Losing my virgin-virginity

Touched for the very first time — by yours truly

I’ve taken a lot of virginity in my life. My train of deflowerment includes introducing numerous men to gay sex, and introducing a significant number of men to sex, period. They’ve ranged in age from their early 20s to late 70s. But my first, the one I lost my virgin-virginity to, was an 18-year-old Pakistani kid named Rahem.

He’d messaged me dozens of times, gushing about how hot my pictures were, how desperately he wanted to hook up. But when it came to going through with it, he always backed out. We’d scheduled two appointments at my place and he stood me up both times. Obviously I was frustrated, but also understood what was going on. He was on the verge of having sex for the first time, with a man no less, and scared shitless. Finally, he decided the only way he could go through with it is if I came to meet him where he lived with his parents in Pickering, Ontario.

Coordinating the encounter is a complex venture. He has a narrow time slot from after his folks have left for work, but before his sister returns from class. Along with the sexual content of the scene, he gave me extensive instructions on how I should approach his house. I’m to park a minimum of three blocks away and then text him to check everything’s okay. After he confirms the coast is clear, I can start walking there, remaining on the opposite side of the street until I see his place. Before I cross to his house, I’m supposed to check whether there’s anyone in the neighbouring driveways. Assuming they’re empty, I can approach his door. He will be watching through the peephole to open it as soon as I arrive, preventing potential prying eyes from glimpsing me standing on the porch for too long.

As I step inside, he looks like he’s about to hyperventilate. Short and chubby, dressed in sweatpants and a Sonic the Hedgehog t-shirt, he locks and chains the door as he closes it behind me. “So if anyone comes home you can say we do gaming together,” he blurts out. It takes me a second to understand what he means. “Like video games?” I ask. “Yeah,” he says, still breathless. I contemplate making a joke about my utter lack of video game knowledge, but decide it won’t serve to put him at ease.


I take off my shoes and we walk into the house. The living room is pink, with floral printed couches and a huge TV; a corner is stacked with cases of bottled water. “Sorry,” he says, surveying the space. “My parents are kind of retarded.”

He leads me upstairs to a tiny room with a single bed and a huge black lacquer dresser. Various bottles of cologne surround a cardboard-framed photo of him in a cap and gown. There’s a sizeable computer monitor on a tiny desk and a hamper of laundry next to it, a grey towel resting on top, dotted with the unmistakeable remnants of frequent masturbation. Every available inch of wall is plastered with posters of women in bikinis.

He stands there, breathing shakily, beads of sweat on his forehead, totally unsure what to do. He’d asked me to wear a jock, but I’d opted for boxers for the drive, so I tell him to lie down while I change. The bathroom is bright green. The vanity has three different kinds of shaving cream and two baskets of make-up and nail polish. There’s a Costco-sized carton of toilet paper in the corner and five or six value packs of different shampoo and conditioner stacked by the shower. Four toothbrushes of different colours hang in a rack next to the mirror.

Leaving my clothes in a ball by the tub, I walk back to his room in my jock. He’s lying on the bed in his underwear and gives a little start as I enter. I crawl in next to him, put my arm around his shoulders and stare into his eyes. Even though he has stubble on his chin, he looks like a scared little boy. It’s suddenly clear that no matter how precise his description of the scene was, no matter how much porn he’s watched, no matter what fantasies he’s had — in this moment, he has no idea what to do.

I press my lips to his and they part, allowing my tongue inside. I can feel his heart racing in his chest. “Wow!” he says. We continue to kiss as I play with his nipples. For a first-timer, he’s surprisingly skilled. No colliding teeth, no excessive suction. His hand is lying stiff by his side and I bring it around my waist. “It’s okay,” I say. “You’re allowed to touch me.” He runs his fingers down my back, pausing to gently grab my ass. His cock is rock hard and he gasps as my hand encircles it. I’ve barely stroked it three times before he moans, “I want to be inside you.”

I straddle his chubby body, trying to find the right angle to sit on his dick. As I ease myself down on it, his eyes roll back in his head. I grasp his hands, place them on my hips and slowly begin riding up and down. After about four minutes, his breathing speeds up. He clenches my waist as the orgasm starts to shiver through his body. Spent, his arms fall to his sides. I lift myself off him and lie next to him, stroking his chest. “Wow!” he says again. “That was amazing.”

I kiss him as I slide the condom off, grabbing it along with the wrapper and depositing it in a plastic bag inside my bag. Back in the bathroom, wiping the lube from my ass, the weight of what just happened starts to sink in. This is the first sexual experience he’s ever had and I was the one who gave it to him. Not only that, it’s the beginning of his life as a gay person. I wonder whether the world looks different to him now, if it seems more full of possibility or just scarier.

When I come back, he’s standing, fully dressed and cash in hand, his nerves having returned. He escorts me to the front door and I kiss him goodbye before he unlocks it. He checks to make sure no one is on the street and then lets me out. I hear the door close and lock behind me, don my sunglasses and head to my car.

We meet four more times before his email address goes dead. Maybe he wasn’t ready for the weight of the new reality he’d entered. Maybe he was too terrified his parents would find out. Maybe he’d drained all the money he’d saved by working at a nearby sub shop. I imagine myself running into him sometimes, years in the future at a bar downtown. He’ll have moved out of the house, be dating a guy and contemplating coming out to his family.

But the truth is, he might still be living at home, amidst the cologne and the bikini posters and the sticky towels, staunchly maintaining his heterosexuality while his parents hunt for potential brides online. Maybe he’s already married, fantasizing about me while he fucks his wife, hoping each time she’ll get pregnant, easing both the pressure for sex and for grandchildren. What I’d hoped was his entry into the world of gay sex could, in reality, could have been an exit; a furtive stumbling out of a closet he would quickly hop back into and remain inside for years, maybe forever.

Clients come and go. But if you wonder too much about where they are or what they’re doing or why they stopped calling, you’ll drive yourself crazy. Instead, it’s best to just imagine you brought them something special while you were in their lives. And for Rahem, wherever he is and whatever he’s doing, I hope the experiences we shared together taught him to value himself. We were each other’s first: me, his first sexual experience; and him, my first virgin. I’d like to think in losing his virginity, he also gained something. I know I did.

(Image N Maxwell Lander)

Devon Delacroix is a writer, filmmaker and sex worker, hailing from suburban Toronto. His writing has appeared in magazines across Canada (a few of which you may have even heard of) and his films have been screened widely at festivals and galleries (most of which you haven’t). He's bad at Twitter, but trying to improve. Reach him at devondelacroix@gmail.com.

Read More About:
Love & Sex, Sex, Hard Labour, Canada

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