Girl On The Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets. Литагент HarperCollins USD
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only have these chats with me made me not only willing and horny, but—to him at least—unique.
I didn’t quite have the words or the confidence to say it at the time, but what I was trying to tell him, and number one as well, is that I like sex. I want sex. Women want sex. You don’t need to take us bowling to distract us from realising that you find us explosively attractive. OK, you might not be best off starting a date by saying ‘Hey, I’ve got a massive erection for you right now,’ but you don’t need to pretend to be a sexless Ken doll. Women like sex, and we want to know that you’re horny. Most of us want to feel desired and lusted after and attractive. Ultimately, of course, if we fancy you then we want to fuck you: we’re not just doing it as a favour in exchange for a cinema ticket.
I was initially too busy basking in my fucklust for number one and my miserable unrequited First Love to notice number two. He wasn’t exactly a friend, just a guy I happened to have a couple of classes with. But apparently he’d been noticing me. One day he passed me a note that read:
‘I’m so sorry I offended you. I didn’t mean to take the piss. I actually think you’re amazing and was wondering if you and your mate Jenny want to come to a house party with us on Friday?’
His ability to offend me combined with his nicely worded compliment had the desired effect. Not only did I want to go to the party, I wanted to sit on his cock and fuck him until he was dry.
I’ll rewind a bit. Number two had exploded into my life by not just offending me but enraging me. It had happened a few days earlier, when I was waiting at a bus stop with number one. I was standing up and number one was sitting on the bin just beside me. He, I think, had one hand down my top, and I was seeing if I could brush one or other of my hands over the erection he was cultivating inside his baggy jeans. I was enjoying the moment partly because of the simple, public hotness of it, and partly because we were in an excellent position for snogging, with our mouths at identical heights.
Height had always been an issue for us, because number one was short, and I have always been a massive girl. I stand at five foot eleven in bare feet, which means that in high-heeled boots I rock a good six feet three inches.
This didn’t cause any major issues between the two of us—after all, I was more than capable of retrieving things from high shelves without assistance, so it had never occurred to me that I should limit my potential boyfriends to those who could reach a couple of inches higher than I could. But for some reason as soon as I started dating a short guy, everyone wanted to point it out.
‘You’re tall,’ they’d say.
‘Why, yes, I am,’ I’d reply.
‘And he’s … well … he’s quite short.’ Usually uttered with a quizzical expression.
‘So he is.’ Usually uttered with an angry ‘when are you going to fuck off?’ expression.
‘Does it make it hard when you shag?’ they’d ask.
‘No. But it makes it hard to avoid spanking people like you who mention it,’ I’d wish I’d answered.
The average height for guys in England is around five foot nine or ten. Using this information, even the young version of me was able to deduce that if I only fucked guys who were taller than I was I’d spend most of my life alone. I decided that this was not a scenario I was particularly happy with.
Even leaving the practicalities aside—I didn’t fancy carrying a measuring stick around with me and wearing a T-shirt that said ‘you must be at least this tall to ride’—there is genuinely nothing wrong with a male/female coupling in which the guy is shorter. The only reason we think it’s weird is because cretins point out that society has expectations about height. It’s a way to make people feel self-conscious about things they have no control over—playground bullying that grown-ups should have grown out of.
Number one stood just a bit higher than my shoulder, but I got used to it after about a week. From then on the only time I noticed it was when judgemental strangers would make snide comments. ‘Don’t you get a sore neck?’ ‘Isn’t it hard to fuck up against a wall?’ They’re not really interested. They just want to discuss it and point out how ridiculous it is that we don’t conform to the exact physical expectations that they’d have regarding gender and height. Ha fucking ha.
I later learned that it wasn’t just height. People feel like it’s their business to comment on almost any aspect of your taste. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told someone how hot I find a particular guy only to hear them reply, ‘What, him?! But he’s so old/fat/short/bald/pale/scruffy.’
The only possible response to these people is ‘fuck you.’ Whoever you choose for a partner, there’ll be some weapons-grade bastard looking sideways at you with raised eyebrows, wondering what on earth it is you see in each other. If you listen to them the only people you’ll end up dating are the bastards themselves, while all the nice people look on from the sidelines, far too polite to ask why you’re dating someone whose idea of ‘compatibility’ is based purely on a size ratio.
Number one taught me my first lesson in ignoring the hell out of these people, and a bloody valuable one it was too.
So, back to the bus stop and the bin. Number one and I were snogging in full view of an understandably disgusted band of students. My black lipstick was smeared halfway across his face, making it look like he had a big purple bruise, and every now and then someone would mutter ‘Get a room,’ demonstrating how thoroughly the majority of people miss the fact that the only reason people frot in public is because they rarely have a room to go to. But neither number one nor I gave the tiniest of shits. We were young, and happy, and so horny it hurt. My cunt would twitch and I could feel the pain deep inside me as I pulled him closer, willing the bus to come quickly so we could head to his house and retire to the room our fellow students were so keen that we should get.
And then the bus drew up at the stop, and we turned around to get on. Two boys I vaguely knew were sitting on the upper deck, pointing down at us and laughing. I caught the eye of one of them, recognising number two from the classes we had together at college. As he caught my eye he laughed even louder, gesturing through the window to hammer home the point—unless it hadn’t been hurtfully obvious enough—that it was my boyfriend he was laughing at.
I gave him the finger, and then took the boy back home to fuck.
The next day I tackled him head-on. I didn’t mind being laughed at, but I wanted to know exactly why this borderline stranger felt he could comment on—or point mockingly at—the boyfriend I was so proud of. I confronted him in the only way that seemed fitting to a dramatic prick like me: loudly, angrily, and where I knew everyone would see. I wanted number two to feel as humiliated and pissed off as I did. I wanted him to feel sorry. I wanted him to know exactly why I was angry, and how he’d made me feel. And, because he was quite attractive and I was never one to miss an opportunity, I wanted him to get a good look at my tits.
‘What the FUCK did you think you were doing yesterday?’
‘I … umm … I just thought it was funny.’
‘What was funny?’
‘Your boyfriend.’
‘What about my boyfriend?’
‘He’s … umm … short?’
‘True. But he’s also a very good fuck.’
‘…’
‘If you ever do that again I will drop-kick you off a pier.’ I don’t remember my exact words, but I’m sure they were at least as obnoxious as these, if not more so. I tossed my head like an arrogant shit, put my hands on my hips, puffed my chest out just to make utterly sure that he had a good opportunity to look at my boobs, then turned on my heel and walked away.
Clearly what I deserved was to be taken down a peg or two. No matter how right I was—and I was—to tell him off, number two wouldn’t have been entirely to blame if he’d never spoken to or of me again, except for perhaps