Authors Note: As always, my stories are based on true recounted events, sometimes my own but more often retold to be by friends. I find there is something in the reality of true events that make it better, more fun, and more believable. This is the story of Paula, as seen through her eyes and told through her voice. Paula's story is a one of strange circumstances, which caused an otherwise ordinary rite of passage to be somewhat different when experienced by a woman in her late 20s.
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I used to be rather embarrassed by the whole thing, but I guess that's what age does for us...time lets us be a bit more honest and upfront about our past. For me, what once was a source of profound embarrassment is now something I can not only laugh at, but one I am very grateful for. And it makes for a good story!
A bit of context. I was a late bloomer emotionally. I was shy in high school. My mother was a television exec, and my uncle was somewhat of a B celebrity. But unlike most Hollywood kids, I didn't grow up wanting to be a star. Far from it. I was shy. I didn't want to follow in mom's footsteps, nor did I seek attention, let alone fame, in any way shape or form.
L.A. high schools weren't big on dating when I was in there, but rather we hung out in groups, then just kind of hooked up here and there. Like most girls, I did go out on dates on a few occasions, though it wasn't very common. For me that amounted to dates that ranged from horrible to wonderful, with wonderful being "really liking the guy" or making out as the night went on. But for me that meant never going all the way.
I remember the first boy I kissed, Bradley, or Brad as most called him. He was cute, fun, and we kissed a lot on the couple of dates we went on. Jon was the first boy who felt me up, which was kind of funny. My girlfriends used to talk about boys feeling their boobs, and that it was a sign they liked you, but I always thought it was just a sign of them wanting to "get to second base".
In college things got a little more intense. Freshman year, which for me was away from home but still in California. College is where I encountered "heavy petting". Boy, did I hate that term, but it's what we called it back then. It was the first time I touched a guy's dick, and the first time I let a guy finger me, though those happened at different times. I gave Dave a hand job, which wasn't really a hand job. He unzipped his pants, and I reached for his cock, and about 10 seconds later he came. It was a bit of a surprise for both of us, and nothing to be proud of. After a lot of vodka, and some coaxing, I let Lance put his hand down my pants. It was okay, but he was hammered, and to be honest, I was just trying to avoid have him fuck me, so I let me go that far.
Then came Ian. Ian was the first love of my life. He was gorgeous.
I'd like to think I was somewhat attractive at 19, but at 19 he was amazing. I was always wondering what it was about me that attracted him. There were lots of So Cal hotties at our school, and I always thought he could have had any one of them.
We became friends during sophmore year, and lovers during the summer before senior year. He was my first, the first boy I wanted to fuck, and the first boy I let fuck me. Back then I thought of "saving myself" for the right guy, and Ian seemed like the right guy.
Here's where the story turns again. Ian had been in a bicycle accident as a young boy, and had one of his testicles badly damaged. So much so that the doctors removed it. Probably wouldn't happen now, but then, that was the treatment. As a result, Ian had a thing about "down there".
That first time was pretty wonderful. We had known each other awhile, and had gone out a bunch of times. We made out, we both seemed to like each other, and it was time to go further. I remember it like yesterday, in large part because we were both sober. We had gone to the beach at sunset for a picnic, and one thing led to another. We found a little spot between a lifeguard tower and some rocks, and we made love. I had on a skirt, which I had hiked up as we made out. I helped him unbutton his jeans. In short order, we were past the point of no return.
It didn't seem strange at the time, but whenever my hands got close to his dick, he shifted. I wanted to feel him in my hand, and I wanted to give him a hand job to get him hard before we fucked, but his shifting prevented it. In the heat of the moment I just went with it, and soon he was inside me. He was gentle, and despite my girlfriends talking so often about bad first times, mine was pretty good. I didn't orgasm, but I sure loved the intimacy, his body, and the overall feeling. I loved it when he came, and I felt I had done a good job of helping.
Ian and I dated much of senior year. It was a bit of on-again-off-again, as college romances are. We graduated at the same time, and kept up our relationship, for the most part, for two more years.
The sex was okay. Fucking was good, but during that senior semester he told me about his accident. He was extremely sensitive about his missing testicle. Honestly, I didn't care in the slightest, but he did, and I didn't press matters. Hand jobs were okay, but only on the cock itself. Balls were off limits. And while other girls were blowing guys left and right, that just wasn't in the cards. Everytime I even got close he shut me down. I didn't really know better at the time, so we just continued with our once or twice a week fuck.
We weren't always together after graduation, but we were together more than we weren't. And whenever we broke up, I always thought we'd get back together. Which meant any guys I went out with during the "breaks" weren't gonna get much satisfaction.
Just before I turned 24, he got a job in the mid-west. It was with a good company, and for a pretty big raise in salary, and he took it. We both assumed that I would move there, too, in time, but that time never came around. Frequent trips to see each other got less frequent. The phone calls came less often. And by the time I was 25, we found ourselves not drifting, but already drifted, apart.
For many, it would be a time of trying new things, but for me, it was the opposite. I'd received a promotion at work, of which I was very proud, and wanted to work hard at to prove I was worth it. My father, divorced from my mother when I was young, whom I hadn't spoken to since college graduation, called to tell me he had Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. I tried to rekindle our relationship, but we had never been close, and this didn't make us any closer. He died that year.
I basically took a two year break from guys.
But enough of the sad stuff. Let's get to fun bit.
My friend Rosie had tickets to a concert and asked me to go. It was for a solo artist who, I'll just say, had been in a really successful band, but now he was going solo. You'd all know the name if I said it.
Turns out Rosie's boss did PR for venue, and we scored backstage passes.
After the concert, which as good, but not great, we went backstage. In truth, we didn't like paying $10 for drinks during the show, and we each felt like a little something after the show, and figured they'd have booze backstage.
We found Rosie's boss, and he ushered us around. We started in the press room, which just about anyone could get in to. We then went to the manager's makeshift office, which as a little more select. There was a great spread there, with a full bar, seafood on ice, and of all things, a "taco bar".
Rosie's boss told us he'd was working on getting us to the dressing room to meet the headliner, and that we should just get something to eat and drink while he worked his magic.
I had just gotten a small plate of shrimp when a voice came from right behind me.
"Put them in a tortilla, with a little salsa. You won't regret it."
I turned to see an olive-skinned guy, probably in his 30s, smiling at me. He was kind of sweaty, which made me feel a fit sketchy.
"Hi, I'm Faraj," he said.
I was a bit surprised. I could only manage a simple response. "Hi, I'm Paula."
"Hi Paula. You really should have a shot of tequila with it as well. Ask the bartender for 'reposado', it's our favorite. Bottle is behind the bar, so you won't see it."
And just like that he was off, walking quickly away.
He was totally not my type. Ian was a surf dude, blond and blue eyed. I liked surf dudes.
Faraj was Persian. He didn't sound it, and his clothes were pure rock and roll, but his name, his olive skin, and deep brown/black hair were straight from the Arabian peninsula.
Before he was too far he turned back, and said, "Hope you enjoyed our show."
Wait, what? 'Our show?' My brained hit reverse...our show...was he in the...oh, shit! He was in the band. I quickly scanned my memory of the stage...he was the bass player!
I grabbed for Rosie, who was busy saying something to her boss, and had missed our whole exchange. Her boss whisked us into the next room, and we worked our way through a crowd of B-list celebrities on our way to meeting the headline. He seemed a nice enough guy, but it was kind of like he was holding court, as people worked their way up to him, shook hands, told him how great he was, and moved on, often with the help of the headliner's handlers.
After our "brush with greatness", Rosie and I said our thanks to her boss, and headed out.
Literally at the back door to the backstage area, as we were leaving, a hand grabbed my arm.
"Paula, right? Can I call you sometime?"
"Uh, sure," I blurted out.
"Here's my number. I'm back in town in two weeks. Let's have dinner."
"Okay," I said, only then remembering his name, "Faraj."
He smiled, and we went our separate ways, like jet planes passing at high speed.
