Funky Spunk

The first penis I ever had in my mouth belonged to a boy named Dani (yes, his parents really spelled his name that way). I dated him for the first four months of my junior year of high school.

In college he ended up being president of the hottest fraternity on his campus and every girl wanted to fuck him. I got to him before everyone realized how cute he was. Or, maybe just before he realized how cute he was.

We would sit on the futon his bedroom upstairs while his parents watched TV downstairs. I remember hating the way he kissed. He was one of those kissers that never closed his mouth between tonguings. He opened his mouth, stuck in his tongue, and then moved it around for what felt like hours.

I always blew him, but never let him finger me. He would rub me outside my clothes forever, I would be soaking through my pants and close to orgasm and he would beg me to let him inside but those pants stayed ON. I was uncomfortable with myself and worried that my vadge was weird or improperly groomed or abnormally wet or one of the many things that teenage girls with little to no sexual experience worry about.

His cum tasted awful. I remember thinking that I hoped everyone’s cum didn’t taste this way, and I found out later that year, when I started dating the guy to whom I presented my v-card, that it (thankfully) did not. He had some funky spunk, man. It was bitter and tart and awful and I always swallowed it because that’s what people told me I was supposed to do.

I ran into him about 5 months after we broke up when I was at a party with my new boyfriend (the one who stole my innocence). His only words to me? “So, you fuck now?”

“Yes, yes I do.”