I know a lot of people who are terrified of sex. I can’t entirely blame them, really. For something that’s one of the most intimate and natural things you could ever do, it’s instinctively just scary for a lot of people. You don’t know what’s going to happen, how it’s going to happen, where it’s going to happen…all of those important things tend to just kind of linger in the air.

But after your first time, you’re usually set in your beliefs: it’s either the best thing ever, okay, or entirely underrated. For me, well, I have no problem with it. It’s fun. It feels good. It can get you into loads of trouble, of course, but all-in-all, I’ve got no real valid complaints. And I suppose that’s a strange conclusion to come to, considering the first time I had sex, I didn’t want to.

I met him about as randomly as you can meet a guy. He was about 6′2”, tall, lean, muscular, and all around American-attractive. I try to pretend that I’m not driven by our warped senses of beauty, but there was no denying that the man – who was at least five years older than I was – was pretty. I saw him and he saw me. There was talking. The talking led to promises that, yes, I would call him back tomorrow. And I did. I called him, and met up with him again. We continued like that for a few days, talking and flirting, him thinking he knew what I wanted and me thinking I knew what he wanted.

I don’t remember how it happened. That’s not to say I haven’t forgotten it; I just don’t remember what bought him to my house that night, while my mom was out and wouldn’t be back until midnight. We did our usual talking and flirting, and to say that things got heavy-handed after a bit would be a massive understatement.

It was, up until a certain point in the evening, more enjoyable than I thought it would be. We were playing around more than anything else. Maybe that was why he caught me so off guard. To say I wasn’t expecting it would be a lie. But we’d agree beforehand that there would be no actual sex, and I suppose I was expecting him to honor our agreement.

He didn’t.

It wasn’t his fault. I didn’t say “no” or anything vaguely familiar. I didn’t push him away, didn’t tell him to put on a condom. At the time, it didn’t bother me as much as it should have. I was scared, but I pretended I wasn’t for the rest of the night. He left only about ten minutes before my mom came home. I called my best friend, all squeals and laughter, and wasn’t really upset until it hit me the next morning what – and who – I’d done.

The next few weeks were originally he and I calling each other back now and then. Then after a bit, it turned to just him calling. Then there weren’t any calls at all. After a panicked (though pointless) gyno visit, I conveniently ignored the fact that, really, I didn’t consent. I forgot about it, and I moved on with my life.

A few weeks ago, he called me. We exchanged a few pleasantries until he asked if he could come over. I had not forgotten how he was, and I damn well knew all he wanted was a quick lay. I told him, matter-of-factly, that I was in a relationship now. His response was a cheerful, “So?” I continued to explain to him that we were about 300 miles apart. He sounded disappointed, and a few more awkward pleasantries went by before I hung up.

I wasn’t mad at him then, just like I wasn’t mad at him back when. I knew what kind of person he still was, and he thought I was the same girl he’d sort-of known back in 2005. I’ve changed, and he hasn’t. I’ve grown up and he hasn’t. Does it upset me now, thinking back on it? Yeah, a little. Am I one of those people that is terrified of sex? Yeah, a little. But I still like sex, and I didn’t let the experience be a block for me to trip over; I just used it as a step, and I like to think that I’m a better person for it.