The Bodysuit

The Summer of '93

June meant freedom. I was finishing my final exams, a walking contradiction of high intelligence and deep laziness. I had no plans for university. I just wanted to live.

Socially, I was still an observer. I was shy and lacked confidence. Most girls felt like a different species to me—unreachable. But in the last month of school, the field narrowed to two girls: Sandra and Clara.

I spent weeks getting closer to both of them. We had even planned a day trip to Lisbon—the three of us. But at the last minute, plans changed. Sandra didn't come. It was just me and Clara. We walked the city, and on the boat ride back across the river, the mood changed. As we walked home from the terminal, I took a risk. I reached for her hand. She didn't pull away. It was innocent, but the signal was clear.

The next day, the dynamic shifted for good. We were walking alone, away from our friends. I noticed a ring on her finger—a gift from a sort-of ex-boyfriend. I asked her about it. My voice was tight with jealousy. She didn't argue. She stopped, took the ring off, and put it in her pocket. The path was finally clear.

We ended up in a garden high above the city. The sun was heavy. The Tagus River shone below us, separating us from Lisbon. In that heat, my shyness finally broke. I leaned in, expecting her to be gentle. I was wrong. As soon as we kissed, she was aggressive. She didn't kiss like an angel; she kissed with hunger. My hands slid down to her ass and her breasts. It was a rush. I had played this out in my head a thousand times, but this was real.

A week later, we were alone in my flat. My single bed felt too childish, so we moved to my father’s double bed.

I pulled off her top and froze. She wasn't wearing a standard bra. It was a black bodysuit. It was incredibly sexy, but practicalities got in the way. I fumbled with the snaps at the crotch, struggling against the fabric, my inexperience showing.

When she was finally naked, I saw something that surprised me. In 1993, I was used to seeing full bushes in magazines or movies. Clara was trimmed. It wasn't fully shaved, but it was manicured. It felt advanced for a girl who claimed to be a virgin.

She went down on me. It was the first blowjob of my life. She was skilled, with a rhythm that felt too practiced for a beginner. I wanted to reciprocate—I wanted to taste her—but she refused. She didn't give a reason; she just stopped me. I didn't argue. I was too happy to be receiving.

I climbed on top. Missionary. We fumbled, skin sliding against skin. I found the entrance and pushed. She let out a small moan, but there was no barrier. No blood.

We moved together for a while. It wasn't amazing—it was rushed and anxious—but I held on. Then, she whispered in my ear. She told me she was on the pill and to finish inside. That permission was all I needed. I let go, pumping into her until the release hit me.

As the feeling faded, the doubts crept in. No blood? The grooming? The skilled mouth? Her story about being a virgin had holes in it.

But it didn't matter. The truth was irrelevant. The only fact that mattered was that I was no longer a virgin. I had crossed the line.