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His lips and tongue are dancing across my neck and I can feel his breath on my cheek, body pressed and pulsing next to mine. Am I aroused by the sensual and impulsive nature of this make-out scene or the fact that this is my first hook-up with an authentic London boy? Probably both. He is a hotty: lean, muscular, dark hair, brooding eyes. “Not bad for being in England just two weeks,” I think to myself.
His hands move over my white tank top and then under. We laugh when he is interrupted by my built-in bra. I redirect his hand underneath and he grabs my left breast and passionately presses his lips to mine. Our mouths open slightly and tongues meet tongues causing our body temperatures to rise.
I met Andrew in a former church--now a pub--called “The Firkin,” in the Muswell Hill area of London. The Firkin has already become the local meeting place for students on the study abroad program. I am the first to have an official date with a native, and for that I am proud. Compared to the rest of my compatriots from St. Lawrence University in upstate New York, I have no limits when it comes to meeting new people. And Andrew is the coup d’état.
His right hand moves to my knee and up my freshly shaved thigh. I get a bit wet and excited, coming to that point of debate; how much further do I want to take this on a first date? Running my hands from his head down his back I turn our attention from me to him. Gently pushing him onto his back I look seductively at his angular face highlighted by European moonlight, and bring my hands to his waist. He looks back at me with a crooked smile as I unbuckle his belt and unzip his fly. I move my hands underneath his navy boxers and stroke his hard penis with my left hand. Pushing his shirt up, I travel with my mouth down his lean chest and hard abs. He has raised his head up to watch me. I kiss his navel and wrap my mouth around his bare cock.
There is something strange about it.
There is too much “stuff.”
My thoughts turn from passion to the realization that not only is this my first London hook-up, it is also my first uncircumcised penis. I laugh inwardly and think about the gem of a story I have to tell my St. Lawrence friends. This is the real London. More real than Tower Bridge or Westminster Abby—that’s for sure!
Taking a break, I lift my head up and Andrew moves my body back up to meet his. He starts rubbing against me, hands moving my skirt up to my waist, fingers pushing at the seams of my underwear. Thoughts of self-respect enter my mind and I move back
“What’s the problem,” Andrew asks.
“If this goes much further I’ll want to have sex with you,” I reply.
“So, I just met you and I really like you. So I just don’t think this is the best time and place to take this further.”
“Any British girl would’ve slept with me by now.”
His cocky response makes me gag. “Well any American girl would not.”
I get up, adjusting my skirt and top, picking my bag up off the grass. Andrew follows me off the field and up the road towards Muswell Hill. Three times he pushes me against the stone walls lining the sidewalk to kiss me and each time my self-respect moves me back to the sidewalk. He walks me all the way back to my host family’s house. He asks when he can see me again and I tell him to call me any time. We kiss for ten minutes on the stone steps and I watch his cute ass as he walks off into the London night. A smile comes to my face when I realize it’s startled to drizzle. Shoving my key in the difficult lock, I open the door and run up the three narrow flights of carpeted stairs to wake up my flat-mate Ellen. Boy, have I got a story for her.
He may be on to something about the promsicuity of female Brits.