We hadn’t been dating more than six months at the time, and I was very much a virgin. I didn’t think I was ready for sex, but I wanted to blow my boyfriend bad. But I was dead set on growing up that night. The dance was in the ballroom of a swanky hotel, and the boys had rented a couple of hotel rooms upstairs to host an after party-do you see where this is going? My parents wouldn’t let me stay the night at the boys' hotel rooms station because they had all just turned 18 and could drink legally in Australia. I know because I found them tucked away in the back of my wardrobe as well. I also had on those strappy stilettos that lace up your calf. I was dressed as if Rachel from Friends threw up all over me: a floor-length strapless gown that was ruched across the middle and pencil-thin eyebrows, translucent Christina Ricci skin, a bouffant “half-up-half-down” hairdo, and deep plum lipstick. The Catholic boys were known for being sort of bad ass, so I felt like the coolest girl in my grade for attending their dance-especially because he had a car, and did I mention the frosted tips? He was a couple of years older than I was and went to an all boys Catholic school near my stuffy private girl’s school. Of all the photos of us together, one evoked the sweetest recollections. It was also the first time I ever let a guy pour honey over my tits and lick it off. Who would have thought that at age 15, one simple request delivered as a little acronym-a/s/l-would have led me to a lifetime’s worth of firsts: the first time I met someone online, the first time I fell in love, the first time I had oral sex, and indeed the first time I had penis and vagina sex. I was obsessed with being Greek, and he was obsessed with trance music, which is how I, ^Da_LiL_MaRiA^, met him, MinistryOfSound, in an mIRC, (a service we Australians used instead of AIM) chat room for a local Melbourne radio station that had DJs with names like Alex Dyslexia who spoke perfect English with thick Mediterranean accents.
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