The first time I had *** I was wearing a pair of army green stretchy pants.
I accept that they were probably not made with my body in mind: The army green legging pattern or design. But I have rather wide hips and somewhat larger thighs, so I had no choice but to go up in a size.
The leggings, of course, were not on during the process of the act, but worn at the beginning, as I lifted my back, allowing for a quick peel down the unshaven length of my legs, the leggings indeed fell smoothly away. At least for a little while anyways. They got to my ankles then, the ripples of fabric slowly unfolding, smoothly rolling, like frosting from a baker’s hand, openly curling.
Then stopped with a peel of bludgeoned laughs as I lay not vertical, but at some kind of acute angle, hanging nearly precariously from my small and dainty ankles. Then I wondered, how many drafts? How many moments of pondered artifacts that would eventually come down to a pair of army green virginity pants. The anticipation: At last! It was interrupted by a peel of softly bludgeoned laughs.
I welcome this fact, taking a moment to pause and listen to the noise of the fabric’s applause as it clung to its last moments attached to my thick and heavy rods. Stretched in spandex I felt them let loose, feeling my feet curl up snuggly around you.
I came to decide that I love my virginity pride and the pants that will wrap neatly around my open and gaping thighs. To me, it doesn’t even matter that you never said Goodbye.