Megan was my first love, my first girlfriend, my first kiss, my first blowjob. She should’ve been my first everything, but I didn’t want our first time together to be a pathetic showing. So I took care of my virginity with the local slut and got some pointers on how to please my girl.
The night came when I was going to deflower her. We were both nervous, so we snuggled naked under the sheets. Megan’s hair was soft and smelled amazing. I’d never smelled hair so sweet before. I ran my fingers through it every second that I could, never wanting to stop, never wanting to let her go. When the time came, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take her virginity when she thought she was taking mine, when she thought she was my only, when she thought I had been faithful.
I told her of my infidelity, lying there close to her, my arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders so I couldn’t see the look of disgust on her face. There was no reaction, though. She said nothing, did nothing. She just lay there in my arms, silent. I had to see her face, the one that I dreaded, but needed to know what she was thinking.
Her eyes were closed. I asked her to open her eyes and talk to me. She refused. I held her and kissed her, but she didn’t react to my touch. She didn’t push me away or kiss me back. She just lay there motionless. I begged her to open her eyes and stop ignoring me. I grabbed her hands, and when I stopped fighting with her to sit up and talk to me, I felt it, or rather, I didn’t. She had no pulse.
Megan died of a brain aneurysm that night in my arms. The doctors say she died before I told her the ugly truth. She died in the arms of the man who she loved, who should have loved her better.
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