It happened tonight.
Unplanned. Unapologetic.
We had sex – oral, anal, vaginal.
The tension? Electric.
I was lit from within, riding a chemical cocktail: dopamine, oxytocin, endorphins.
Everything all at once.
Is it so frightening to believe that woman can, in a sense, ejaculate, too? – Juliet Richters
There’s a whole life behind this night.
Mistakes, laughter, longing.
Each awkward kiss, each drunk confession, each skipped heartbeat led here.
And sometimes I wonder:
Am I alone with these stories?
Who else has squirmed with discomfort – or burst from joy – mid-act?
Who else has slipped quietly out the door, mascara smudged, after a night worth writing down?
Can we please stop pretending sex is clean, predictable, or one-size-fits-all?
Sex is a storm. A stage. A secret.
A punchline. A turning point. There’s so much experience behind this night. Lessons learned, moments to remember, and stories to laugh about. It all led to this moment.
When I knew I was ready for my first time
I was 15.
I’d kissed plenty.
Flirted even more.
Bravo magazine taught me the basics.
And I knew how to play the game.
Eye contact like a weapon.
A smile – not too much..
Just enough to make him ask for my MSN.
Once, I had this funny experience with my friend.
We wanted to take some guys home because her parents were away.
So we took the train to another small town where we knew we will find them, “the hotties”.
And we found the hotties,
and we brought them home,
ofc we did – each of us a guy.
Of course, I ran to the bathroom to shave my already perfectly shaved vagina.
I was so excited and curious.
We kissed, he went down on me, and I went down on him.
All four of us in the same room. Not sharing. Just giggling.
Back then, we kept things apart.
Today? We’d probably invite each other in.
This night, I got good feedback, and that made me confident.
I got good feedback, and that made me confident.
My cousin once told me a story:
She was walking through Zurich with a friend.
They were horny.
They found a restaurant.
They fucked in the bathroom.
I admired her. I wanted to be like her.
I asked her when she had her first time.
“Fifteen,” she said.
So that became my number.
But it had to be meaningful.
Not random. Not rushed.
It had to feel right.
And it did.
He and I met during a gap year in French school.
He texted me before we met.
He was interesting – different from the guys where I’m from.
And different always intrigued me.
He became my boyfriend.
He was the first I had sex with.
And the first who gave me an orgasm.
Not the kind I gave myself.
No.
This one shook me.
He worked for it – 45 minutes at least.
And I let go into something I hadn’t known before.
We didn’t have sex that night.
There was no rush.
Just that one climax.
That one unraveling.
And the silent certainty:
I’m not a girl anymore.
all out. 