Confession #4: The one that was my first.

My fourteenth summer was spent at a baseball field.

Both of my brothers played in a league and both were pretty good. My father was an assistant coach on the younger's team. I was there to help. Every night. All summer.

I was the one who helped lug the equipment bags from the car to the benches while my brothers were warming up or playing catch with their teams. I was the one who brought cups of fresh ice water from the cooler when the team would come off the field. I was the one in a ponytail and shorts at the end of the bench holding the clipboard.

I was aware of the stares and I liked them. I'd laugh when I'd get a congratulatory slap on my butt, too, after a good play, though my father would not and would shoot a look of warning at the offending boy and scold me, sometimes loudly, not to encourage that sort of behavior.

I had long before discovered my interest in boys, but there was only one boy on the team that I was particularly interested in: the Short Stop.

He was sixteen. Handsome. Short, spiky blonde hair. Bright green eyes. A crooked smile. He had an athlete's body, slightly more muscular than some because he played football in the fall. And a look of intensity when he played that made me curious if he was always that intense.

He was my first love.

He had been on the same team as the younger of my two brothers for four seasons. They were teammates, but not necessarily friends, as they didn't talk outside of baseball season.

He had several girlfriends during the years that I'd known him. Girls that would come and watch the games. Girls that would stand along the fences at practice and wrap their fingers in the chain link and flirt shamelessly between plays and kiss him in the parking lot when their parents weren't looking.

He never hit on me. He had never flirted with me. And the fact that he seemed to be the only guy I couldn't make notice me no matter how hard I tried (and, with him, I tried a lot) drove me insane.

When he did finally notice me, I didn't know what to do with myself.

Every year, my brothers' teams would have a barbecue the night before their first game. Parents and players and coaches and siblings all standing around eating burnt hot dogs and potato chips and talking about baseball and work and the season and such.

This year, for whatever reason, my dad had volunteered to host the barbecue for our team. Which meant that I was there to help. Carting freshly cooked hot dogs out to the buffet style line. Making sure that buns and condiments were always available and that dirty napkins were cleaned up off of the lawn quickly so that, despite the crowd, things never looked untidy.

Somehow, during a lull in my unpaid waitressing duties, he and I wound up in the same group of people. We somehow wound up talking. He suggested that we go out sometime. I quickly told him that I'd love to.

The problem was that my parents didn't let me date. They had a rule that I wasn't supposed to date until I was sixteen. I told him so. He suggested that he could get a group of people together to go if that would mean that I could go and meet him there.

I asked my mother. I think she could see the excitement that I couldn't contain. I had to get names of other people who were going and their parents and phone numbers where they could all be contacted, but she eventually agreed to let me go.

That round of miniature golf and go-cart racing was followed by another day where we went for ice cream and a movie together and that day was followed by another going swimming at the lake.

We made it official over the phone that I was his girlfriend.

I was now the one leaning against the chain link to watch him at practices and standing too close to him in the parking lot after games and stealing his kisses any time we thought no one was looking.

And did I ever love kissing him.

My parents started letting him come over to our house to watch movies and would even give us some privacy to do it in. He started coming over to watch movies all of the time, most often during the day when we both knew that my parents wouldn't come home and usually when my brothers would be somewhere else for a few hours.

In the darkness of our basement, with some sort of movie on in the background to provide us an alibi should we need one, we would kiss and touch and do all of the things my parents had warned me not to do.

He wasn't a virgin when we started dating. He'd lost his to one of the girls I'd seen at the ballpark the summer before. He knew the lines we were crossing. He'd been here before with someone else. Yet, he was the hesitant one.

The first time he touched my breasts, I was the one who took his wrist and placed his hands there. A short time later, he was touching me under my shirt, but over my bra.

The next day, I found myself unfastening my bra and taking off my shirt altogether.

He spent a lot of time playing with my bare breasts. He was fascinated with them. He'd kiss my nipples and then blow on them and I'd gasp at the sudden cold. They'd always respond quickly to his touch, as if they were as happy to see him as he was to be seeing them.

Our kissing always lead to me being on my back on the couch. He'd be on top of me, my legs on either side of his hips. I could always feel how hard his cock was through the front of his jeans as he would grind against me.

We were in this position one afternoon and I was running my nails along his back, under his t-shirt, when my oldest brother announced that he was home and slammed the door upstairs and I had to hurry up and get redressed as he came stomping down the stairs.

He knew what we were doing, I'm sure. I'm reasonably sure he'd been down there more than once doing it himself. That's why he gave us the courtesy of announcing that he was there. Why he made it apparent just precisely how many more seconds I had to pull my shirt over my head and hide my bra in the cushions of the couch and tuck my hair behind my ear.

He knew what we were doing, but he never told.

Each time after, it didn't take nearly as long for my shirt to come off. Short Stop would be quickly back on top of me. With a little encouragement and with my jeans still on, his hands wandered.

He would press his fingers hard against the seam as he'd grind his body against mine. It was intoxicating and frustrating and exhilarating and I wanted more.

So when he unbuttoned my jeans, I didn't resist. I just kept kissing him.

He unzipped them and his fingers slid across my panties and it felt so good it made every muscle in my stomach shake and tremble.

"Are you okay?" he asked. I nodded, hoping that doing so would mean that it would happen again. It did, as his hand slid inside my jeans.

He was lying on top of me, this handsome boy I'd pined for, grinding against me and licking my nipples and rubbing my pussy through my soaked panties and it was the most amazing thing I'd ever felt.

And then, trembling and gasping and moaning, I came. It was the first time I had done so with someone else and it was more intense and more electrifying than anything that I'd experienced on my own.

Each time we would make out after that, my clothes would slip off more easily. Soon, we decided that my jeans would only get in the way. Then my panties were too much of a hindrance.

In the hormone-induced haze of one heated moment, as he was tugging my shorts and panties off, I told him how unfair it was that I would always be naked and he never was.

Then I was the one pulling off his jeans and he was suddenly there in only his underwear and we suddenly only had the thin grey cotton of his boxer briefs separating us.

I had no idea all of the new things I was about to discover.

I was somewhat familiar with his cock at that point. After all, he'd been making me come for several weeks and it was only fair that I returned the favor. But, that had always been me, first with my hand on the front of his pants and then down the front of his pants, stroking and squeezing as he'd grind against me, until he'd cover my hand and arm with sticky, white cum.

This was the first day that I actually got to see it. I sat on the couch entirely naked with him standing in front of me. I pulled his shorts down just enough to reveal it to me. It bobbed with his pulse, insistent and demanding to be touched.

So, I did. I wrapped my fingers around it and I rubbed it up and down. He moaned and thrusted himself into my hand and I was surprised at the amount of power that I had, being able to cause this kind of reaction.

I had no clue how to give a blow job back then, but I knew that I probably should try. I only knew what I'd seen in pictures. I kissed it. I pulled it up so that I could run my tongue along its underside.

When I could tell he was getting close to cumming I stopped.

(After all, I didn't want that stuff in my mouth and I would have a hell of a time explaining it being on my face and in my hair and I knew from the magazines that those were the only two places it could possibly go.)

He knelt in front of me, telling me how close he was to cumming and that he wanted to make me come first. So, I stopped touching him.

I leaned back on the couch as we kissed. He knelt between my legs. Soon after, he was grinding against me the same way we'd been doing for weeks to get each other off. Except now there was nothing between us to prevent the inevitable.

He put one finger inside of me and would use it to fuck me while his thumb would rub my clit, just like I had showed him to do. The thrusting of his hips would press his hand into me with increasing pressure. Until he unexpectedly decided to use both hands on my breasts, leaving me teetering on the edge of an orgasm.

I had never been so wet. Or slippery. Or frustrated.

I felt the tip of his cock right where his finger had just been when he leaned forward to kiss me. A second later, he was sliding inside of me far more easily and readily, I think, than either of us had expected.

He stopped kissing me, his forehead against mine, and we stared at each other. We both knew where he was. My mouth was, I'm sure, agape in a look of half-dazed "are you serious?" dopiness when, already fully inside, he asked me if I wanted to.

(If you've ever seen Twilight, it's the same slack-jawed look that Kristen Stewart has managed to perfect and uses in nearly every scene, whether the scene calls for it or not.)

Of course I wanted to.

If I hadn't wanted to, I would've never taken my panties off. I would've never put his cock in my mouth. I wouldn't be moaning and gasping and writhing beneath him.

Had I not wanted to, it was far too late for him to be asking.

Beyond the mild uncomfortableness I was feeling at being rather suddenly impaled by him, I was also relatively certain that I could feel his testicles pressed against my ass. In other words, there really wasn't anywhere else for him to go that he wasn't already visiting.

Asking if I wanted to at this point was akin to asking if I wanted to go sky-diving as we were falling together out of a plane.

That's what I thought, not what I said.

What I said was a rasping "uh huh" as I nodded my head and bit my lip in slight discomfort. A cock, I was quickly finding, had quite a bit more girth than even the thickest of fingers and having one inside of you took some getting used to.

To be more precise, for me it was about three slow thrusts of getting used to.

Then the discomfort had subsided and my pleasure centers were fully focusing on the heat of his breath on my neck. And the soft grunts, both his and mine, that accompanied each thrust. And the fingertips, his, squeezing and pulling at my nipples. And the hand, mine, that hand wandered downward to apply just a few quick fingerstrokes to my clit.

I did wind up coming first, but not by much. It wasn't an earth-shattering experience -- more of a hand on the back of his head, fingers vainly trying to grab hold of his short hair, pulling his mouth to mine to keep from making any noise sort of thing.

As I was coming down the back side of my orgasm, quivering and panting and not sure whether or not I was even able to speak, I heard his own grunts begin. I felt his cock swell even more, not knowing or believing that was even possible, and then twitch inside of me.

After I figured out that it was over and had a few moments to evaluate whether or not it was everything that I had expected (it was), we had a few moments to enjoy the afterglow. He laid there, after slipping out of me, with his head on my chest as we both caught our breath.

And then he kissed me one more time before we got up and got our clothes back on and started reassembling the room. He even helped me try to soak the wet stain I'd left behind out of the sofa cushion with a towel and put all of the throw pillows back where they should be and such.

After he'd gone home and I was left alone in my room that evening to think, I was slightly surprised that I didn't feel different. I wasn't different. Aside from a mild soreness that was, actually, a somewhat pleasant reminder of what had transpired, I didn't feel anything different at all. Except, that is, for an bubbly eagerness to try it again.

And we did. Almost every day for the rest of the summer.

The season ended a few weeks later and the summer ended soon after. Short Stop and I lasted until early fall, but we both knew the break-up was inevitable. Being at different schools in different parts of town with fewer opportunities to get together in groups and no excuses to get together otherwise was too much for us, no matter how much I thought I loved him (and I am sure that I loved him).

I let him be the one to do it. We broke up over the phone, with many tears -- from me, at least -- but no regrets and nothing but pleasant memories. Even though I don't really even like baseball, I half-blame Short Stop for the thing that I've had for baseball players ever since and little extra twinge of "excitement" I feel whenever I watch a game.

---

As an embarrassing and perhaps somewhat humorous addendum to the story, the first time I had sex was also the first time I almost got caught.

In retrospect, I'm sure my mother must have suspected something far more serious than just parking lot kisses and watching movies together, snuggled on a couch in the dark of the basement was going on.

There was no other reason that she'd have bothered inspecting my underwear before putting it in the wash. And there was no other reason why she would've asked me about the odd, crusty white stain.

To that point, I thought cum that didn't wind up in your hair or on your face or in your mouth somehow magically disappeared once it got inside your body. I wasn't sure where it went, exactly, but I figured that once it was in there, it was gone for good and I just had to hope that it made any babies.

It never occurred to me that the mild moisture that I felt in my panties after he'd left was his cum leaking out of me.

Luckily, I managed to convince her that I'd had a mild urinary tract infection; a result of an adverse reaction to an extended bubble bath I'd taken a few days prior when I got lost in a book and stayed in the water too long.

After that, I was always more careful. I would pre-rinse my panties on days Short Stop and I had sex. I'd keep them out of the laundry basket until I was sure there wasn't any evidence left behind.

Unfortunately, I would discover a few short years later that you can't ever be too careful once your mother starts suspecting ...