My name is Maggie. I’ve written stories about my sex life in my 30s and 40s – and I don’t regret that I had more than a few sex experiences with more than a few men. However, I wasn’t always that way. This is the story of my first romance.

I grew up in Arapaho, Kansas, population 2,000. I turned eighteen years old still a virgin. In fact I had hardly ever been kissed. I was small and shy, one of those high school students who nobody recognizes when the class has its fortieth class reunion, as mine did a few years ago. Reintroduced to me, my former classmates said, “Oh, yes, you were Sue’s friend” or “You were Mr. Devine’s favorite student in algebra class.” For a few classmates who had also attended the Baptist Church I was remembered as the girl who always won the Bible quiz held in front of the whole congregation every year around Christmas.

Religion was my crutch. I planned to marry a preacher. I later did and I dedicated my life to gentile poverty, service, and being pure in heart, spirit, and body. I don’t regret the idealism of my youth.

To be frank, as a girl I didn’t have many temptations to be impure. Panting boys were not besieging me. I was slow growing up. I didn’t get my period until the eighth grade and my boobs were still rosy little buds when all the other girls were stuffing theirs into woman-sized bras. I was humiliated by the nickname the boys gave me. In the hallway at school one day, a boy put his thumb on my nipple and pushed and said, “Oops, I thought that was the button for the elevator.” Everyone called me “Buttons” after that.

The day I turned eighteen, Christmas 1978, I looked at myself in the mirror. I realized that I had finally progressed toward adulthood and I was pleased with what I saw. I was slender, average height, and almost pretty with silky, straight, light-brown hair and large, waif-like brown eyes. True, I wore thick glasses and my breasts remained small. They were like two fried eggs topped with cherries – large, plump, red cherries that embarrassed me with their prominence. I kept them well covered, as I did the rest of my body, by wearing loose blouses that buttoned up to the neck and skirts that reached below my knees.

I daydreamed of romance – especially with a dreamy, handsome, charismatic preacher who would see in me the qualities of character that the popular cheerleaders and beauty queens lacked. I masturbated frequently, conjuring up situations in which I found true, pure love – but my fantasies stopped short of sexual relations. The handful of dates I had never proceeded beyond a goodnight kiss.

Oddly enough, my best friend was my total opposite. Sue was the preacher’s daughter but she went out of the way to prove that she was no religious prude. She had chosen me, her Sunday School colleague, to be her best friend and to follow in her boisterous wake like a silent secret sharer. Sue was not popular with other girls. She attracted too much attention from the boys. She was always surrounded by a crowd of boys laughing at her jokes and eyeing her impressive cleavage.

Romance finally found me at a New Year’s Eve party at the Church. Sue had to go to the party because she was the preacher’s daughter and I was there because I wanted to be. On New Year’s Eve far be it from me to be like many of my classmates: drunk and making out – and more -- in the back seat of cars parked on lonely country roads.

A boy named Don sat down beside me at the party while kool aid and cake were being served. I knew him of course. Our high school was small and he was in some of my classes. Sue was on my other side, entertaining a brace of boys with off-color stories and not complaining when their eyes focused on her breasts straining against the fabric of her blouse. She directed a quick look at Don and gave me the suggestion of a wink.

“Would you like to go to the movie with me tomorrow?” Don asked suddenly – and nervously. The nearest movie theater was in Hickok, fifteen miles away. “My father will let me take our car.”

I was taken aback. I stuttered for a moment and couldn’t come up with a reason to say no. “Why, yes, That would be nice. Thank you for asking me.”

Don had not been an actor in my sexual fantasies. He was, as I was, undistinguished in school although I was an honor student and he was only average. He was tall, lanky, and rather good-looking -- though clumsy and inept in social situations. In the vernacular of the time, he was in the high school social class of “grits” – which was better than being a “hood” but well below the prestige of a “jock” or a “prep.” I was in no-man’s-land. I was too smart to be a grit but my pedigree and personality didn’t measure up to being a prep.

We could hardly find a word to say to each other on the date, but as Don walked me to the door of my house after the movie, he asked, “Would you go to the dance next week with me?”

The more conservative members of the congregation at First Baptist Church considered dancing a sin. “But Sue dances – and she’s the preacher’s daughter,” I said to myself, “and a boy has asked me to go!”

“Yes, I would love to,” I answered – and I kissed Don on the cheek. I was confident that the jungle sounds of rock and roll music and the hot, feverish contortions of bodies on the dance floor would not lead me into temptation. Rather, my faith would shine like a beacon. My deportment would say. “I can dance and still be a good Christian.”

Don and I soon became a couple. We went to church parties, watched television, studied together and, when he could get his family’s car, went to the movies. We cuddled on the sofa in the living room of my house and kissed chastely, but we never allowed their hands or mouths to stray to forbidden zones and I kept my lips closed -- one of the tips the handsome preacher at our church gave youth to help avoid temptation.

Don, I fantasized in the dawn of first love, had potential to become a good Christian – even a preacher as outstanding in work for the Lord as the youth group leader with the golden tongue and the black, swept-back hair. I day-dreamed that Don would become a famous preacher and I would pass all the days of my life as his helpmate, a shining example of virtuous womanhood. Nor did it hurt my social standing in high school to have a boy friend. Later, I would gain a little perspective.

Sue’s opinion of Don was grudging. “Yes, Buttons,” she said. “He’s a nice boy and good looking, and all that ... but you’ve got a future to think of. You and I, we’re going down the yellow brick road to something better than this town.” Sue had abundant boys at her beck and call, including J.B., the star halfback on the high school football team. I believed that Sue was a little jealous of my happiness with Don and begrudged the time that I spent with him. Sue needed me. She didn’t have any other girl friends.

It was on a cold winter night in February while cuddling together on the sofa in my house that Don moved his hand from my shoulder to my waist, his fingers passing slowly over my breasts. My nervous giggle ended in a gasp when his mouth found mine and he pushed himself close to me and his hand ran down my back and under the waistband of my skirt, touching the top of my buttocks

I allowed the kiss to continue longer than I should have before I shook myself free from him. “Sorry,” he apologized.

“I understand,” I said. I had been taught that it was the woman’s responsibility to restrain the savage sexual beast that lurks in the heart of men. I patted Don on the knee to show that he was forgiven and we sat a little closer than usual the rest of the night, his arm over my shoulder and his chest pressed against my ribs, my large, hard, right nipple enjoying the feel of the friction our their clothing.

I masturbated that night with the fantasy that Don and I were married and enjoying the blissful delights of first night in bed. It was the first time I had ever carried my sexual fantasies all the way to intercourse.

The next evening, while we were sitting together on the sofa, one hand again found its way to my breasts and lingered while the other felt the curve of my buttocks. His hands stayed in place while we kissed -- and I broke another rule I had learned for avoiding temptation. I took my feet off the floor and reclined on the sofa. I allowed him to unfasten the top buttons on my blouse and his fingers to reach under my bra to touch my nipples. I sensed the hardness of his penis beneath the fabric of his blue jeans.

“I love you,’ he said. “I want to marry you.”

I was speechless. “Don’t you love me?” he pressed.

“Oh, I do,” I answered, kissing him on the lips.

“I think this is all right if we’re going to be married.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by “this.” I thought about it as we kissed, he half on top of me, his fingers massaging my breasts, me twitching to feel better his hard penis pressing against my hip. “Well, yes,” I said. “I think it’s all right that we do this. As long as we don’t go any further,” I added quickly.

“Of course not,” he agreed.

After that, we talked a lot about our future. I didn’t exactly accept his proposal of marriage -- and I could not yet quite come out with a declaration of unqualified love. Instead, as I later realized, he was a work in progress for me, a project, to help him grow to be the kind of person I wanted him to be. Then, I believed I would truly love him. He was sometimes slothful at school and vague about his future.

Don came over to my house late one night to watch a movie on television. My parents had already gone to bed. I was wearing flannel pajamas-- long, loose trousers held on with a drawstring and a loose top that buttoned down the front. The pajamas were modest, I told myself, but I was aware that his hands could find my breasts easier under the top than if I put on a bra and blouse.

We lay on the sofa side-by-side and for the first time a boy’s mouth sucked my nipples. I turned onto my back and he rolled on top of me and pressed against my groin. He began to gyrate, his body driving harder and harder against mine. I spread my legs to feel him as he pitched wildly back and forth, breathing hard and moaning. The knot on my pajama bottoms came loose and the cloth parted and I felt the rough fabric of his blue jeans rubbing against my pubic hair.

“You’re hurting me! You’re hurting me!” I muttered through clenched teeth. He didn’t stop until a few last, hard strokes and he groaned and collapsed against me, his labored breathing hot against my neck.

I wasn’t sure what had happened -- but I believed he had “climaxed.” That was a word less embarrassing to me than “orgasm.”

He lay on top of me, breathing hard, and I felt the hardness in his jeans go away after his last spasm. He relaxed in my arms; my pajamas were open, pulled down to leave my thighs only half-covered, one of his hands was between my legs, my pajama top was unbuttoned and his head was resting on my bare breasts.

Only a month before the notion of uncovering my breasts to a man would have been unthinkable, let alone allowing his hand to brush over my pubic mound. I pushed his hand away, afraid that he might notice the wetness in my crotch.

“Did I hurt you?” Don asked as his breathing became more normal.

“Just a little,” I answered. “I like it when you kiss my breasts. And, and ... uh ... I liked the other too, but I’m tender down there.”

“I can’t wait until we get married and we can go all the way.”

I paused a moment before answering. “I think we will be happy together.”

“Let’s get married after graduation,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get a job instead of college.”

“Oh, no, you must go to college. Perhaps you could become a preacher?”

“Perhaps.” His lack of enthusiasm was noticeable. I was beginning to doubt his ambition and commitment.

Two nights later, in the back seat of his father’s car, I, fully clothed, wrapped my legs around Don and moved in concert with him in a pantomime of intercourse. He climaxed again. I suppressed the wish that he had lasted a little bit longer as I felt that familiar, deep agitation that preceded my self-induced orgasms.

A few days later, while we were kissing on my sofa, Don unzipped his jeans and pulled my hand down to his crotch. He guided my hand to his penis. Together we pulled it out of his pants, my hand wrapped around it.

“Maggie,” he muttered, “I need ... some ... ah ... relief. I’m afraid I’ll want to do something bad if ... ah ... you don’t help me.”

I wasn’t sure how to help him, but it was not difficult to learn. He began hunching back and forth, holding my hand to his penis. I began to stroke it, back and forth, and he breathed hard and sighed loudly and his penis jerked wildly and hot sperm surged out of him and fell on my arm and hand.

I held his penis until it lost its hardness. It became small and insignificant in my hands. It didn’t even respond when I gave it a few more strokes. Soft, it felt so insignificant, so cuddly. I pulled the foreskin back from the tip of it – he was not circumcised, although I didn’t realize what that was until later – and ran my fingers over the ridge surrounding the tip and all its books and crannies. I poked my finger into the glans and felt the residual of sticky sperm that stuck to my finger. I was interested. I thought to myself that I would like to examine his penis in the light to see what it looked like.

As Don lay back on the sofa and relaxed. I wished he would provide relief for me, but it seemed too bold to ask him that. Women, I had been told, were not supposed to enjoy sex, just endure it. I left him alone as soon as I could to wash away the sperm drying on my arm and to change my underwear. My panties were wet.

That night I prayed about Don and what we had done. “Did I lose my virginity?” I asked myself.

The answer in my head was “no.” We were just getting a sample of what it would be like when we married and had intercourse. But would we get married? Maybe someday, I thought, after college – but not soon.

The next time we met in Don’s car parked on a lonely country, I “helped” him again but this time he spurted sperm all over my best white skirt. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping at the wet spots with his handkerchief. “I’ll never do that again. I promise.”

I worried that my dress would have noticeable stains, but I said to him. “It’s all right. I like making you do ... that. But we can’t go any further,” I quickly added.

“Of course not.” he answered. “Not until we’re married. Or at least engaged.”

I finally got relief one night on that sofa while my parents were out the house at one of the bridge parties they frequently attended. At last! I had worried that I was one of those “frigid” women I had heard about. Despite a dozen times when he had rubbed against me and ejaculated in his jeans or in my hand, I had still not climaxed. This time, however, my skirt had worked its way up to my waist and his hand found its way beneath it. He slipped his hand inside my panties and one finger found my slit.

I didn’t sweep his hand away. “Just your hand,” I gasped, “not your finger. Not inside me.” That was going too far. I didn’t know whether a finger inserted into me would cause me to lose my virginity -- but it seemed too risky.

“Okay,” he said. He rubbed his hand over my panties and into my slit and pressed against my clitoris and I hunched in pleasure, unzipping his jeans and pulling his hard penis out.

My first man-made orgasm was a wondrous thing. I had never been popular with boys; I was repressed and guilt-ridden; I lacked self-esteem; I was a puritan. Don’s hand rubbed me to a climax that left me shaking like a leaf, my body wildly surging back and forth and he hung on to me like a rider on a wild horse. It was thirty seconds of paradise followed by a quiet time of peace and good feeling. Heaven on earth!

When I could talk again, I said, “I’ve never felt anything like that before.” He was holding me and I was naked except for my panties, pulled down below my crotch. His penis was rubbing against my thigh. “Make me cum,” he said. That was the first time he had said that word.