When I was a teenager there were much fewer things to occupy my mind in a much simpler and docile world. Like my contemporaries and the countless generations that preceded us, there was quite a significant focus on the opposite sex – oh the stupidity that we would subject ourselves to in order to get laid. I had many instances of sexual encounters that were merely a melding of two bodies for instant gratification rather than two hearts for a lifetime; you might call these “one-night-stands” or “booty calls”. Yes, the girls willing to take their clothes off to fulfill their unquenchable yearning for attention and self affirmation ran rampant at my high school.

Well I’m married now, I have three little ones, and I’ve long since retired any notion of these desires to seek the company of the licentious and wild sort of girl. I love my wife and the family we have birthed, but regardless, my mind often wanders backwards into the unforgotten territories of my youth; the important memories, the painful memories – the good shit. This particular instance of which I’m about to tell of was one of those painful sort. This event in my life seeded insecurities deep within my heart that still fester today and have since affected countless sexual encounters thereafter.

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When I was in tenth grade there was a vixen that seemed to hold some kind of telekinetic bond on me. I couldn’t speak to her without stuttering, despite the fact I had spoken to other girls as if they were a male friends, and for some reason she seemed to eclipse any possible sexual fantasy I’d conjure involving a different girl. I would be masturbating, looking at pictures of magazines that displayed bodies I would seldom ever see much less even fathom touching, yet I would always climax thinking of Zahary Windling, or Zee as people tended to call her.

Now up until this point I’ve had a few rounds with girls and I was definitely walking the roads leading far astray from virginity. In fact, it was very safe to say that during that time in my adolescence, I considered myself quite experienced and thought quite highly of my sexual ability, and my appearance. I was a jock, through and through. I was relatively tall at six feet and I had a body that would enlarge the ego of any man: thick biceps, six pack, chiseled to the max. Couple that with natural jet black hair and blue eyes. I got what I wanted and when it came to the eve of my goals, I was confident that my desires would be fulfilled with all parties thoroughly satisfied. I remember that my second ever came so hard that she leaked milky white juices all over my cock, balls, and legs. She was even nice enough to clean it off afterwards before she collapsed.

But confidence, no matter to what degree, had no bearing on my success with Zee; mostly, because there wasn’t an attempt in the first place. Yes, I was scared to approach her. This wasn’t because I felt something so oddly sentimental as love, and it wasn’t because of pure unbridled primal attraction. I honestly didn’t know and still do not know how to describe these feelings and tendencies of doubt that surrounded this girl.

By relative standards at the time, in fact, there were scores of young girls that could hold their heads and beauty much higher than Zee. She really wasn’t a babe so to speak, at least not an immediately apparent one. She was larger-framed, not fat by any means mind you, but curvier than her peers by a large margin; this meant wide hips, large breasts, and shapely legs. She was also quite tall. Picture Christina Hendricks when she was younger but not that busty, I’d say 34 or 36D; nice and big but not overtly gargantuan. Like Christina, she also had fiery red hair and a decent face. She never wore makeup but she had rosey lips and eyes reminiscent of women long past in renaissance paintings.

Now of course you might be saying, “What the fuck are you talking about man?! This girl sounds amazing!”. Well yes, I agree of course, this story is principally about her and the effect she had upon me; however, you must understand that most guys and the programming they were subject to in terms of opinions of beauty did not lend favor to the unconventional abstraction that was Zee. Most guys, sadly and simply, wanted nothing more than your stick-figure esqe artificial beauties. I was different.

Now don’t misunderstand my past, I did indeed sleep with the cheerleaders, the bimbos, the whole lot of empty-headed wannabe princesses with their fake tans and daddy’s money- but my obsessions were fast changing.