It must have come to me a while later when I was still in his arms. It woke me up before I even realized I had dozed off, filling me with a sense of dread and anxiety I couldn't begin to fathom.
I felt queasy, as if I had been sick and needed not just many showers to wash everything off but a bath in mouthwash.
I needed to be far away—from him, from this room, from what we'd done together.
It was as though I were slowly landing from an awful nightmare but wasn't quite touching the ground yet and wasn't sure I wanted to, because what awaited was not going to be much better, though I knew I couldn't go on hanging on to that giant, amorphous blob of a nightmare that felt like the biggest cloud of self-loathing and remorse that had ever wafted into my life.
I would never be the same.How had I let him do these things to me, and how eagerly had I participated in them, and spurred them on, and then waited for him, begging him, Please don't stop.
Now his goo was matted on my chest as proof that I had crossed a terrible line. …
[I had offended] those who were yet unborn or unmet and whom I'd never be able to love without remembering this mass of shame and revulsion rising between my life and theirs. It would haunt and sully my love for them, and between us, there would be this secret that could tarnish everything good in me.
Sounds just like a first time to me.
* Aciman, Andre. Call Me By Your Name. New York: Picador, 2008. Print.
