Dear Denise,

The last time we spoke, you asked me about my first experience with another woman. To answer your question, no — it wasn’t planned. Really the first time, I was very young. As I grew up I tried to keep thoughts of my first, buried under a torrent of fantasies about boys.

Don’t get me wrong. I liked, and still do like sex with men. However, I have come to realize that sex with another woman can fulfill me in ways that sex with a man cannot.

Women are far more gentle, and yet more passionate than men. Men generally have animal passion all the time. But animal passion can wear on you, and be over far too soon. When a woman becomes passionate, it is more special, more personal than with a man. With men, it often seems that they might as well be having sex with themselves. I have had sensitive male lovers, but they are the exception, rather than the rule.

My first experience with another female was when I was fifteen. My friend Jennifer and I were very close. We had gone through the first ravages of puberty together. We watched ourselves and each other as our bodies were transformed from slim, almost boyish forms, to a more awkward, almost lanky body. Which was at times embarrassing, and yet at other times wonderful.

I watched Jennifer as her chest was transformed from flat and small nipples to small mounds with larger brown nipples. We confided in each other about our first period — the excitement, the fear, the mess. I watched my own vulva as it grew downy fuzz along the slit, and up toward my stomach. God did it itch!

We shared our new bodies with each other. I can recall Jennifer showing me her fuzzy pubic hair. Our bodies were new worlds to explore, and we were partners in that exploration. It was not long after that we became aware of each other’s sexuality.

My first experience with masturbation took place at this time as well. I found that touches and strokes to my body produced unusual sensations. I remember my first orgasm well. I was in my room late at night in bed. I had been touching my vulva, stroking my pubic hair. I was aware of my clitoris previous to this, but this time it almost begged for my attention. As I nudged it with my thumb it swelled and sent shocks of electricity into my limbs.

I shook with excitement as I felt a now familiar dampness seeping from my vagina. As I caressed the folds of my labia, I felt pleasure in warm waves. Finally, there was an urgency, a threshold of pleasure that had stopped me previously. At this point, safe and alone in my room, I began to cross that threshold.

As I continued to stroke my clitoris, contractions began in my lower stomach and groin. They rapidly began to build up, until I feared that I might burst. I was afraid that I would wet myself due to the pressure building in my crotch. Finally, I abandoned myself to the pleasure, and my groin pulsed with ecstasy. Later, as I lingered in my wetness, I realized that a bridge had been crossed— a bridge into adult life.

I shared my experience with Jennifer. She was intrigued, as she had never climaxed before. We were both curious as to the physical nature of sex. We had heard about it, whispered by boys in the school yard. We were aware of references to “fuck”, “cocksuck” and “69”, but we didn’t have a clue as to what these words meant. I vaguely recall thinking that a man inserted his penis into a woman’s vagina, and peed, thus creating a baby. I don’t suppose I understood why people had sex until I started experimenting with my own body. It was then that I understood, and wanted to find out more.