25th of September 2016.

The day I made love for the first time was the 25th of September of 2016, at 23 years, two months and 7 days.

I won’t use the term ‘losing my virginity’ at any point in these words. For many of us, losing our virginity happen to us before we are even conscious of what making love is. For me, it was at 6 years old, and it wasn’t to the man of my dreams. My innocence left my body, mind and soul before I had any pubic hair. It left me before I had learnt right from wrong. My innocence was taking from me before I knew it wasn’t anyone’s to take. It was brushed off me like the dust on that old vintage cupboard that is there just for the beauty of its presence.



My innocence came back to me while I was sitting on a bench at Village Underground, a techno club in London. Tale of us was playing, I had a gin and tonic on my right hand, and I was holding my tinder date’s hand with my left, while he was touching my back scar with his only hand left. We had taken some ecstasy and for the first time, I was floating on a cloud of magic and tenderness that I couldn’t have put into words, even if I tried, that night. 
Oli’s touch was mesmerising.

It was our first date together, and the first time I had ever felt alive. Five years later I can already let you in on the secret that nothing has ever felt the same. Oli wasn’t just touching my back. He was reminding me of a feeling I had never felt. I decided right there and then that I was having sex with him that night. 



I had dated a lot before I met him. I would go on dates with strangers just so that I could present different personas, always exciting, always mysterious. I would then kiss them, and say that I was going home and that I would call them. I made sure the kisses were intense to leave them wanting more. The kisses would end with a cheeky bite lip, followed by the orgasm face I was used to seeing in porn. Of course, I knew I would never see them again. I loved hurting men and being in utter control of every social interaction that I had with a potential lover. 
I thought men were disposable and, having just turned 23, I was already making plans on how to live my life on my own, accepting that sex would never be for me. 

Little did I know that I would be faced with the man that would change my life a few months later.

Oli was caressing the scar on my spine as tenderly as I was flying through the sky. The skin he was touching was numb, but his finger tips felt like lighting. A feeling of awakening was travelling from my vertebras to every single cell of my body screaming I was ready. My mind was wild, my soul was hungry and my underwear was wet. 

I didn’t know much about him. I knew he was Italian, somewhat wealthy, and that he had the most beautiful smile and lips I had ever seen in my life. I also knew he wasn’t impressed with my looks. I couldn’t have been wearing anything less boring. I had my hair tied back and different coloured socks. But as an irrevocable fact, I knew he was enchanted by my presence in a way he couldn’t comprehend. 



I turn to him, grabbed his face and kissed him with the confidence of someone who knows what their dreams are, and the fearless state of those who have nothing to lose. I had him and he had me. There wouldn’t be a more invigorating and therefore tragic love story ever written.



-Let’s get an uber to yours. Today I am going to make love for the first time. 


His reaction to my words, the space we were in, and the cab drive to his weren’t relevant. Nothing else could ever be relevant again. I was born on that Sunday and the Luu before then was someone I would never be again. 



We got to his flat and I undressed the body that hadn’t belonged to me before, but it did then. I was taking ownership of the flesh that had belonged to someone else for my whole life. Never could I have imagined that I would be taking my body for a ride with such gracefulness the first time I was faced with a naked body. 



He laid on his back and sat me on top of him. His eyes were locked with mine for the entirety of the orgasms that followed, and for the rest of my adult life. He asked me to sit on his cock as slow as I needed, and I obeyed. Our world collapsed like a piece of art. He entered my soul and painted the canvass that was my body like an artist unaware of the grandiosity of his piece. 



The first time I made love I had six orgasms, I squirted and I was at it for five hours. 

Our love story lasted for a year. A year full of the rushes you get when you stand on top of a cliff and look down at the ocean. A year of discovering the person I was, and erasing the one I had been. We would travel to his island in Italy and fuck under the stars, read our books through the sunsets and drink wine through the early hours of the morning. Oli would wake me up with kisses and overwhelm me with nurturing feelings of respect and tenderness. He would lick the sweat of me as if it was the most luxurious elixir there ever was. 



I didn’t bleed the first I made love, but my heart bled in industrial measures when he, with tears in his eyes, said that he had to let me go and go on to the next chapter of his life without me. He had just moved to New York to start his masters degree and I was over that weekend for a visit. 
That Sunday at 23:00, I board my flight back to London at the JKF airport with a stranger holding my hand. She had saved me from that toilet cubicle where I was having a panic attack, and she helped me through the gate until I was seated on the airplane.



I was looking through the window when I closed my eyes and begged the stars for the strength of surviving just enough days until I was able to remember this chapter with the sweetness of the year that changed my life, instead of the day that my existence stopped making sense.


The stars agreed.