I was a virgin on my wedding night, and I was glad I waited. I could give my husband, the man who was going to love me for the rest of my life, this precious gift I was saving.
My husband was not a virgin, and I preferred it that way. He was fifteen years older than me, more mature, more experienced, established, successful.
Our wedding was a fairy tale dream, just like I imagined since I was a little girl. Traditionally, the bride's family pays for the wedding, but I come from a lot less money than my husband, and he insisted on paying. I'm glad he did. If my mom had to pay, we would have had an outdoor barbecue and invited maybe 20 guests. With my new husband footing the bill, we were able to throw a party for all our friends and family in a five star luxury resort. We had an open bar, a live band, a three-course meal, a layer cake, a chocolate fountain, flowers on the walls and at every table, and ice sculptures of swans. Swans! Made of ice!
It was a whirlwind night that passed all too fast. Men in tuxedos and women in gowns congratulating me. Everyone smiling, drinking, and dancing. My husband held me close at every dance, his eyes filled with love.
And now, he carried me over the threshold into the honeymoon suite. And all the anticipation of all those years was going to be met by a night of passion. I heard about it nonstop since I was barely done with childhood. I dreamt about it. I saw it on TV and movies and once or twice online. I read about it. I came close to it a couple of times but never went all the way. And tonight was the night. I was more than ready.
When we entered the suite, the scene was set. The lights were dim, and candles were burning on either side of the bed. There were a dozen roses in a vase on the table in the corner of the room. The bed had been turned, and the corner of the covers had been pulled back, inviting us to lay between the sheets.
And then I got nervous. I wasn't ready to be thrown on the bed. "Put me down," I requested. My new husband complied. He set me gently on my feet. I breathed a series of long breaths.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine. I just need a minute. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. Take your time. We have the rest of our lives."
I breathed again, and decided to explore my surroundings. I walked over to a soft, plush loveseat by the wall. I brushed my hand against it, and then sat down.
"Perhaps I'll sit here all night," I thought to myself.
It's not that I didn't want him inside me, badly. I was just so nervous.
Sitting down relaxed me. I shortly realized I couldn't sit there all night, and I didn't want to. So, I brought out my usual feminine charm that my mom had taught me, that I learned from other girls at school, that I learned from TV. The feminine charm that had landed me the man before me.
I leaned back into the couch, thrusting my chest out at the same time. I threw my hair to the side and bobbed my head. I dropped my mouth open, and flashed a warm, inviting smile.
"You look terrified," he said.
I thought it was a warm, inviting smile. I guess I couldn't mask my emotions.
I tried again. I played with my hair, turned my body sideways away from him, while turning my head back towards him, and batted my eyes. Before we entered the suite, as the party was ending, I made sure that my makeup was perfect. My eyelashes were thick and lush with mascara. My eyeliner accentuated my natural coloring. I drew one hand to the shoulder strap of my dress, signaling that I was going to take it off at any moment. If he wasn't going to come to me, my eyes batting, my dress about to come off, then he wasn't human.
It was all silly, really. I was his bride, and it was our wedding night. What more feminine charm did I need to use on him? I already had him, and we were already going to make love. But it was my habit to tease, and pout, and play. And so I teased. I brought my finger to my mouth and kissed it, while the finger of my other hand was still playing with my hair. I cocked my head to the side and gave him my best come-hither stare. I was ready for him again. I couldn't make it any clearer short of holding up a sign.
He walked over to me, slowly, cautiously, not making any sudden moves, like I was an easily startled deer, and he didn't want me to run.
He gradually approached the side of the loveseat, leaned down, and kissed me. The electricity from his lips made it all come back. Of course we were going to make love, and it was going to be wonderful. Why did I even doubt it for a second? He could have taken me right there. Wetness flowed inside me, and I wanted him immediately.
I felt his rough, manly stubble scratch against my face. My new husband was one of those men who always had stubble, except for an hour or two after shaving. I liked it. It showed me he was a man. A grown man.
Some of my girlfriends teased me for dating an older man. They said I had daddy issues. But I say to hell with those jealous bitches. I found a man that makes me feel safe and protected, a man who has money so we won't ever have to worry about the power shutting off or getting evicted or going to a public hospital where the reject doctors tell everyone, including gunshot victims, to get some rest and walk it off.
And he wasn't that much older, only 15 years. He was in his mid-30s and I was in my early 20s. It was a perfectly normal age difference. Women marry older men all the time. Most of the time even.
And most importantly, he made me happy.
He kissed me deeply, tenderly, gently, taking his time with my mouth, easing me into the thrill of tonight's romance. He brushed his hand against my cheek, softly. He knelt down beside me, just like he did that magic night that he proposed. I loved to see him kneel at my side, while I sat erect, imagining myself a queen, and him my loyal subject. Most of the time, he was my king. But right now he was my subject, and he was going to please me.
