A night for the nights to come

What does an orgasm feel like?

The smoothness of the first bite of a pizza after a starving day. Or the rain droplets hitting your face for the first time in a long while you’re riding with the speed of sound. Or the sound of a message notification on your cellphone in the evening of last working day of the month. Maybe that’s how it might feel like. Or maybe it doesn’t.

In 28 years of existence, it was the first time when an orgasm to me was what a scoring a goal in a world cup might have been to Lionel Messi.

Wait! I’m not a kind of guy with thick double chin and a thin wallet who walks up to work to save some bucks and runs away from passions and problems to save his life.

I’m a well built, tall guy with a sharp, thin jawline, earning a fat paycheck who is in a relationship with a slim, fair and fairly intelligent girl, my fiancée.

I spill my coffee in trepidation as she opens up about her past experiences and future expectations. And I’m lost among the paragraphs in an article I read about ‘how sex can make or break marriages’.

Goal – Take her over the edge on the first night!

Giving an orgasm is like telling a story. And every story you tell is a result of your experience. GO GET THAT FIRST – “The words said by a legend echo in my mind.”

Experience, of driving through the smooth plains, bumpy rides, sharp turnings and subtle curves.

“I need to get the license. But first, I need to pass the test.” It’s what that struck my mind. “Put on your helmet, rent a bike, and gear up,” the another. I was trying to connect my notions with materialistic experiences.

I remember entering one of those five-star hotels on a Friday night. Where everyone else was trying to party hard, I was trying to get it hard.

Okay, that’ll happen once the door opens. And it does. A sleek, sharp voice greets me with comfortably casual eyes with black eyeliner while her hand twiddles with the black hair having shades of flemish red which perfectly compliment her white skirt.

The dark room and the perfectly lit up skyline outside the window remind me of contrasts. Like the contrast between us, doing the same thing together in the same bed, but being in different minds.

My mind is full of thoughts related to fidelity, relationship on one side and performance anxiety on the other.

Hers is focused on how to finish this as early as possible and accommodate the rider on a busy weekend.

3 letters meant a lot to us. For me, sex. For her, job. The job which might not be with her as she ages, as uncles with fat bellies stop showering their fat bundles on her to resort to the latest ‘lass’ in the market.

After a bit of snogging, she gauged that I am a fresher. She comforts me and gives a soothing massage. As I relax, she moves on to spice up things, one strip at a time. Soon my sharp teeth are on her collarbone and her hands try to get the most of my ripped muscles.

50 kisses later, I knew her body better than I knew my fiance’s mind. Sometimes on top, sometimes side by side, sometimes facing each other, but we are one.

We’re in a race where you try hard to make your opponent come first. We try and try until the referee blows the whistle. The sound of the whistle which comes from a phone on which my fiancee’s number is flashing.

I retreat to answer. I speak to my life partner while laying in the arms of my night partner. First is special, I think. “You’re special,” I say over the phone while my eyes still hooked onto hers.

I get kissed. From the other side of the phone and from those purple lips that gave me the license to ride!