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I grew up in rural Utah. I attended a private school until I was 9 years old, a school all the liberal parents sent their kids to in order to keep them from being in the public schools, which were terrible. I met a girl who loved horses but had never ridden one. I invited her to come over and learn. I had horses and she was gorgeous, it seemed like the right move. She had no idea what she was doing, and I had grown up with these horses so I assumed everyone knew how to ride. She walked around the riding area several times before I encouraged her to try and get the horse to trot. She made it to the far end of the ring before the jostling became too much, and she dropped the reins and shrieked. The horse reared, she fell into the fence and I ran across the arena to make sure she was all right. She had cut her head at the temple, which I carefully daubed with my pocket hankie. The cut was not deep, and she wasn't crying, though her face was flushed and she had a hard time standing up without help. Together we limped across the arena, the barnyard, the back yard, and the carport to get her safely into the bathroom where she felt perfectly capable of cleaning and dressing her own injuries. My mother called hers while I was out gathering up the horse and putting him away, so by the time I returned, she had already been collected and taken away. I felt pretty sad as I tucked myself into bed that night, quite sure I'd ruined our friendship somehow, let alone any chance I might have with her.
Our friendship was not ruined, though she expressed many times that she was uninterested in me either romantically or sexually.
Until after I left the military many years later. We were still friends, we hung out most nights of the week, and when one of us was having a particularly bad day, the other would bring them a case of beer or a bottle of something harder and help finish it off before the sun came up.
She had lost the prestigious internship she'd spent six weeks working for, she'd dumped her boyfriend, and she had to ask her father for money in order to pay rent. I was wallowing in the recent failure of my own relationship and had been informed that morning that my car's engine block had cracked, and I would be walking to school from then on.
I gathered the requisite materials for our night of drunken commiseration. A new bottle of rum, a flask of scotch, and three bottles left over from failed binges in the past. Barely more than a few ounces in each. She arrived with more alcohol, a shopping bag of it. Apparently we were going to be profoundly drunk until the following Sunday.
We played music, drank heavily, and talked about how someday we'd be happily ensconced in dream homes, with dream partners, dream jobs, and dream kids. Then she was sitting on my lap, kissing me. I didn't complain.
To provide a coherent narrative would be intellectually dishonest of me. I don't remember what happened, blow by blow. I remember scenes, snapshots, moments of emotional resonance. I remember asking her if she was certain this wasn't just alcohol, and being reassured that she was acting on feeling long buried.
Then her face, millimeters away, her breath on my neck as she laid her body on top of mine. She asked me if she was too heavy, and I chuckled. The buzzing sensation of being drunk was filling my entire body, and even if she weighed more than a buck twenty, it was absurd to think she was smothering me. I remember laughing and laughing as she pressed against me.
I remember realizing how drunk I was, just as she began to undress. Her shirt hit the floor and I remember thinking, "She's really nervous, don't be an asshole. Say something nice about her boobs when she finishes with that bra." She looked at me, a normally fierce woman, an ardent political activist, and a wickedly smart social manipulator. But she was seriously nervous sitting on the end of my mattress. I struggled not to sit there like the profoundly drunken dick I was and the haze of whiskey finally parted to allow me one single word. I chose "Wow".
We had sex, it was okay. After more than ten years longing to touch someone and have them reciprocate your affections, a drunken tryst in a literal loft apartment is a little disappointing.
But after we were done, as she lay next to me, she whispered, "You know, you're the first person to ever give me an orgasm?"
I felt pretty damn good. What an ego boost. She continued.
"Do you remember back at Sunset?"
I allowed that I did remember the school we attended together.
"Do you remember inviting me to your house to learn to ride horses?"
I assented again.
"I didn't fall off the horse because I was scared of it running. I fell because I came."
I didn't need any explanation, I understood all the implications of what she'd just said. The shriek, the flushed face, the trouble walking.
"Did you cum tonight?"
"No, I think we're too drunk for that."
"Yeah."

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