Your first is Puck, freshman year, a little while after you turn fifteen. You've kissed a few boys now and as disappointing as it is to admit it, it's not even as good as dream-kissing with Brittany.
Well, except maybe Puck, who comes closest. He teaches you how to use your tongue. You get a little of that same feeling between your legs. You learn to touch yourself and you figure out it's the same thing you and Britt did in the pool that summer. Eventually you let Puck touch you there, but his rough fingers can't do the same things your own can do.
You still see Britt every day, but it's different at school. It's not like summer when you are the only two people in the world. Now you have to play your mean-nice-mean game again. But now there's another girl who does it just as well as you: Quinn Fabray, who made lieutenant cheer captain even though she's just a freshman. Quinn is ridiculously gorgeous, in that country festival queen way. Everyone would love her even if she didn't know how to twist people just right. But her tricks don't work with you. You know them too well. The two of you form a kind of bond over it, volleying your manipulative power plays like two world cup champs.
Now it's Britt who follows you up the food chain of the freshman class, trotting behind you like a puppy on a leash. Everyone knows she's under your protection: no one will hurt her because no one dares cross you.
You pulled her up; she stays up on her own merit. Boys like her, and if her simple sweetness keeps her from clawing to the top of the pyramid like you, she gets there by right, since she's hands-down the squad's best dancer. You and Quinn and Britt are top bitches of the freshman class. Maybe of the whole school. Just as it should be.
The night you lose your virginity to Puck, you and Brittany are at your first big-deal party, getting drunk together for the first time in that football player Mike Chang's basement on cheap beer Puck scored. No Quinn: she's a snotty little good Christian girl and doesn't come to parties like this. Her loss. You look around the room like a shark searching for prey. What high status man candy should you dangle for a while? Mike? Karofsky? Finn? The alcohol is dulling the clear, high polish of your self-control.
It's November now, and you and Britt haven't kissed since that summer, and it was only that first time you'd done it really awake. But when she takes your hand and, pulling you away from your calculations, drags you along with her to pee—I need a time out, San, she says—you end up kissing against the wall of the locked bathroom. No tongue; that's for kissing boys only. But god, even so, your heart seems to drop right between your legs, and you hold her slim waist and press your breasts against hers. The world is spinning; you know you're really drunk, and that must be why kissing her is making you so wet even though she's a girl and your best friend.
After you leave the bathroom, reeling, you stop trying to decide who to hunt: you just find Puck and kiss him right in front of everyone. He pulls your hips against his and you feel how hard he is and suddenly you're glad for a reason to be so wet.
Let's find a room, he whispers. He reeks of beer, and you know you must too, and you nod and let him lead you by the hand. You don't look back for Brittany.
You know enough to make Puck wear a condom—he's got one in his jeans pocket—and after you've shuffled off your clothes and kissed and he finally sinks into you for the first time, you feel a twinge of pain through the haze of the alcohol. But it feels okay—not as good as they say, but okay—once he starts moving. Mean Santana possesses you and you dig your fingernails into the skin of his back. He hisses, but then he grins, and bites your ear and your neck. It doesn't feel good. You're searching for the same sensation he seems to be getting. You hold onto his waist, but it doesn't feel as good as Britt's did a few minutes ago—it's hard and the skin is coarse. He's moving faster; the pit of you is feeling sore now, but he doesn't seem to notice. It's like something is possessing his body, like he's going somewhere. You think of Britt's face, of her moving hips under the water, as she held herself against the water jet.
Finally, with a grunt, he comes, pressing his hips so hard against yours that the tendons of your inner thighs stretch painfully.
That was good, he says, pulling away. Like, really good.
Okay, whatever. You want to hurt his feelings now. You flare with anger and frustration.
Hey, you okay? He raises an eyebrow.
Fine.
You wonder what Britt is up to downstairs. You want to go check on her. You feel a little hollow. You don't know what you expected, but it wasn't that. Pulling your panties back on, you try to ignore the ache, magnified by your drunkenness, still throbbing deep within you.