Sexcapades

Bluebird Blue balls

We were 17, in the back of his 1996 Nissan Bluebird. Underwear around our ankles, moans somewhere between a ‘70s pornstar and a 17-year-old virgin. We were parked up at the lookout, my parents thought I was at Claudia’s house, his parents, well, who really knows what he told them.

After awkwardly fumbling in the backseat and changing positions a few times, he finally got it in, and it felt lush— bar slightly uncomfortable. Nonetheless, I was on my way to being a bonafide non-virgin. Unfortunately, after a few thrusts we were disturbed by a bunch of stoners pulling up beside us.

The result? A half virginity loss and a buildup of blue balls. Fast forward three years, I’d just broken up with my toxic 6’5” boyfriend (need I say more) when we ran into each other at a uni party. After dating such a toxic lad for so long, all I wanted to do was wrap my legs around someone different for more than 30 seconds. So, I did what any horny, kind of heartbroken 20-year-old would do. Pulled down the front of my dress to show optimum cleavage, hiked it up to show optimum leggage, and conveniently stood in his path so we could “accidentally” run into each other.

“Hey,” I smiled, admiring the way he had grown into his shoulders and dorky personality.

“Hi,” he confidently smirked. Within seconds, I knew this man f**ked. A lot. In the three years since the Bluebird blue balls incident, he had knuckled down at the school of bumpy cuddles and graduated, not with a Not Achieved, but with an Excellence. Things got heated over beer pong. He undressed me with his eyes, I tried to remember what his eggplant looked like and soon we were sneaking away to his bedroom. Clothes? Off. Condom? On. Three years of blue balls? Resolved. We shagged on every single piece of Kmart furniture in his room and only took breaks to giggle about how far we had come.

Safe to say, it was worth the wait.