My First Time in a Ford Taurus

The memory of my first time is permanently laminated in a layer of cheap beer, sweat, and the sticky vinyl of a 1998 Ford Taurus station wagon. I was seventeen, and the summer air was so thick you could chew it. It clung to your skin, a damp, unwelcome blanket that made your clothes feel like a second layer of punishment. His name was Jake, and he was a year older, with a car that represented a kind of shabby, automotive royalty in our suburban wasteland. The Taurus was a hand-me-down from his mom, beige and boxy, and it always smelled faintly of stale french fries and ambition.

We’d been “talking” for most of the summer, which meant we’d made out at a few parties, his hands clumsily groping under my t-shirt while I tried to remember to breathe through my nose. That night, we’d been at a bonfire down by the quarry, the smoke not quite masking the scent of mosquito repellent and teenage desperation. He’d been drinking Budweiser, and I’d been sipping on a wine cooler, the kind that tasted like melted popsicles. I remember the exact moment he leaned over, his breath hot and beery in my ear, and said, “Wanna get out of here?” My heart did this stupid, frantic tap-dance against my ribs. I knew what it meant. I’d played this scenario out in my head a hundred times, but the fantasy was always clean, and romantic, and involved a lot more soft lighting and a lot less bug bites.

I just nodded, my throat too tight to form words. We said our awkward goodbyes to the group, a chorus of “ooohs” and knowing laughs following us as we stumbled towards the car. The interior of the Taurus was an oven. The second he opened the door, a wave of trapped heat rolled out, carrying that signature scent of fries and fake pine from the little tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. The vinyl seats were scorching, even through my denim shorts, and I had to do that little hop-and-settle to avoid getting third-degree burns on the backs of my thighs. He started the car, and the engine coughed to life, followed by the blessedly loud blast of the AC. He didn’t back out of the spot right away. He just sat there, the fan on high, looking at me.

“So,” he said. His face was flushed, from the beer or the heat or the moment, I didn’t know.

“So,” I echoed, feeling profoundly stupid.

His hand found mine, his palm slick with sweat. It wasn’t a romantic hold; it was clammy. He brought my fingers to his lips and kissed my knuckles, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he leaned in, and his mouth was on mine. The kiss was different from before; it was more urgent, less exploratory. It was all tongue and teeth and the lingering taste of cheap beer. One of his hands went to the side of my face, the other landed on my knee, his thumb stroking the inside of my thigh. My brain was a mess of conflicting signals. Part of me was screaming, This is it! This is happening! Another part was acutely aware of the uncomfortable stickiness of my own skin and the way the seatbelt buckle was digging into my hip.

He pulled back, his breathing heavy. “You wanna…?” he let the question hang in the air, thick as the humidity.

I managed another nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He put the car in reverse and we drove in a tense silence to the back of the old elementary school, a place that was legendary for this sort of thing. The parking lot was empty, illuminated by a single, flickering sodium-vapor light that cast a sickly orange glow over everything. He killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the frantic whirring of crickets outside. The air conditioner died, and the heat immediately began to reclaim the space inside the car.

“The back,” he mumbled, already climbing between the front seats. The Taurus station wagon had a cavernous back area, a flat space meant for groceries or sports equipment, now covered with an old, scratchy blanket. It felt like we were in a cave, a hot, cramped cave that smelled of dust and anticipation. He was on me before I could even get my bearings, his kisses more frantic, his hands everywhere. He fumbled with the button on my shorts, his fingers clumsy. I had to help him, my own hands shaking, and together we managed to get my shorts and underwear down to my ankles. He yanked his own jeans and boxers down to his knees.

There was no talking, no gentle guidance. He was on top of me, his weight pressing me into the scratchy blanket. The roof of the car was so close I could have touched it without fully extending my arm. It felt incredibly small. I could feel the hard ridges of the folded-down seats through the blanket, digging into my back. He was prodding between my legs, blind and desperate. I was dry. Not just a little nervous, but genuinely, uncomfortably dry. The friction was a sharp, unpleasant burn.

“Wait,” I whispered, my voice small in the cramped space.

He either didn’t hear me or chose not to. He pushed, a clumsy, insistent thrust. There was a tearing, searing pain that made me gasp, my eyes squeezing shut. It wasn’t the cinematic, momentary pinch I’d read about in magazines. It was a raw, hot feeling of being split open. I let out a sound, a choked-off whimper, and turned my head to the side, my cheek pressed against the rough blanket. I stared at the dark fabric of the car door, at a stray french fry that had been ground into the carpet, and tried to disappear.

He started moving, a rhythmic, grunting motion above me. Each thrust reignited that initial burn. The air was so thick it was hard to breathe. Sweat was pouring off both of us, making our skin slide against each other in a slick, unpleasant way. My left foot was tangled in my shorts, and my right knee was jammed against the side of the car. The entire vehicle rocked slightly with his movements, the suspension creaking a pathetic, rhythmic complaint. I could hear the crickets, and the sound of his breathing, and the wet, slapping sound of our bodies coming together. It was the least sexy symphony imaginable.

I remember thinking, Is this it? Is this what all the fuss is about? This was supposed to be this beautiful, transformative thing, and instead I was just counting the seconds until it was over, focusing on the pain and the discomfort and the profound sense of letdown. I felt like an object, a warm, tight hole for him to use. He wasn’t looking at my face; his eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. His pleasure was a separate, private thing happening on top of me.

His movements became faster, more jerky. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound from his chest, and then he collapsed on top of me, his full weight driving me even harder into the unforgiving floor of the station wagon. I felt a warm, wet sensation inside me. And then, it was over. The silence returned, broken only by our ragged breathing. The smell of sex, a sharp, musky odor, now mixed with the smells of sweat and dust and that damned french fry.

He rolled off me after a moment, pulling his boxers and jeans up in one hurried motion. I just lay there, feeling exposed and sore, the cool air from the now-open window doing little to soothe the burning between my legs. I slowly, awkwardly, pulled my shorts and underwear back on. The denim felt rough and abrasive against my tender skin.

We didn’t speak on the drive home. He dropped me off a block from my house, like we’d agreed. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes.

He didn’t.

I walked into my house, my body aching, feeling the sticky residue of the experience all over me. I went straight to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower, scrubbing my skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the memory of the sweat, the vinyl, the pain, and the crushing disappointment. It wasn’t passionate or romantic. It was a clumsy, uncomfortable, and frankly, shitty first time in the back of a beige Ford Taurus. But it was mine, and it was real. And for better or worse, it’s the memory that stuck, laminated in all its ugly, truthful detail.