My first time? Oh God, let's see. I was twelve, just twelve. It was early summer. Piano lessons. I had been taking piano lessons since I was six. First from fat Mrs. Bessemer, but then, because everyone said I was getting so good, Mr. Trombley. It was a drive to get to Mr. Trombley's. He and his wife lived in a big house clear on the other side of town, so my mom had to drive me over there. Every Thursday afternoon, four o'clock. One hour. My mom told me it wasn't that much of a hardship because she could grocery shop during that hour over at the discount grocery. Hi-Lo, I think it was called. Thursdays was double coupon day or something like that. Mr. Trombley was a dreamboat, that's what the other kids in my class said after he'd given a recital at our school. He was somewhere in his thirties, I guess--tall with bushy brown hair and a soft voice and big hands. Supposedly he was mildly famous for something--second or third prize at some not quite important music festival, but now he only gave lessons, and mostly he only took older kids. His wife was much younger, a former student, probably, and that summer she was off giving concerts in Europe. Renee? Renee Trombley. Maybe you've heard of her? No? Well, anyway. I'd been studying with Mr. Trombley since early spring. Now it was summer. School was just out. I liked the lessons. I liked playing piano. I liked playing piano for him. "Excellent," he'd say sometimes, when I did something especially right. "You're my prize pupil." I'd beam inside. When I didn't do something especially right he'd be kind. "Stroke it firm and soft at once," he might say, "Like you're petting your little pet kitten. That's it. That's better! Nice. Very nice. Again. Again. Beautiful." Yes, I'd beam. Or if I couldn't get the hang of something, sometimes he'd get off his chair at the side of the bench and sit next to me, take my hand in his and try to move it the way it should be moved. I'd simply melt. "Hold your wrist like so," he'd say, holding my wrist. "Now relax." I'd try to relax. Melting and relaxing are not the same thing. "Here," he'd say. "Hold my wrist. Now feel? Do you feel how that goes?" I'd have my fingers around his wrist while he played. I'd feel the strength. The care. The music. "You see?" he'd say, and I'd nod and try to do better. At home I'd hold my own wrist. It wasn't the same thing, not the same thing at all. This is good coffee, isn't it? Kind of a quiet coffee. Comforting. Not brash like too many coffees these days. Probably this is the kind of coffee Santa Claus would drink after he got home from delivering all those toys. Relaxing. God, it's nice to be here with you. I do feel relaxed. I'd take my shoes off except they already are. Lost someplace. I'm sure I'll never find them. One day after the lesson I asked my mom if we could get a pet kitten. "No," she said. "Please," I said, "I'll take perfect care of it, and it'd be good for ..." I was going to say it would be good for teaching me how to finger, but that didn't sound quite right. "It'd be good for me, Mom. Please?" "No," she said firmly, "It's enough trouble keeping the house clean as it is." Even so, I was hoping I'd get a kitten for my birthday, my 12th. I really got my hopes up. But I didn't get one. I got the usual practical things. Sweaters and skirts, soap and jeans and underwear. I even got a training bra! In those days my breasts weren't big at all. I was so sure I'd be flat forever, even though I'd started my periods two months before. It wasn't that I was really all that eager to have real breasts. Some kids at school had them already, and the boys just made fun. And I knew next to nothing about sex. Next to nothing. The only other girl from my school to take lessons from Mr. Trombley didn't have much in the way of breasts, either, but I guess that was understandable since she was a year younger than me and a grade behind. Her name was Beverly. She had the hour after mine, five to six. I'd see her briefly in the hallway outside of Mr. Trombley's music room, but my mom would be waiting for me out in the car, so Beverly and I never really talked, never exchanged more than a pair of "hi's" as she went on in for her lesson and I went on out for my ride home. Beverly didn't live near us, so I didn't know much about her, except that she was supposed to be really smart and really shy. Sorta like me in those days. And she was really pretty. No breasts, as I've said, but big blue eyes and long blonde hair, soft and straight and fine, flowing more than halfway down her back. Sometimes I've wished I could have hair like that, not these tangly curls which seem to fray and frazzle and go all over the place no matter what I do. Would you like another cup? I think I'm going to have maybe half. These are cute mugs. Purple love birds so plump and fat, kissing, and these hearts all over the place, some of them upside down. Isn't it neat the way an upside down heart looks like... well, it could be a woman's bottom, or her breasts, or a man's balls? One Thursday afternoon on the ride to Mr. Trombley's my mom told me that she'd be a little late picking me up, she had some extra errands to run. "Ok, I'll just wait outside," I said. "Not with it this rainy," my mom told me. "You'll get too soaked. Just tell Mr. Trombley you have to wait inside. I shouldn't be more than twenty... thirty minutes late." "He doesn't like us to wait inside," I said. "Nonsense," my mom said, "He just doesn't want the parents there. You tell him that you have to wait. I'm sure it'll be all right." Did I say that I was shy? I was very shy. The idea of asking Mr. Trombley about waiting in his hallway after the lesson threw me into a catatonic panic. I couldn't do it. I tried. But I couldn't. What if he said no? What would I do then? Boy was I stupid, right? I mean, how hard should it be to blurt out something like, "My mom's going to be late picking me up, so can I wait out in your hall after the lesson?" Instead of concentrating on my lesson, I spent the whole time worrying... that and praying that the weather would clear up, that the rain would stop and I could just wait outside until my mother got there. Strangely, my playing wasn't any worse than usual. Maybe it was better. Mr. Trombley seemed to think so. "You're really on today," he said. "You've finally mastered that skittery passage." When he said this he put his hand lightly on my shoulder, and I barely noticed. "My prize pupil," he said, squeezing my shoulder lightly. Then there was a crack of lightning, and I shivered. "Some storm," Mr. Trombley said, and he stroked my shoulder. "Let's hear that skittery part one more time. Make it skip. Make it dance. Make it sing. Yes. That's it! Yes." His enthusiasm should have made me feel wonderful. Triumphant. Excited. Sublime. But all I felt was miserable. I was going to let him down. I opened my mouth one last time to ask him, but nothing came out. I felt brittle as a soft little bird about to be eaten by a cat. Mr. Trombley noticed. "You're shivering, child," he said, his hands still on my shoulders. "What's wrong?" I couldn't face him. He'd notice my tears. He noticed them anyway. His fingers touched my cheek, my tears. "Yes," he said, misunderstanding completely. "You played so well today. My prize pupil. You're so good. So good. I'm so proud of you. Now work on that Prokoffiev for next time, okay? See you then. Off you go." He ruffled the top of my head, and I got up from the bench, gathered together my books, and slipped into the hallway, where Beverly, with a wan smile and a soft hi, passed me on the way in to her lesson. If only it had been sunny out. If only it had been mere gloom. If only my mom had somehow got her errands done early and been out there, waiting at the curb, windshield wipers wagging. But the rain was so wild and fierce I could barely see to the curb. No car there, and no way I'd be able to wait outside without getting thoroughly soaked in less than seconds. I might not have minded that, but I didn't want to risk the music getting ruined. My little pouch, from years of overstuffing, wouldn't stand up in that gale. Not for a minute. Staring out the tiny square door-window, I considered whether I could put the pouch under my skirt. Hold it dry between my legs until my mother showed up. Something like that. Meanwhile the little window fogged up, and I couldn't see anything, and Beverly had started her playing. The noise of it startled me. I'd never heard her play before. She was good. Did I say good? Did I say noise? She was ferociously good. Ferociously noisy. Right away I could tell she was better than me, much much better. She crashed into something jangly and dissonant and upsettingly brilliant. How could she do those things, make those miraculous wrenching sounds? It was like nothing I'd ever heard before. I sat down on the little bench in the hall. No way could I leave now--I'd disturb them. But besides that, the music held me. It felt like, oh I don't know... like I was in the middle of a hugely busy street, with cars and trucks and busses whizzing by me on all sides, dangerously close. I couldn't take an inch of a step without getting obliterated. I could barely breathe. So I sat there as quietly as I could, listening, and staring at Beverly's little yellow raincoat, and the rather large puddle underneath it. And when there was a pause, I wondered how I'd know when my mom was here, and how I'd be able to sneak out without disturbing them... without Mr. Trombley knowing. This is a long story, huh? You're sure you don't want some more coffee? Then I noticed something. On the hallway wall opposite me above a little round table was mirror, and because Beverly hadn't closed the music room door all the way, I could see Beverly sitting at the piano--mostly just the side of her, her thin back, her hair, long and blonde, flowing down her back as she played. She was doing something soft now, maybe it was just a slow movement from the piece she'd played before. It was ethereally beautiful, but also bleak. Cold. Like lights a long way off at night. I listened hard, trying to make out every note over the drumming rattling rain. It was hard. It was soft. Like someone's hands over my ears. I wanted to see Beverly's hands, her fingers on the keyboard. I'm not sure why... maybe so I'd know when the notes were coming, so I wouldn't be confused by the weather. Her elbows, still as ice, gave me no clue. Mr. Trombley's knee nudged the edge of my vision. I looked at his knee while I listened. It seemed rude to have his knee there. I was irritated with it. Elbows and knees, I thought to myself, and I almost laughed. Elbows and knees and long blonde hair. But then Mr. Trombley got up. He walked behind Beverly. He put his hands on her shoulders. "My prize pupil," he said to her. She kept on playing. "So beautiful you play," he said. "So beautiful you are. My prize, my little prize." I watched as he stroked her shoulders. I felt hollow. Deeply hollow. Then he stopped stroking her. "Good," I thought, "He'll sit down now." But he didn't. He unzipped his pants. I'd never seen a penis before. It looked so strange, nosing out of his trousers like a long fish. I wasn't shocked. Or maybe I was too shocked to feel it. Beverly kept playing. Mr. Trombley eased her long blonde hair away from her ear, and pressed the side of his penis against it. He caressed her ear with his penis as she played. "So nice," he said, "So very nice." And then something happened. He jerked. She giggled. He splattered the music. I couldn't see it, actually, and I didn't really know what was happening, only that something was happening. She turned her head then, turned it so that his penis rubbed her cheek, and then she kissed it, the side of it, and I could see her eyes, and I wondered if she could see me. I felt that she could, but maybe it was only a feeling and not the truth. In any event, she turned and went back to playing, though actually she'd never stopped playing, even during his jerk, his splatter, even during her little kiss. Mr. Trombley resumed stroking his penis, slightly smaller now, against her ear. Beverly continued to play. The penis grew steadily smaller, until at least it was nearly consumed by his fist, and only the head remained to touch the curl of her ear. Suddenly she stopped playing. I'm not sure if the piece was done, or if she'd just decided not to play anymore. The ending, if that's what it was, was up in the air. Beverly turned, twisted herself halfway about, and I thought I saw her look to the door, the crack of the door, the mirror, me on the other side, sitting there as exposed as anything... I thought I saw her eyes meet mine, but maybe I imagined it. She didn't linger--she simply took his penis, the head of it and more, all the way into her mouth. He moved then. The back of his body blocked my view. Maybe they heard me, maybe they didn't. I opened the outside door and hurried out, and it was still raining, still raining hard, but not hard enough. My mom was there. I got soaked by the time I got into the car, soaked but I wanted to be wetter. I wanted to be as wet as possible, and if she hadn't been there I think I would have walked all the way home. "I was getting worried," my mother said, "I was about to honk. How was your lesson? Was it good?" I was trembling. I couldn't answer. Finally I was able to nod. "Okay, I guess," I managed to say. "Did you get anything good... at the grocery?" My mother seemed slightly flustered by the question. "No," she said, "I didn't really have time for groceries. I was just... doing some other errands." "Oh," I said. I didn't quiz her. We drove home in the rain, thinking our own thoughts. I could finish this story later, if you want, if you're tired of it? No? Okay. Here's something a little strange: You known that music that Beverly was playing--I never did find out what it was. Years later, when I was in college, I tried to find it. I spent a lot of time searching, but it was hopeless. But I guess that's another story. When I got home I changed my clothes. It was still raining, but more of a drip than anything else. I sat at my piano looking at the keys and listening to the rain. It never occurred to me to play anything. What I'd seen in the hallway mirror just kept going through my head. Images of Mr. Trombley's big hands separating Beverly's long blonde hair. Images of his penis caressing her ear. The strange syncopated jerk he did. And then Beverly taking him in her mouth like that. More than anything, though, it was the way her eyes looked through the crack of the music room door, as if they were searching for mine, as if they knew they'd find me. I couldn't figure it out. I stopped trying. I started practicing. I played feverishly, hour after hour. I'm not sure I was hearing what I was playing. Mostly I was hearing Beverly's little giggle. "Don't you want any supper?" my mom asked. "Go fuck yourself." I didn't actually say that, but that... those very words, were in my head. I'd never said "fuck" out loud before. I'd heard it, sure, but never really even thought it. "No," I told my mom, giving her a dirty look. "I'm not hungry. And you didn't get any groceries anyway." I played way past my bedtime. When I finally got into bed, I played with myself. I'd never really done it before. Cleaning myself, of course, but with nothing in mind... except the cleaning. I didn't have too much in mind now either. Exhausted, I lay on top of my covers. My mom had gone to bed hours ago. The light in the hallway was still on; I hadn't closed my door all the way, and the yellow light poured across the corner of my bed. If I didn't turn off the light, my mom would be mad, but I didn't care. I pulled my nightgown up to my neck. "You're my prize student," I heard Mr. Trombley say. "My prize student." He had his hands on mine, showing them how to do it. "Your nipples are so nice," he said. "Touch them this way." I did. I touched them the way he wanted me to. "You're so beautiful," he told me. "The way you touch yourself. The way I touch you." He was moving his hands down my belly now. "So smooth," he said. "So perfect. You are a perfect girl. Just perfect. Your little belly, curls so soft, hardly there at all, hardly there at all, perfect, perfect, perfect." "Let me feel you," he said, "Let me feel how perfect you are. Oh, a little slippery. You devil! That's good." By experiment I found the clitoris. I didn't know what it was called then. I just knew what it wanted. I writhed. "Oh," Mr. Trombley said, "You like that! I thought you might." His tongue whispered across my wrist. "Oh, this is so strange." Was that me or him? We kept doing it. I writhed again, twisted, and I saw the crack of my door, the light beyond, and I knew Beverly was watching me, watching Mr. Trombley praise me with his tongue. The tip of it eased up, sliding the slippery place, touching just under that whatever-it-was, making me squirm with almost-can't-stand-it shivers. I kept doing it. Mr. Trombley wouldn't let me stop. I kicked, clenching, not caring who was watching. I wanted something more. Maybe Mr. Trombley's penis in my ear. My head swerved against the pillow. Penis, my mouth said, thinking it in, the softness straining to get there. Still it wasn't enough. Whatever it was wasn't going to happen. I stopped. I was panting. I lay there a long time, listening to myself. And then I started again. I started from the very beginning. "Your breasts are so beautiful," Mr. Trombley said. "Touch them this way. That's right. That's just right. Perfect. So nice. So nice you are. My prize. My dearest dearest prize." Only it was Beverly he was talking to, not me, it was Beverly he was touching, he was teaching how to touch. I was out in the hallway watching. I saw him do everything to her. He did it slowly and steadily, and she let him, and I watched, and when his tongue traveled up, when it finally touched that special place, it started, started for real. She shivered so hard, and her hips came up, and her legs opened and closed, and she thought, this is it, this is it, and when he pinched it, that little place, pinched it with his lips, his tongue tickling underneath, his thumb all the way into her hole, that did it. That really did it. I came. That's what you wanted to know right? But there's more. I pushed my nightgown down and pulled my covers up over me and slept. When I woke up it was morning and my mom was at work. I started to get out of bed, and then I didn't. I touched myself again. Or rather Mr. Trombley touched Beverly again. Suddenly she was so wet, so writhing, completely out of control. I stood by the side of the bed, watching them, watching Mr. Trombley's penis grow big, watching him push it all the way into her little hole. She screamed when that happened, and I came again. It was easy, and I had a fever. I got up, didn't change out of my nightgown, and practiced for hours. Sitting at the piano I pulled my nightgown up and started pinching myself. It wouldn't work until Mr. Trombley started pinching Beverly. Then it worked. When I got up there was a slick spot on the piano bench where I had been sitting. Sweat or something more. I moved it around with my forefinger. I pretended it was Beverly's and I tasted it. Then I went back to bed. Mr. Trombley fucked Beverly six times that day. Seven times the next day. In between I practiced, I slept. Sometimes the phone rang but I didn't answer it. "Were you out?" my mom said, "I phoned but no one answered." "I must have been," I told her. I made her dinner and did the laundry. I ate a little and put on a freshly washed nightgown. As the week wore on I told myself I was getting as good as Beverly. She giggled. Mr. Trombley put his penis in her mouth. She giggled even while it was in there. I continued to practice. His hips began that syncopated jerk. Hers did, too. I hit some wrong notes. I smashed my hands on the keys. "Is something wrong?" my mom asked. "No, nothing's wrong." I went to bed early, and Mr. Trombley fucked Beverly three times before I could fall asleep. When Thursday came I told my mom I wasn't going to my lesson. "Are you sick?" she asked. "No, I'm not sick, I'm just not going." "Well, then you'd better call him and tell him. Maybe he can reschedule." "I'm not calling him," I said. "I'm never going to piano again." "Why not?" she said, trying to be reasonable. "I hate piano," I said. "But you've been practicing so much," she said. "You sound so good. Better than ever. What's wrong?" "Nothing's wrong, I just hate piano and I'm not going." "Then you'd better telephone your teacher and explain." "Never!" I said. "Well, that's not acceptable. A lot of time and money has been spent on this. And you owe Mr. Trombley the courtesy of an explanation. I'll call him up right now and you can talk to him on the phone." "You can't make me," I said. "We'll see about that," my mom said. I ended up going over there at the regular time. My mom agreed to wait out in the car. "What's wrong?" Mr. Trombley said, almost as soon as he set eyes on me. "I can't take lessons from you anymore," I said. "Why not?" he asked. "My mom doesn't think it's a good idea at this point in time," I said. "Oh," he said. Then I started crying. Mr. Trombley came up to me and put his arms around me. "It'll be all right," he said. I put my arms around him. I was still crying, but I felt much better. We hugged each other for a long time. "I'll probably go back to Mrs. Bessemer," I said. Mr. Trombley nodded. I took his hand and kissed it, his fingers, just a quick kiss, and then I hurried outside. My mom was waiting in the car. I felt a lot better. Not perfect, just better. But it would still be almost four years before Mr. Trombley would fuck me and not Beverly. So that's the story of my first... Now what about yours?