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            When I was eighteen, there was a lifeguard at our association beach named Jane. I had just graduated high school, and I think she was in her second or third year of college. Although just a couple of years older than me, she was much more worldly. More mature. She was a woman, while I was, in many ways, still a boy. I hadn’t had sex yet, and I’m sure she had. That alone put her in a different league.
            Despite this gap between us, we liked each other. We even flirted. She would tell me that she dug my “long, curly rock ‘n’ roll hair”, my “beautiful green eyes”, and my “nice physique”. I in turn spent plenty of time ogling her lengthy blonde mane, her pretty face, and her smokin’, athletic, bikini-clad body. She was a singer in a band, and I was a drummer, so we would occasionally talk music. She was a lifeguard at our beach for two summers. And then I never saw her again.
            At eighteen, I was just coming into my own. My senior year of high school had seen me explode out of my shell and onto the world in a blaze of adolescent glory. I hadn’t even kissed a girl, I mean really kissed a girl, until I was seventeen, just a year before. But between then and my eighteenth summer, I had been on lots of dates, kissed my share of girls, been to three proms, and even made it to third base quite a few times. Sex still eluded me, but frankly, I was in no hurry. Because I was still scared of it.
            At that point in my life, sex didn’t seem like just the next step after putting my hands down a girl’s pants; it seemed like a quantum leap into the unknown. The progression from kissing to heavy petting didn’t intimidate me. Maybe because it all felt so natural. Kissing, fondling, groping, and using my hands and mouth to explore the wonderfulness of a woman was always fun for me. I was eager to do it as often as I could. After all, I had been using my mouth and my hands my whole life, and I was pretty good at it. I could do lots of neat things with my hands and mouth; speak, eat, whistle, drum, punch, make things. Using them to love a woman seemed like just another artful skill that I could master.
            But using my dick? I had never used that on anything. Or anybody. Sure, I had learned how to pleasure myself when I was six, and, like most red blooded boys, had been practicing that art ever since. I knew exactly what I liked. But having to use my member on a woman to make her feel good (and achieve my own lift off) was a whole different story.
            So here I was, having exploded out of my shell not too long before, and I’m flirting with this older, worldly, totally hot blonde lifeguard. Even though I was still pretty naive, I could tell she liked me. But there were two things that stood in my way of ever getting it on with her; the fact that I had a girlfriend who lived next door to me, in the same association as where the lifeguard was; and, more importantly, the fact that I didn’t have a clue how to make a move on this woman who intimidated me.
            Even though I had come out of my shell, I certainly didn’t yet have a lot of confidence with women. This was all still pretty new to me. I blossomed rather late. I had wanted to hug and kiss and fondle and squeeze girls since I was probably twelve or so, but I had been denied that pleasure until I was seventeen. And even then, until about the time I turned eighteen that February, it had only been with one girl.
            In the spring of my senior year of high school, though, I was hooking up all the time. And here’s where years of frustration, years of wanting but not having, helped me. Because I had yearned but been denied female company for so long, when I got it, I had a different attitude than most boys my age. While most dudes were rushing to get the girl’s pants off, I was very happy just to kiss, touch, rub, grind, explore, and generally take whatever was being offered. I wasn’t overly aggressive, and girls liked that. So our encounters were generally wonderful and rarely awkward. They were fun, erotic, tender, steamy, passionate, relatively innocent; not simply a race to get inside of her.
            I’ve carried that attitude of acceptance and genuine appreciation for female companionship with me ever since, and its served me well. Even today, I’m never in a rush to have sex. I love foreplay. All those years of not having sex and instead spending my time exploring the female form have made me a better lover. When I finally got with someone, I paid attention. I was present. In the moment. Fully engaged in what I was doing. Like working for something for a long time, delaying the gratification for years, when it finally starts happening, your attitude is different than if it came easy and right away.
            This is a great example of how pain and frustration and a certain amount of suffering can shape one’s character for the better. It certainly did for me. I honestly love just being next to a woman I like. Rubbing against her. Feeling her soft skin against mine. Hearing her breathe heavier and heavier. Inhaling her unique scent with every breath I take. Exploring the delicious lines of her body and face. Trying different things and seeing what and how she responds. Whispering in her ear. Listening to what her voice sounds like when she slightly gasps or lightly moans. Letting her get to know me and what I like, and vise-versa. It’s all good. It’s all beautiful. And I could do it for hours at a time or weeks on end without worrying about when we’re going to “do it”. That’s what not getting it for years did for me.
            I wouldn’t change any of that. But I can still say, man, it would have been a gas to be with Jane. I could tell she was wild. There were all sorts of rumors around the beach about what a party girl she was. Lots of the older women who hung out at the beach all day didn’t like her. Back then, I couldn’t figure out why. She was nice to everybody. Years later, I knew it was just jealousy. I would have loved to have been part of a scandal back then.
            This is one of those scenarios that would definitely qualify as a “Do Over” if science ever allows us to reconstruct reality to our whims and relive an experience through virtual reality or some other mind boggling technology with no consequences to the present. There’s still a piece of me that would love to go back and have the experience of having sweet Jane lead me to manhood by schooling me in the ways of sex like a teacher does a prized pupil. She could have showed me the ropes. Literally. Actually, if I grew up quick enough and truly expressed what I liked, maybe I would have showed the ropes to her first. Literally.
            Of course, that’s the fantasy. She could just as easily have used me and broken my heart into a million pieces. Or maybe she was really kinky, and....wait, I can’t think of anything bad about that. Anyway, the point is who knows? As a “What If” game to play in my own head, it’s fun to do. Anything further than that, and I’m spinning into places I don’t want to go.
            Around this same time, the tune “Jane” by Jefferson Starship was very popular. It was, and remains, one of my favorite songs. Whenever I heard it, I would think of her. Even today, almost thirty years later, that song brings up images of the blonde lifeguard on my beach who almost became “my first”. There’s something sweet and innocent about that, and it will never leave me. So the song will always have a special place inside. And so will she.

    ©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a naughty bikini wearing blonde full of Wrongs) Reserved.

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