What's Your Number? #7

Wanna hear about the first time I actually had an orgasm with a guy? Read on.

If you came here looking for exceptionally awkward, embarrassing, or otherwise unremarkable sex stories, please kindly review the previous three installments in my "What's Your Number?" series. If you're here for something a little different, I'm happy to report this is where it starts to get good.

Welcome to my countdown of the Top 10 (and only 10) men I have slept with. I recently reached this mile stone and decided that there was truly no better way to celebrate than to take a look back at the best of the best and the worst of the worst. And I hope you're all ready for Brogan because I sure wasn't.

You're probably having a hard time keeping up with the timeline, aren't you? Well, that's because I've made a point not to focus on WHEN each of the ten men happened, but HOW. This was done on purpose to ensure you're all focusing on the stories themselves rather than attempting to line everybody up in some sort of order.

Now, that being said, I feel it essential to begin this installment by mentioning that Brogan happened exactly two months after I lost my virginity to Nick (see: "What's Your Number? #10). If you're a dedicated reader, you'll remember that Nick did not focus on me whatsoever. The entire time, it was all about him and his pleasure. So basically, I came away from that experience believing that women only pretend to enjoy sex so men won't feel bad about how terrible it actually is.

I'd say the bar was set about as low as possible.

Enter: Brogan.

I'll admit, I still feel a little flutter of something when I think about him—a little twinge of excitement that makes my legs cross and my cheeks flush. It's an automatic response, something only the first guy to ever make me orgasm could produce.

Let's talk about that glorious moment, shall we?

So, like I said, I was still reeling from a particularly bad first time when I met Brogan. He was a friend of a friend, someone whose name I heard brought up in conversations but had never actually met personally. From the stories I'd been told, he was a massive womanizer—someone who bounced from lady to lady, collecting names and broken hearts as he went.

Not my type of guy whatsoever. I chose to stay away.

One night, I was talking with our mutual friend and she asked me if I was looking to date anyone after my traumatizing experience with Nick. I gave a hesitant "yes," although I still wasn't sure I was ready to be disappointed again. Not to mention, I hadn't been on any dates since Nick, nor had I tried having sex again. I was feeling pretty out of the game at that point.

No, I suppose that's not right. It was more like I was a bystander with a foam finger trying to cheer on the players but not quite understanding what all the excitement is about. I mean, I tried playing the game and it was a pretty fucking awful game. Why are we all pretending it's so fantastic? Why are we all so desperate to get drafted so we can play, too?

Okay, okay. I'll move on.

The mutual friend gave me Brogan's number along with the promise that I "won't be disappointed again." When I think back on this, I'm fairly certain this friend was only interested in getting me properly laid. She didn't have any intentions of this becoming the relationship it happened to blossom into. A happy accident, I suppose.

Brogan and I met for coffee (you'll soon recognize that most of the men in my series begin that way). He was much cuter than I had expected. Actually, a lot cuter. Actually, he was positively beautiful and I immediately felt out of his league. But if he felt the same, he certainly didn't show it.

We flirted. A lot. A lot, a lot. I don't think I've ever flirted with anyone as much as I did with Brogan. I touched his arm and he played footsies with me under the table; when I leaned in to show him a picture on my phone, he met me halfway and pressed his forehead to mine as we both observed the photo. My heart was fumbling over and over in my chest, and I just kept thinking, "This is how you're supposed to feel when you're with someone."

I'm proud to say that Brogan and I went on several more dates before we had sex. We kissed a lot. Once, he pushed me up against the door of his car, his whole body pressed into the length of mine as our kiss deepened. His hands crawled underneath my shirt, burning my skin wherever they touched. I decided then that I needed him. But he was a gentleman, and he wouldn't dare let our first time be in a car.

"It has to be a night we won't forget," he said, cheeks flushed and lips so perfectly swollen from our kiss that it was all I could do not to beg him to please take me anyway. I had to respect his wishes, even if that meant another night alone in my bed, hands between my legs, imagining what it would feel like when it was finally his hands instead.

About a week later, he came to my house for a family dinner my mom had insisted I invite him to. He sat at the table, surrounded by my siblings and parents, and immediately won them all over. I couldn't believe it. It was like everyone was as taken with him as I was. I swear my mom even flirted with him a little.

By the end of the night, I was positively glowing. I felt proud to have his arm hooked around my shoulders while we ate dessert; proud to feel his body heat next to me, to know he was there for me and only me. And when I felt his hand dip below the table and rest between my legs, I felt something that I just couldn't ignore anymore.

After dinner, I told my mom Brogan and I were going to go downstairs to watch a movie. She probably knew that wasn't all we were going to do, but I truly think she was so smitten with him herself that she was happy to let us go.

As soon as we were downstairs, an entire floor between us and the rest of my family, I felt Brogan's arms slip around my body. He pulled me flush against him and nuzzled his face into my neck.

"You smell so good," he murmured. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

I shook my head and leaned into him, arching my neck to give him better access.

There was no movie put in the player, no television powered on. We never even turned on a light. We just stood in the dark together, my back to his front, grinding on each other in hot anticipation of what I'm sure we both knew was going to happen.

I could already feel the semi he was sporting in his jeans. When I turned to face him, I palmed him, felt him swell beneath my hand. The little gasp he gave, coupled with the way his eyes turned a sort of black, made for what was probably the most erotic moment of my life up until that point. I couldn't wait any longer—I needed him.

We backed up until we collapsed onto the couch, falling in a clumsy heap of tangled limbs. Clothes were pushed aside, though some kept on in the case of a wandering sibling or parent happening to come down the stairs without us noticing. My panties were soaked, which Brogan happily pointed out to me when his fingers finally delved down there.

"So wet for me already," he said, and although it was dark, I could hear his smile.

That's the thing about Brogan; he got off knowing I was getting off. When his fingers pushed inside of me, felt how warm and wet I was, he groaned and kissed me harder, fingered me faster. It's like he wasn't enjoying himself unless I was. And was I ever.

He left me shaking and gasping under him, clawing at his shoulders and begging. For what, I'm not sure exactly. Maybe for him, maybe for more, maybe for a release from the immense build up of pleasure inside of me. Whatever it was, Brogan was happy to comply.

He shimmied down my body, kissing every inch of skin he could reach. He paid special attention to my breasts, biting me, licking me, sending me to this state of sweet delirium I never imagined possible. And then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties, peeling them down my legs.

The dark helped, but I still felt shockingly exposed when I knew he face was so close to my pussy. I could feel his hot breath there, knew he could smell me, maybe even see me a little. Did I look O.K.? Was he grossed out? Did he regret getting that close? My cheeks were positively burning, and I moved to cover myself, laughing nervously.

His hands caught mine and placed them firmly at my sides. And that, dear reader, is the precise moment when I had the pleasure of experiencing the very first tongue to ever touch my clit.

My entire body arched like a bow, lips parted in a gasp and fingers grabbing at the couch cushions like I might have floated away less I kept myself grounded.

It was a completely new sensation for me. I could feel his rough cheeks rubbing my inner thighs; his fingers curled around my wrists, gently holding me in place; his tongue running up and down my damp seam with an almost expert precision. I didn't know which sensation to focus on, and when he let go of one of my hands, I immediately pushed it into his thick hair, holding his face exactly where it was from fear of him pulling away too soon.

"Brogan," I moaned, and stopped, swallowing a whimper when his fingers suddenly pushed inside of me.

I'm not sure how long he spent between my legs, alternating between gentle laps of his tongue over my center and then furious flicks on my clit. At some point, my legs began to ache from being bent at the knees for too long, but I barely paid them any attention. I could feel myself edging closer and closer to that sweet release I knew all too well, but had never imagined I would ever feel with a guy. Was it possible? Could I orgasm without my own fingers? Could someone else actually pleasure me to the point of climax?

His fingers gradually quickened their pace. I tossed my head to the side, pressing it into a couch pillow in an attempt to stifle the stream of incoherent noises I was emitting. At some point, I released his hair and placed my own hand over my mouth, desperate to try and quiet myself somehow.

And then it happened. My entire body seized beneath him, warmth filling every limb and my head tipped back as tremors of pleasure rocked through me. I looked up and saw stars. No, not stars. Galaxies. Dust and brilliant spectacles of light, an endless expanse of space that swallowed me whole.

I didn't even have a chance to go down on him.

After witnessing me come undone beneath him, Brogan quickly shed his pants and put on a condom, entering me with a deep groan he attempted to silence with a kiss. Our sex was furious that night—he fucked me at a pace that I could only try helplessly to keep up with. I think at some point we both forgot the potential threat of being caught and just let ourselves go. I distinctly remember him growling my name at one point and the absolute chills it sent coursing down my spine.

When he finished, he collapsed onto the couch and pulled me against his chest so I could lay my head there and listen to the gradually steadying of his rapid heartbeat. I closed my eyes and thought about how dramatically our opinion on something can change with the right experience. As it turns out, I fucking LOVE the game.

I won't go into much detail about the relationship that ensued for the next several months. Such as with #9, Brogan is a difficult one to talk about. Yes, he was the first guy to bring me to orgasm and for that, I will always look back on our time together as absolutely spectacular. But he also broke my heart in the most tremendously terrible way a person can, a moment which I would spend the next several years attempting to overcome.

Brogan wasn't my first love, we never got that far. But he was the first guy to take my heart and twist it until it was a tiny, misshapen heap of nothing in his fist. And he was the first person to teach me about trust and how easily that can be broken if someone doesn't care enough about you.

Eesh. Well, that certainly got dark, didn't it?

If it helps, #6 promises to be quite the happier read. As it so happens, it will be the article where I get to tell you all about the first time I fell in deep, passionate, actual requited love. And I'll get to explain to you all how it taught me that sex and lovemaking are two very different acts, indeed.

See you all then.