The first female body I ever touched was that of a very young girl lying alone in her bed. Her mother and stepfather had already gone to their bedroom, which was a mere three feet across the hall from her room. Close enough for her to hear the sounds of something going on that my tender young love could only speculate about. Far enough away that the closed doors between their rooms assured her of her privacy.

We were both nervous. I had never really touched someone there before, and she'd never been touched there, either. Pubescent inexperience has the ability to invite interest despite the heavy seasoning of fear which makes the forbidden only more savory. Besides, we both wanted what we had come for, even if neither of us knew how to get to the place we wanted. We were merely driven to the idea by its recurring presence in our inexperienced bodies.

She was so young, and sex itself was still so new to her, that she could only guess at how the acts or movements were performed. The Playboy magazines in her basement taught her that what she had - a female body - was something her father and brothers liked to look at. Not that they ever paid any attention to hers, but she would grow up into one of those eventually, and the magazines were instructional. The cartoons and jokes in the magazine about people "doing it" afforded her the opportunity to sound more informed than she really was. She used to repeat these stories to the other kids in the neighborhood, and I always listened closely to because I wanted to know more, too.

She was only teasing us with those stories where she pretended to know about what people do when they are "doing it". Even though she couldn't know the real truth behind the jokes and tales, each of us - and especially me - couldn't deny the tingling we felt between our legs whenever she regaled us with one of her stories. She at least had to know the same thing: that what was between her legs had the power to make her feel better than eating her favorite flavor of ice cream. So did I. But I didn't really know how good it would make me feel to give it to her. All I knew was that I was ready to explore her with the same intense curiosity that I applied to all my discoveries in life.

What would I do? Would I feel good about it? Would I have to divulge it in church during the weekly confession we practiced in Catholic school as we prepared for holy communion? It seemed I finally would have something authentic to be ashamed of instead of the quasi-fibs I normally made up just to have something to say to the man behind the screen. If it did come up, then I assured myself that I would continue to lie to the priest as I had always done - meanwhile never fooling myself or you-know-who, who was always watching and saw everything. Maybe it was He who was putting these feelings in all of us anyway. Or it could be someone else. The devil! No way! I was feeling these feelings in myself; and there's no way that someone had come into me and planted these tingles and warm clenches. Even though hardly anybody else talked about it at our age, you could tell something was up with everybody.

And my first girl was the only one who had got us to start thinking about it by filling our minds with all those jokes and tales of what she had seen. Surely she knew more because she was the one doing so much of the talking and, consequently, so much of the instigating. It wasn't downright obvious or anything. She was too young to direct a sex scene of awakening juveniles into an orgy, but her willingness to get us to tell any dirty jokes or things we had seen - like teenagers making out in the movies, maybe groping each other through their clothes - served as provocative fodder for our eager imaginations. The stage had been set in everyone's body for experimenting with the things she had talked about.

I was ready, too. I had made my own experiments for the past couple of years and knew there was something going on in me that was still waiting to be figured out. My first girl let me know that it was okay to act out some of the ideas we'd been hearing and reading about. It was just my luck to be in bed with her at the same time that she was thinking the same thing the rest of us were.

She was so ready that her expectant legs opened right up while her eyes closed without hesitation. She didn't waste any time with what we would someday grow into recognizing as "foreplay". Neither did I. I put my hands between her legs and rubbed her very lightly. She couldn't say anything because she was afraid of her parents hearing her the way she had heard them so many times before, so she knew to keep her mouth shut. The only way I knew I was doing anything right or wrong was by the way she breathed.

I started slowly and worked my way up to getting all around her, even if only a little bit everywhere - there was a lot of ground to cover and so much to explore! She was eleven, so there was only the finest of fuzzy hair just covering her, and I tugged on that slightly for a while and rubbed on either side of her "inside place". Pretty soon she started moving her hips around in the bed and grabbing the sheets. Her breathing was hard, and she seemed to like what I was doing. All I was doing was going up and down and up and down that juicy hallway. It was fun because the wetness felt like something smoother than water, and felt as if I was riding on it with my fingers. Then I noticed something else. At the top of the ride I had to stop - not just because I would get to the end of it, but because that was when she squirmed even more. There was something up there that made her wiggle a lot more, and she stopped breathing a little whenever I got there and hit the bump.

I was in awe of myself that I had found myself doing these things and in awe of the discovery of them and what kind of responses they were provoking in her. It was scary that she was wriggling more and more and breathing harder and harder. She took my hand and kept it at the point I had noticed. Kept it there. Then let go. I decided to explore that bump more. I took it in my thumb and pointer finger and felt for its thickness. She let out a tiny moan. Then I rolled it between my two fingers a little, like I was turning over a stone I had just found and wanted to see all the colors and curves of it. She liked that, too, but she kept moving away from me. Maybe I was hurting her.

So I returned to my solo skate up and down the hallway, and she breathed a little easier. This made me feel better since all that moving and breathing might be heard by her parents, and the thought of her mother opening up the door and turning on the light in her room to find out what was going on was the one thought I couldn't escape. But I couldn't resist the wish to watch her squirm a little bit more because of me and what I could make her do by touching her there.

I went back up and stared to rub that bump now with two fingers just pressing down on it and into her softness. I didn't twirl it or tug it. I pushed it into her to see if it would go away. But it didn't. It stood right out and announced that I couldn't catch it in one place no matter how hard I pushed down on it. It was like trying to catch a pea with one of the tongs of a fork - impossible. Too slippery and smooth to be caught. But she really liked my pushing down on that bump, and maybe even that whole place, because she started scooting away again.

This time I held on and kept rubbing the bump and pushing it into her. I kept that up until I wanted to do something else. So I started to rub it around in circles. This made her jump even more, but she didn't want to stop. Neither did I. What would happen if I kept doing this to her? She was getting more and more excited, and I was feeling stronger and more amazed the more excited she got. I just kept doing and watching, and seeing her reaction to all I was doing kept me going.

So I did. My arm got tired, but I knew I didn't want to stop even though my arm did. Something was about to happen, and I could tell. I don't know how. It must have been her breathing and the way she was holding the edge of the bed with her left hand. I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed those circles until WOW! She started to shake! I took my hand off her fast! Maybe I had broken her or done something to hurt her, but she wanted that hand back on and right in the same place. So I tried to hold on and kept rubbing, even though I was scared of what her body was doing.

She was going further and further away from just a normal girl lying in bed and more and more into these shakes. Maybe she was having an epileptic seizure, and it was my fault, and God, was I gonna get it now! I not only broke her, I must have hurt her, and I had no right to be touching her there anyway, and I was going to be in trouble for that. I panicked. I stopped, and she just lay there, breathing really hard.

Was she okay? She was really tired or something, because her eyes wouldn't open. Then I knew she was okay. Because she opened her mouth and sort of smiled. Her eyes popped open, and she whispered really loud, "WOW!"

It was unbelievable. Here was this heavy-breathing young girl who had just experienced her first orgasm by hand, and she was totally amazed. A hand did that! Oh, sure, the water pressure from the spout in the bathtub had been a fine discovery at nine - it found her insisting on taking baths as much as possible - but this was something far more accessible than dragging a bathtub around every time she wanted that feeling. Even the vibrating body of the electric toothbrush used to keep her amused, and it, too, was an instructional tool in her early awakening, but this - no, this was something different. This was something that could go on vacation or be in the bathroom with her or just be a friend whenever she needed it. This was not just a discovery, it was a transformation!

It was the most revolutionary thing that could have happened. Easier than taking a bath and less noisy than an old toothbrush body. Here was the power in my own hands. My hand had done that! I did it! I was so proud of myself! I couldn't believe what I had discovered. A big secret that nobody had ever told me about, but it was something I found out on my own, and it was all mine. Look at what I did to myself I made myself feel that good! Wow! I am so lucky! How many of my friends knew about it? I would definitely have to tell them about my first experience with this amazing body. And it was something I will never forget. My first girl was myself. And I treated her just the way she wanted and knew her every wish. I uncovered a power over and to myself I knew I would never lose.

The End