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First-Time Sex Stories…That Don’t Suck: When Lust Leads to Liberation

Swiping your V-Card isn’t as simple as a one-click-buy on Amazon. It can be awkward. It can be weird. It can even be on a twin bed in your childhood bedroom. And it can totally fucking suck. But it can also rock your world, bust open your heart and light your bod on fire. Although we rarely hear the good stories (most first-time sex tales include a lot of fumbling, sweating and a corny-as-hell playlist), the good stories are out there. In fact, they’re right here. 

SuperShe is rolling out a coitus collection from women all over the world. A compilation of your best rites of passage. A gallery of getting it on. The Louvre of lovemaking, if you will. Buckle up because no detail is too graphic; no emotion is too raw. 

Just so we’re all on the same page, we’re here to read, laugh, gasp, and get weak-in-the-knees all over again with you—and, if we’re lucky, get a little turned on. We’re definitely never gonna judge or mock. Cool?

So kick back and enjoy these SuperShes’ first steamy moments that marked even more good times to come. And come. And come.  

When Lust Leads to Liberation 

“For countless reasons—too many to list here, but the main ones being religious Latina mom and Catholic school upbringing—I wasn’t going to grant entry to my beautiful body to just anyone, even someone I loved. My freshman year boyfriend in college applied for access often, and while I let him poke his head in for a peek, he never truly was allowed to cross the border. I worried it might make me love him too much and that was terrifying. Not to mention: guilt, shame, fear of pregnancy, blah, blah, blah, you know.

So when Andres shows up the spring of my senior year with his sexy Venezuelan accent, thick brunette hair, full lips, and a student Visa, his exoticness and lack of permanence is very intriguing to me. Attachment is not an option. Plus, my V-Card is weighing so heavily on me at age 22; all I crave is lightness. As I begin counting down the days to return home, four states away, and start my new adult life, I opt to skip class on a late-April afternoon and finally let ecstasy, which had come knocking so many times before, into my dorm room.

“Mierda, mujer,” he whispers (translation: shit, woman) in my ear as he takes man’s first steps into the magical unknown. I nearly lose it, gasping for air and grasping fistfuls of sheets all at once. As he works his gorgeous lips all over my face, neck and exposed body—always finding my ear and exhaling my name—I taste the personal freedom that had eluded me when the wall was up.

As the wall that had served its purpose—to protect me, according to my parents, my priests, and Catholic school teachers—begins to crumble, it dawns on me that I had been imprisoned, trapped in my own fears and ignorance for years. To know another person this intimately is, no doubt, a gift. But to know this side of myself so intimately is what was most liberating.” 

Loretta

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