Ah, the first time (Picture: Ella Byworth/Getty Images)

The giddy thrill of mutual attraction, the intoxicating buzz of transgression, that pure and perfect climax.

It’s true what they say – you never forget your first time.

3 men discuss their first orgasm

And sure, it isn’t always scintillating or special, but it’s a memory we nonetheless carry with us for the rest of our lives.

Metro.co.uk caught up with three guys eager to share their funny, gross and downright adorable cherry-popping yarns.


NSFW, pretty much.

Against a fire door, on the 22nd floor

By RS

During my mid-teens I worked as a paperboy.

I’d arrive at the cornershop about 6:30am to sort out my round – double-checking addresses, inserting supplements into the broadsheets, that sort of thing.



The other delivery staff would be there as well – including, for a few brief and wonderful weeks in late 1998, a girl named Carla.

I’d try out my woefully inexpert flirting on her, she’d sometimes laugh, I’d often blush.

Then I’d tip the pile of papers into my sack and head out into the cold morning.

My round included a row of rather ropey tower blocks, so I’d spend a lot of time in smelly lifts going up and down flicking through the grubby tabloids in my bag.

One day, presumably distracted by a feature on the Spice Girls (very much my thing at the time), I accidentally posted a Daily Star into the wrong letterbox.

The cantankerous old hag wasted zero time calling the shop, outraged, so at the end of my round, the shopkeeper insisted I go back and deliver her paper as promised.

On my way back to the estate, I bumped into the lovely Carla, who’d just finished her much cushier round.

She offered to accompany me as I made the extra drop-off.

In the lift – which genuinely stank of piss, and took an age to get to the 22nd floor – Carla began kissing and groping me.

It was great – she tasted of strawberry Hubba Bubba.

Having stumbled out onto the correct floor (and delivered the paper like a pro), she dragged me into the fire escape stairway, dropped her Adidas poppers to the lino, unzipped my fly and pulled me into her.

It was brief, urgent, hurried.

I went up that tower block a boy, and came down it a man.

A man with spunk on his Reebok Classics.

A case of sibling extortion

By JS

Jessica was a posh girl with an infuriating family.

Wining and dining her cost me a fortune, considering I was only a warehouse gimp at the time.

After about three months she informed me she was ‘considering taking things to the next level’, but the onus was on me to sort it all out and make sure it was perfect.

My parent’s house was a no go – mum never left the place, when we were there, and besides, Jessica preferred to stay in Chigwell unless absolutely necessary.

Her massive pad was ideal, but her sister – about five years older, never kissed a boy – took it upon herself to cockblock at every opportunity.



After three successive weekends of sis refusing to leave us in peace, I basically bribed her to go to the cinema.

Knowing full well she was in a position to name her price, the wretched girl even strongarmed me into treating her pram-faced mates to a post-film Nando’s.

That was a week’s wages for me back then, but slave to my hormones that I was, I gladly handed over the dosh.

At least that gave me and Jessica a good four hours to go at it.

She bled, which was unfortunate, and everything smelled of latex, but I thought it was poetic, tender and even a bit magical. I fell in love with her.

She ghosted me later that week.

Bitch.

Between villages

By RC

I grew up gay in a tiny Somerset village.

Well, somebody had to.

While all my friends were copping off in fields, I stayed home playing video games.

One girl at school said she was bi and tried it on with me a few times.

As much to shut her up as anything, I told her I only liked men.

Like an angel, she told me about another boy in a nearby village who was the same.

She gave me his number, we texted back and forth.

One summer night we met, on a crossroads by a field.

The only light was moonlight – our only soundtrack the washing-machine rumble of the nearby A361.

We held hands, shared a cigarette, and gently gave ourselves to each other.


It was his first time too, so we were both clumsy, uncertain but forgiving of each other.

Though we never saw each other again after that, I walked home feeling 10 feet taller.

Maybe a few years down the line I’d have experienced my first time at uni, or in a club or whatever.

I’m glad it was him, then.

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