My first in China

Content Rating: Mature (adult theme)

Female hands with red nails holding red and pink rose petals.

I fell in love in 30 seconds.

It probably took less time than that, but 30 seems like a good round number.

I don’t remember what she looked like. I didn’t think it mattered.

But then she touched me.

My eyes were closed but I was awake suddenly. My body stilled and my breath caught in my chest. Had she noticed? I wondered, slightly embarrassed.

Her touch was – and I say this with the guilt of sounding clichéd – like nothing I’ve felt before. Her fingers were smooth and strong. She moved them with purpose, up and down, round and round. Her touch was gentle and confident; caring and passionate. My mind slipped between her lubricated digits as she squeezed and stroked, combed and rubbed. She moved her hands to a magical rhythm, the tempo of some song playing in her head. It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t slow, it was just. . .right.

A smile flitted across my face as my body relaxed. I gave into the pleasure, no longer embarrassed of what my body felt. I wondered if she noticed my smile, and if so, how did that make her feel?

She said something in Chinese. I don’t know what, but I wanted to believe it was, “do you like it?”

I wanted to tell her, “yes, yes, God, yes, don’t stop,” but that was unnecessary. I was Plasticine, and she the sculptor. She could do whatever she pleased, go wherever she wanted, and I couldn’t deny her.

I’m not sure how long it lasted. Time seemed to unwind in her hands. But it didn’t matter, because even Eternity with this Goddess would’ve been too short. And Goddess she was, my friends, have no doubt. Like an angel from the heavens, reaching out with those hands – those beautiful, graceful hands – to feel the warmth of humanity, of our fleeting, fiery existence. And I wanted to be the one to give her that warmth, to give her that taste of life, that burn-bright-and-die-young spark of mortality.

Alas, as with all things mortal, this, too, came to an end. She withdrew her hands.

My tender skin ached for her to come back, for just another stroke, just another rub. But it was over.

When I opened my eyes, I took the time to look at her. Really, truly look at her. Yes, I really hadn’t noticed her before. And if I had, she had been nowhere near as beautiful as she looked right then.

A part of me wanted to go down on my knee and ask her to be wife, to have my kids and grow old with me. But caught in this lustful fever as I was, I still had the sense to think sensibly. I settled on simply asking for her number.

We looked at each other, both smiling, a little awkward, a little flushed. It was a moment of possibilities. A moment that could have changed either of our lives – of lives upon lives – a moment in which the heavens held their breath and angels perked their ears.

And the moment passed.

She turned, a purse lipped smile on her face, and walked away.

I’m not sure I’ll ever see her again. Not sure if I should. There are others, I know I know, there always will be. But it’s hard to forget your first.

A few nights later, and I still fall asleep thinking of that girl, her beautiful hands, and my very first shampoo and scalp massage in China.

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