Sex and I: My First Handjob

The first handjob experience that I have was in a park. It was long back in 2008 and with my first boyfriend. We could not get a hotel room because of our age and also because people were not so open minded then. Moreover, since it was my first relation with a guy, I was afraid to get into a room. But there are things you can’t control. We used to meet in gardens and parks, go to secluded corners, hug and kiss and do things.

He used to feel me up and I used to squeeze his dick over his pants. One day finally I had to tell him that I wanted to see it. He took it out and I held it in my hands for the first time ever. I started stroking it and his eyes started closing. He started to lose control over himself letting out soft moans. I was kneeling in front of him, my face near his d*ck and I was watching it so closely and with interest. Stroking it with my right hand I remember. I was in heat too. I could feel myself getting wet down there.

Sometimes, in the heat, I would pull back too far. He would let out a moan filled with a little pain and pleasure and would grab my hair tighter. The pre-cum oozing out, I didn’t know what it was. I thought he was done and so I stopped. He told me to continue and that he would tell me when he was about to cum.

I started stroking faster, rubbing myself a little with the other hand. It felt so good. A rock hard dick in my hand, heat in my pants and the cool wind. He suddenly increased the tightness of his grip. I didn’t understand why. He told me that he was about to cum and to stroke it faster. I obliged and started moving my hands as fast as I could.

Suddenly I felt something move inside his dick making it’s way from the base to the top. I could feel his grip tighten further and it shot out of his dick. Two-three shots and he let lose. I knew what it was. It felt like all his tension was shot out. I kept holding it and a couple of drops dripped on my hand. The drops made my panties even more wet.

I looked at him. He had his eyes closed and was breathing fast with a tinge of smile and a lot of satisfaction on his face. Someone had done him for the first time and I prided myself with the fact.

I stood up, placed my hands on his chest and asked him how it was. He grabbed my waist with one hand immediately, placed the other behind my neck and locked lips. It was intense and I knew that I had done a good job.

I was nineteen and had never been touched by anyone but myself. That is a sentence that carries more weight than it might seem — nineteen years of imagining, of constructing elaborate fantasies from stolen glimpses of late-night cable television and the dog-eared pages of novels I kept hidden under my mattress. My body was a country I had explored alone, mapping its responses in the dark of my hostel room with the efficiency of an amateur cartographer and the guilt of a Catholic schoolboy, though I was neither Catholic nor particularly guilty. I was simply inexperienced, and the gap between what I imagined and what I knew was vast enough to drown in.

Her name was Priya, and she lived two floors above me in the university hostel — a sprawling concrete building in South Delhi that smelled perpetually of instant noodles and cheap deodorant. We had been circling each other for weeks, drawn together by the gravitational pull that exists between two people who find each other interesting and are terrified of admitting it. She studied comparative literature and had a habit of leaving underlined passages in library books for me to find, which was either deeply romantic or mildly unhinged, depending on your perspective. I found it devastating.

The evening it happened was unremarkable by any external measure. A Thursday in October, the Delhi heat finally breaking into something breathable, the neem trees outside rustling with the first real breeze in months. Her roommate had gone home for a family wedding, and Priya had invited me up to watch a film on her laptop — an invitation so transparent in its pretense that even my oblivious nineteen-year-old self understood what it meant. I climbed those two flights of stairs with the kind of nervous energy that makes your hands shake and your mouth go dry.

Her room was small and warm, lit by a desk lamp draped with a dupatta that turned the light amber. The laptop was open on the bed, playing some French film with subtitles neither of us would read. She sat cross-legged against the headboard, and I perched on the edge of the mattress like a man on a ledge, painfully aware of the six inches of bedsheet between us and the fact that my heartbeat had migrated to my throat.

We talked. About the film, about a professor we both disliked, about nothing at all. The conversation was a bridge we were building plank by plank, each sentence bringing us closer to the middle where the real thing waited. I noticed that she had shifted — her knee was touching mine now, a point of contact so small and so electric that I lost the thread of whatever I was saying mid-sentence.

“You stopped talking,” she said, and there was a smile in her voice that I felt in my sternum.

“I forgot what I was saying.”

“Good.” She reached over and closed the laptop. The French film died mid-dialogue, and the room was suddenly darker, smaller, more honest. The dupatta-filtered light caught the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her throat, the place where her kurta had slipped slightly off one shoulder. She turned to face me, and I understood with absolute clarity that the next few minutes would redraw the map of my body entirely.

She kissed me first. I want to be clear about that — not because it matters who initiates, but because I was physically incapable of initiating anything at that moment. My nervous system had staged a full mutiny. Her lips were warm and tasted faintly of the chai we had shared earlier, and the kiss was slow, exploratory, the kind of kiss that asks questions rather than making demands. I answered as best I could, my hand finding the curve of her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton.

What happened next unfolded with the inevitability of gravity. Her hand moved from my shoulder to my chest, tracing a line downward that my body followed like a compass needle finding north. When her fingers reached the waistband of my jeans, she paused — a question mark pressed against my hip bone — and I nodded, or breathed, or made some sound that communicated consent in a language older than words.

Her hand slipped beneath the fabric, and the world contracted to the size of her palm. I had imagined this moment a thousand times, but imagination is a pale understudy for the real thing. Her touch was tentative at first, learning the shape of me with a curiosity that was itself arousing — the way she adjusted her grip, the way her breath changed when she felt me respond, the small sound she made that was somewhere between satisfaction and wonder. I was trembling, and she knew it, and she did not rush.

Time became unreliable. It could have been two minutes or twenty — I had no way to measure anything except the rhythm she established, slow at first, then finding a pace that my body recognized even though my mind had never been here before. I gripped the bedsheet with one hand and her shoulder with the other, and the sounds I made were not sounds I recognized as my own. She whispered something — my name, I think, or maybe just a breath shaped like encouragement — and the world narrowed to a single bright point of sensation.

Afterward, we lay side by side on her narrow hostel bed, staring at the ceiling fan that turned too slowly to do any good. My body was humming with a frequency I had never felt — not just the physical aftershock, but something deeper, a recalibration. I had been touched. Someone had wanted to touch me, had taken pleasure in my pleasure, had held me in her hand with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

“Are you okay?” she asked, and I could hear the vulnerability beneath the question — the fear that she had crossed a line, that the silence meant regret rather than reverence.

“I am very okay,” I said, and my voice cracked on the last word, and we both laughed — the kind of laughter that releases tension you didn’t know you were carrying. She curled against my side, her head on my shoulder, her hand resting on my chest where my heartbeat was slowly remembering its normal rhythm. Outside, a dog barked in the hostel courtyard and an autorickshaw puttered past on the road, and the world continued its ordinary business, entirely unaware that mine had just been remade from the ground up.

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