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Her place
First deliberate touch? That was holding hands, and it took place (to her surprise - she thought we were friends, not on a date) at a concert venue.
First kiss? At my place, in the front hall (and though a quick one, it was as much a surprise to her as the handholding).
But her place was special. It was the site of most of our romantic - approaching, perhaps achieving, sexual - kissing.
She had a living room with an old but serviceable (and appropriately named) loveseat. Months before we were married we started spending time there, when her roommates were gone. We didn't watch TV. I don't even recall music. But I recall talking, side by side, my arm around her. Lights low, voices low. After a time, our faces would draw close, close enough to feel each other's heat. Our lips met, first tentatively, then with increasing passion. As I tasted her lips, I'd draw her closer, feeling the softness and warmth of her body near mine. Feeling the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed -- and hope that the breathing and heartbeat sped up a little as she enjoyed my presence and the touch of my lips.
But we waited; those sessions never included touching breasts or other sensitive parts. Just lips, cheeks, backs, arms ....
Eventually, we'd move, no longer sitting side-by-side. She'd slip her face into my lap - her heading resting too near evidence of my excitement, but without touching my hardness. I'd lean over her, exploring her lips with my tongue, inviting her to reciprocate, exciting me as she did. From time to time our mouths would separate, and I'd look into her eyes - or, if they were closed, gently kiss the lids. My hands would wander, but only to run through her deep brown hair or touch the softness of her cheeks. Her fingers stroked my face and reached out to pull me closer as our mouths returned to their delightful occupation.
At some point - never too late to resist temptation - we'd stand, holding hands, walk toward the door, and say a long good-bye. Again our lips would meet - but now with a lingering hug. The hugs grew tighter as our wedding date grew near. The urge to meld into each other was nearly overwhelming at times. And yes, I could feel the delight of her mysterious, but well clothed breasts against my chest. I wondered afterwards if she could feel my hardness against her. But hugs were our limit.
That doesn't mean we entirely ignored the coming opportunities. Like many of our generation, we didn't really discuss sex. But we did talk about children and birth control. She decided to get a diaphragm. I let her choose - without offering to use condoms - and she arranged an appointment with a gynecologist. So one night, when I arrived at her place and she was making dinner, she told me she'd gotten the diaphragm. I suspect the mixture of fear and excitement that I felt was immediately evident on my face. Here was tangible evidence that she was going to give her body to me -- to allow me to enter her, as I'd done only in dreams (though day and night). To my shy delight, she invited me to go up to her bedroom and see it while she finished up in the kitchen. I'd never been invited to that room before - to where she lay each night, wearing, I'd imagine, very little, hopefully smiling as she thought about opening herself to me.
I can still recall the butterflies in my stomach as ascended the stairs, found the brown paper bag, sat on the edge of my beloved's bed, opened the plastic case, and took out the medical device that would be so closely linked to the loss of my virginity. A few moments later she quietly joined me, and we sat silently sitting together on her bed, quietly contemplating this physical evidence of our willingness to give our bodies to each other -- and, at least on my side, wondering just how it would all really work. We almost reverently returned the object to its case, and hand-in-hand returned to the kitchen, leaving any further discussion until after the ceremony that made physical intimacy legitimate.
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