My 7 Most Erotic Memories

My 7 Most Erotic Memories

Erotic: of, devoted to, or tending to arouse sexual love or desire.

Last Sunday morning I laid in bed sipping hot coffee and gazing out my sun-streaked bedroom window. As I made my way to the bottom of my coffee mug, I thought about what makes some sexual experiences sexier than others. Sometimes it’s the level of emotional intimacy. Sometimes it’s the degree of novelty and risk. And sometimes it’s just an exquisite blend of pheromones: a profound chemistry with someone who, at first glance, might not even be someone you would normally choose to be with.

So before it was time to drag myself out of bed and dive into my weekend to-do pile, I decided to play a game with myself. I let my mind drift back over my sexual history and pick the first seven erotic memories that materialized — and that still left a palpable charge.

The Voyeur

One summer afternoon when I was nine years old, I was doing underwater somersaults in a friend’s pool. When I came up for air, I saw my friend’s older sister french-kissing her boyfriend. They were kissing beautifully, passionately, oblivious to the gawking string-bean treading water nearby. I heard moans and murmurs. I knew I was witnessing something private, and I should turn away, but I was mesmerized. Whatever they were doing, I wanted it. Maybe not now, but someday.

The Erotic Kiss

I grew up in a university town. Every year during graduation, high school kids would wall-vault their way onto campus, cavorting with drunken graduates and alumni during a three-day long bacchanal. The summer I was 16, I was desperately in love with a 15-year-old Adonis. Rumored to have lost his virginity at 13, he was a star athlete and a bad boy. We had had an ongoing flirtation, and that balmy night, we drifted from the pack. We stood in the middle of the quad, wondering where our friends had gone. I looked up to see him flashing his rogue smile as he drew me into him.

No one had ever kissed me like this. His lips and tongue moved expertly over mine, and I could feel that he was aroused as he pushed his pelvis against me. Lurching footsteps and peals of laughter swirled around us as we melted into each other in a sensuous embrace that I hoped would never end. I wasn’t just turned on; I was transported. My body felt that it had merged with his. I had crossed over from garden-variety adolescent make-out sessions into an almost mystical realm of lust and tenderness.

We dated for a few weeks, but I wasn’t ready to surrender my virginity. He took up with a girl who had already dispensed with hers, leaving me in a heartbroken heap.

The Unconsummated Flirtation

The year after I graduated from college, I worked as a junior PR flak at a boutique agency. It was a bitter cold winter night when I trudged through the snow to the company Christmas party, which was held at my boss’s brownstone. I was shivering when I arrived so I kept on my coat, a cape-like cascade of white Icelandic wool.

I stood at the beverage table ladling hot cider into a plastic cup when I noticed a gaggle of women fluttering around a young man. He had shaggy brown hair and wore a suit jacket with the sleeves rolled up. He leaned against the wall emanating sex appeal.

He turned his head and caught my eye, then walked over to where I was standing. He flipped his hair off his face and gave me a long, slow smile.

“That’s a beautiful coat,” he said. He ran his hands down my sleeve and a current of electricity shot up from my core.

“Thank you,” I murmured, completely flustered by what was happening in my groin.

“How’s the cider?” he asked.

“It’s good,” I said. “Would you like some?”

He reached for my cup. There was a spark as our fingers met. I felt that he was penetrating me as he held my gaze. Every pore on my body was throbbing when, unfortunately, my boss grabbed me by the shoulder to introduce me to a client.

My future husband held onto my cup. He smiled and told me he would keep it until I returned. Ten…

 

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