𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐞𝐝, 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐧

14. Blessed

   Christmas of '88. For the first time in three years or so, I was celebrating the joyous holiday with Celeste. One of my gifts from her was Prince's 1979 self-titled album, a needed addition to my new collection.

That wintry night, I cuddled with my CD player in bed while Celeste and her boyfriend, Toby, knocked boots across the hall. Toby was a big guy, like football player tough and buff. My locked bedroom door would vibrate to his rhythm. It was—disturbing. In a way, I was still very naïve when it came to "sex." All I knew was what I learned in health class. The penis goes into the vagina. Nerve endings. Orgasms. Ejaculation. Pregnancy. Never had the opportunity to watch porn. If I did, I don't even think I would've taken it.

Just as I nibbled on the last of my gingerbread cookie in the dark, Sexy Dancer cut out, and while my CD player buffered to the next track, Celeste screamed out against Toby's animalistic grunts. From listening to Prince's music, I also gathered that sex felt really good, and could be quite addicting. His "Dearest Analia" letter spoke volumes as well.

I hadn't listened to this Prince album since I was like four or five. So only a few songs on the tracklist were familiar. That night was pretty much the first time I ever heard When We're Dancing Close and Slow. And my goodness, it was so beautiful to my virgin ears. The steady groove of the drums, Prince's low falsetto, the instrumental chorus. I played it three times over.

I want to come inside of you.

I want to hold you when we're through, I sang in my mind. But Prince's words were lost on me. The CD player's batteries had died.

I remember thinking, sex last a long time, rolling my eyes. They were still going at it. I was too afraid to leave the room to hunt for batteries so I buried my head under my pillow, silent headphones still on. But I could hear it, playing in my mind. I didn't want to forget the melody or sensuous words.

Unfortunately though, tuning out the creatures on the other side of my door was impossible. It sounded like they were in the hallway now. I would think they wouldn't be so disrespectful, but apparently "sex" does that to people. Or maybe my perception was just off. Either way, the inside of my tummy tangled up, while I started to feel tingly down there. Horny again. Now at 16, it was starting to happen more frequently, and it was frustrating, because I didn't really know what to do. I knew my options. But just never took any of them on. Well...until that night.

I went straight to the little nub between my lady lips. "Ow." I immediately thought something was wrong with me. Because I heard stimulating the clitoris was supposed to be magical. Not painful.

Determined, I played around with other parts. Squeezing my lips together did a little something. Tugging did more. Poking my finger in my vagina did nothing. Flattening my hand and applying pressure over the vulva is what worked for me. Soon, my thighs clenched my hand and I laid on my side, then tipped over on my belly and began to grind.

Prince's falsetto swirled around me in fantasy. Behind my eyelids were images of him up on the Lovesexy stage, mixed around stars and lightning, and kissing and crashing waves. This did feel good.

There was a crave for more, to switch positions or something, but I didn't even care to experiment further. This was good enough. But maybe I should've been more adventurous because I struggled with the climax part. I was at a standstill for a while. Eventually, I just decelerated and fell asleep with my hand down my pants.

Overtime, I'd try a few more goes, but I could never bring myself to "come." Touching my clitoris never felt great, neither did fingering myself. I was afraid, having an orgasm was something my body would never achieve. But now, at 19 years old, it seemed inevitable at the piano in Studio B.