Basement Level (Pussy)… (2-6)

Consent (The Ticket)

This piece is a crude, comedic retelling of an early sexual “first” that goes sideways—awkwardness, fluids, and a boundary-crossing moment that lands wrong.

If your own firsts are tangled up with coercion, surprise touch, or body-based shame that still sits close, read this only if it feels like relief—not reopening.

And if it starts to feel heavy instead of funny, it’s okay to skim it, save it, or walk away halfway through if your body starts tightening up more than it opens.

— Zan

Scene (The Ride)

The “first time” is rarely the best time.

It’s not perfect. It’s not graceful. But it’s almost always memorable in ways nobody warned you about.

You figure out pretty fast that “make it special” is impossible pressure, and “make it perfect” is a fantasy.

What actually matters is who you’re doing it with, and whether you can both say what feels good, what doesn’t, and where the hard limits are.

Mine?

It happened in a finished basement with the blinds closed.

And it was… memorable for reasons nobody should ever know about.

We went downstairs, slid the glass door closed, pulled the blinds, and started making out like we’d been waiting our whole lives for that exact couch.

It was intense, in that clumsy, electric way only a first on-purpose experience can be.

I lifted her shirt, and she had one breast sitting perfectly in her bra and the other one half-escaped like it had gotten bored and tried to clock out early.

So instead of a dramatic “big reveal,” I got this accidental sneak preview nipple just… already there.

It felt like Christmas morning when you realize the wrapping paper is already torn and you can clearly see the toys.

I finished undressing her and almost forgot to undress myself.

When I finally got my belt off and my pants down, I let myself savor the fact that this was the first time I’d ever exposed myself to someone in an intimate way.

I was fully, unmistakably hard, holding myself like I belonged there.

Inside, I was still figuring out the script.

My body had already decided we were long past rehearsal.

She lay back on the couch and told me to kneel so I was in front of her face.

She sounded confident. Experienced. Like she’d watched the tutorial, and I was the guy who skipped that class and borrowed the notes.

The very second my body got within range, she opened her chap-stick-slick lips to accept me.

—and, without warning, shoved a completely dry finger somewhere much more private than I was expecting.

No countdown. No question.

Just surprise access.

I can tell you, without exaggeration, that it felt like someone trying to unlock a car door with the wrong key.

My entire nervous system lit up in one pure, uncut signal:

Abort mission. 

That moment did not become the sensual oral-sex memory I thought it would.

It became the origin story of my “if you’re going to do anything back there, you’re going to ask nicely and use lube” policy.

At one point we decided, in the way only two overexcited beginners can, to try something we’d talked about during our late-night conversations.

I’ll keep it clean, but fun fact: the male body cannot be very aroused and perform certain… water-based activities at the same time — for the most part.

I learned that the awkward way, standing there with my brain saying, “Go,” and my physiology saying, “Absolutely not, my man.”

She was also on her period, so we both agreed that me going down on her probably wasn’t in anyone’s Top 10 first-time fantasies.

So we decided to get… creative.

“Other entrance,” she suggested.

Sounded adventurous.

On paper.

In reality: she’d just had an hour-plus car ride in the middle of summer, had tacos recently, and had apparently skipped the last bathroom-adjacent cleanup.

I leaned in, and on the third lick my brain said:

We are done here. 

I pulled back trying to look cool and generous, but internally I was reconsidering my entire understanding of the human body.

It was less “erotic exploration” and more “this is a cautionary tale about planning and proper hygiene.”

We talked about actually having sex.

She’d done it before.

She was ready to feel that same rush again.

I, on the other hand, was a walking cocktail of:

  • Catholic-level fear of pregnancy
  • health-class-level fear of STDs
  • and what if my body decides to write its own ending and I just keel over mid-push?

So I stalled.

We decided to go to a friend’s house to “hang out and play games,” like that was going to calm us down.

We traded one basement for another.

This one was unfinished, freezing, and populated.

My friend was on the couch, locked into a game I’d been desperately wanting to play.

Another guy was down there too, looking and sounding like he was about three coughs away from turning into Patient Zero.

I clocked the zombie energy, then went back to trying to look unbothered while my new girlfriend curled up against me like a very determined space heater.

We stayed like that for about an hour: him gaming, sick guy breathing contagion into the air, her glued to my side, my brain turning the volume up just to drown out the anxiety.

Part of me felt like a king.

Part of me felt like I was camping on Skid Row in January.

Eventually, we migrated upstairs to the living room—new couch, same hormones.

We sat down.

Hands started roaming.

We were kissing like we’d forgotten other humans existed.

I was rediscovering her curves; she was rediscovering that I was still very, very interested.

I was about three bad decisions away from saying “screw it” and going all the way right there in my friend’s house.

There was only one person in the world who definitely did not want that to happen:

My friend’s younger brother, who appeared in the doorway and said, with the quiet authority of someone who owns the TV:

“Uh… I just wanted to watch something.”

We froze.

Not even pants-down caught.

Just mid-makeout, mid-grab, mid-everything.

We scrambled apart like we’d been hit with a stun grenade.

“We were just… roughhousing,” I blurted, as if that made it any less weird.

He stared.

“Okay. Can I watch now?”

I muttered “NO!” while my body tried to route blood away from parts that had been very sure this day was going differently.

“I mean the TV…”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure,” I said, trying to gather whatever decency I had left on that couch.

We left.

Walking back to my place, we both had the same thought:

The couch is still there. 

The universe, however, had other plans.

Her phone rang.

Her ride was already outside my house.

We made it back just in time for her to say goodbye.

No sex.

No grand finale.

Just a hug, a kiss, and me on the side of the road with a body that had been promised for hours it was finally going to feel something.

My technical virginity remained intact.

My lower back and certain other regions? Emotionally confused.

A day or two later, I started feeling off.

Sniffling.

Coughing.

Fatigue.

In the middle of summer.

My anxiety did what anxiety does:

“Congratulations, you’ve somehow contracted every STD known to man from… whatever that was a few days ago.”

I asked her, more than once, if she was sure everything was okay on her side.

She told me her last partner had promised he was clean before he moved states.

We both really wanted to believe him.

The symptoms got worse.

I started mentally writing my own obituary.

Then, slowly, it dawned on me:

Maybe—just maybe—the guy hacking up a lung in the freezing basement had given me exactly what it looked like he had:

A regular, miserable, old-fashioned case of walkin’ pneumonia — or something close enough.

No scandalous infection.

No dramatic consequence.

Just two weeks of tissues, coughing, and swearing I was never touching anyone’s anything — or letting them touch mine — ever again.

For a long stretch after that, any in-person sexual contact went straight to the bottom of my priority list.

That… did not last long.

I decided that me being the one doing any rimming was officially off the table.

That rule held a little longer — but not by much.

I decided surprise hands in my personal back-of-house region were banned for life.

Until, of course, they weren’t.

First times don’t certify you; they just introduce you, sometimes awkwardly, to yourself.

My first true sexual experience looked less like a sexual awakening and more like a sitcom — but it is one of those moments I keep: the risk was real, the thrill was high, and I was living the best life I knew how to.

The sex gets better.

The communication decides whether you do.

Companion track:  “Pussy” – Rammstein

Aftercare (The Comedown)

If this one made you laugh and flinch, that’s just your system clocking a messy first for what it was: crude, chaotic, and very human. This is a story about awkward early-sex reality — not a standard you’re meant to measure yourself against.

One line stays firm: anything “surprise” that crosses a boundary isn’t part of the joke, isn’t part of the heat, and doesn’t get a free pass because the rest is funny. In my world, new access gets asked for, and “not sure” always means we slow down and get clear.

If your own firsts carry bruised edges, you don’t have to make them lighter to be “cool,” and you don’t have to turn this piece into a verdict on your history. Take the relief, leave anything that doesn’t serve you, and keep your boundaries exactly where they belong — in your hands.

And if all you got from this was, “Okay, adult rules matter,” good. That’s the point: the sex improves, the stories get better, and your consent stays the thing nobody gets to improvise.

Cycle II – Coming of Age (The Hidden Life) · 06 (v1.00)

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