny. The perfect pair, we were.

Summer in The South meant minimal clothing. This was the dawn of a great fashion era for girls: halter tops! Halter tops were thin, clingy, and impossible to wear with a bra underneath. Rarely has there been a greater invention for allowing boys access to their girlfriends' tits. (Well, there were exceptions. I was even fonder of tube tops in the late 70s. And sports bras as outerwear are very sexy and accessible, these days...)

Fashion dictated that along with halter tops came nylon shorts, short and tight, often white. And underneath Julie's shorts, the outlines of her bikini panties were usually plainly visible. (To this day I'm transfixed by the sight of VPLs.) My impression was that only the more "daring" girls wore this stuff (this was a year or two before the fashion hit its peak). "Daring", meaning "willing to show off skin, go without a bra, and be sexy". And Julie wore them. Cool.

My usual summer outfit was a tank top and cutoffs, and the latter did a good job (painful, but good) of confining what was turning out to be a perpetual boner when I was with Julie.

The Golf Course was accessible through the hole in the fence. I'm hazy on who discovered the hole in the fence - somebody's cousin's best friend, or something. It was a couple years before my time, in any event. All I know is that the Golf Course became kid-territory that summer after the stars came out. It was perfect. We could hunt for lost golf balls on the driving range. Drink our battery-acid 20-20 under the moon. Hide in the woods and scare the shit out of our enemies, or friends.

And if passion made fireworks, the Golf Course would've been 4th of July and Chinese New Year all rolled into one. Rumor was that many, many couples had their first couplings on the Golf Course (or so they claimed). Oddly, in all my experiences with boys, not a single once took place on the Golf Course. I guess the place had heterosexual vibes.

There was a standard routine for those of us who were "boyfriend" and "girlfriend". After we got bored with other mischief, the gang would retire to a grassy hillside near the middle of the course. It was understood that when a boy and a girl drifted off toward the trees on either side, nobody mentioned it. Nobody asked questions if/when they returned (although items of nonverbal evidence - rearranged clothes, flushed faces, etc. - were duly noted and discussed later). All part of that awkward early-adolescent playdancing.

Julie wasn't shy. She was my first "girlfriend" to kiss back. But in the South, girls were supposed to resist, so our progress was two steps forward, one step back. We met in mid-June, and during June we went from hand-holding to lip-locking, which was acceptable to do with the gang present.

In early July, we began drifting toward the trees, and kissing became feeling her tits - with no bra to interfere, usually. (I miss halter tops...) My first few attempts to go below her waist were pushed away. I settled for tracing her panties' elastic through her nylon shorts with my fingertips. She resisted less and less when I tried to slip my hand inside.

Late July's big milestones were when I slipped inside her panties for the first time to feel her bare butt - then, a few nights later, pubic hair. This was going well. I began carrying around my one and only condom like a magic charm.

August, the hottest month down South, arrived. I turned 14, and my hormones apparently recognized that I had notched a birthday and kicked into hyperdrive (a level or two up from their normal state: overdrive). Sex and hot weather go together, and that plus overwhelming teenage horniness led to the night in question - Thursday, Aug. XX (yes, I remember the date, but I ain't tellin'). School started soon; Julie didn't go to the same school, and I knew opportunity might be dwindling.

That particular hot August night, we all finished our bottle of 20-20 (courtesy of somebody's older cousin, as always.) Conversation dwindled. Julie and I were, as usual, the first to edge away toward the treeline. I was sure I could get a feel of her pussy, which was the farthest we'd gone already. I was hoping for a hand-job (the farthest I'd gone with any girl previously.) In my fantasies, I dreamed about going all the way. I knew Julie had the final say, but I was ready to test her defenses.

In hindsight, I don't know if it was alcohol, her realizing that our time was short, or just plain lust. But on August XX, Julie's defenses were down. We got to the soft pine-needle carpet. We lay down, me on my side, her partially on her back. We kissed, shallow, then deep and hungry. I put my left hand on her breast inside her halter top, cupped it, felt her nipple get hard. No resistance. I slipped the straps down, saw her tits come into view in the faint light. My left hand moved down and around to her butt, traced her bikini panty lines, went down her shorts in the back, found the elastic and slipped inside. No resistance.

We kept kissing and our bodies edged closer together. I slid my hand around inside her panties to the front - pubic hair. No resistance. I pushed lower, and encountered her slit. She was wet. Holy shit.

Julie had never touched me below the waist, and in all our previous experiments I had never "introduced" her to my version of male anatomy, had never even let our waists touch when I had a hard-on (which was anytime we were touching). But now I pressed my boner, trapped in the down position inside my cutoffs, against her thigh. Not only was there no resistance, she nudged her thigh between my legs, pressing against the bulge very deliberately. I've never had a premature-ejaculation problem, but that was a big test. My last distinct conscious thought was "Goddamn! This is IT!!"

From that point, my memories are blurred. My brain shut down and my glands took over. I remember some freeze-frames: peeling her shorts and panties off, with her help; getting my cutoffs down to my knees with one hand. My first time happened with all my clothes technically still on, and most of hers on too. Never even got my underwear down. If I hadn't switched to boxers a few years before, the entire evening might have ended up quite differently.

I remember her spreading her legs for me - for ME. My futile attempts to find her pussy opening by just poking my dick around at random. I don't recall if I found it on my own or if she helped me. I do remember the peak ecstasy of sliding into that warm, wet tightness. No resistance in there either. I was afraid she'd shriek, but she didn't.

I never found out whether I was Julie's first. No cherry, but of course sports can take care of that too, and Julie had played soccer (another commonality we shared). She definitely didn't show any pain on entry. And... I don't know... she just "seemed to know what she was doing". No matter. The only things I remember about the actual act: that indescribable initial entry, and during one particularly vigorous thrust feeling my dick contact something inside her, followed by her gasp. (I was clueless about the cervix at the time.)

The sensations of fucking, and the whole experience in fact, was very unlike the boy-sex I'd been accustomed to. For one thing, I was thrusting, vigorously - a fact which I realized later was a big part of sexual pleasure for me. And the sensation of having my whole dick enclosed in a tight, wet tube was unique. Blowjobs don't feel better, don't feel worse in that respect - just different. A tongue isn't a vagina (nor is a rectum, as I later discovered).

The climax was anticlimactic. We fucked for all of about ten seconds before I came, no warning, just a huge electrifying burst. At the last second, I felt a cold jolt - the rubber! I forgot the damn rubber! It was still in my pocket, totally forgotten. The hazy thought crossed my mind that I should pull out. Lost cause, though. I was already into the most intense orgasm of my life to that point.

I won't even try to put THAT feeling into words.

As I finished, all my muscles turned to jelly and I collapsed on top of Julie. Now she DID yell, and tried to shove me off, hard. I got up off her and stood up; she didn't.

Typical barely-turned-14-year-old that I was, I was ignoring Julie. I felt this blazing sense of triumph and pride that I had, at last, gotten laid. I literally started jumping around the clearing, with my cutoffs around my ankles and my semi-hard dick still hanging out of my boxers in front. I said, "That was awesome, man, just awesome, wasn't that awesome?" (I didn't use the word "awesome" - that wasn't in use back in the 70s - but I've now forgotten the word we DID use back then, dammit... Whatever it was, I repeated it to the point of silliness.)

I was jumping around, but Julie wasn't saying anything. Eventually this fact dimly penetrated my egocentric awareness. I said, "Are you OK?" And she said "Shut UP, Danny! FUCK YOU!" She was crying. Julie was a tough girl, and that was the first time I'd seen her cry.

I had this vague sense that this wasn't the way it was supposed to be. I automatically assumed she had been enjoying it as much as I was. She was good and hot when we were kissing and feeling each other up, wasn't she? I knew women had orgasms, of course, but it didn't occur to me at the moment that they were not as automatic as mine. One of my three Special Books, "Sex and the Single Man", had covered this topic in great detail - "don't just expect women to come, HELP them come" - but remembering words from a book wasn't exactly where my head was at, then.

I belatedly tried to make amends. "This is a girl", I thought. "Be nice." So I kissed her, hugged her, brushed the pine needles off her butt, handed her her shorts and panties. She wasn't crying anymore, but she wasn't talking either. We got ourselves together, both of us now exceedingly quiet. We headed straight for the hole in the fence, got our bikes out of the bushes... and left.

Julie didn't show up at the drugstore the next day. I panicked, thinking she was already pregnant. (What the hell did I know? I thought women just knew, somehow. Within hours, or minutes even.) I ignored the usual "how far didja get?" questions. (You could always tell when a boy at that age REALLY got laid the night before - he shut up about it. Bragging and furnishing details were signs of faking it).

The following day, Saturday, I rode my bike to her house. Bad move. Her dad was home, and he didn't like me much. I got Julie to sit on the grass for a little while. I didn't know what to say. She cried, again. Her dad saw her crying and told me to get lost... and I did. I felt a sense of loss, but I admit it was more for my sake than for hers ("No more pussy. Damn.") Fourteen-year-old boys aren't big on empathy.

I only saw Julie one time after that, at the 7-Eleven, and I'm ashamed to admit I ducked and ran before she saw me. Patching things up wasn't an option at 14, either. (I did feel relief when I saw her belly wasn't swollen.) In December, I heard she had moved to a different part of town and was living with her mom and stepdad. I consoled myself with more hell-raising; after a few months, another girlfriend; and more boys. Never saw Julie again.

"First times" are always extreme, I guess. In one sense it was great - still one of the most intense orgasms I've had. But the bitter comes with the sweet, you know?