Girl On The Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets. Литагент HarperCollins USD
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him until you’re completely ready.’
I thought it appropriate to cut the chat short early to save embarrassment. ‘I already have.’
‘You have? But … when?’ For some reason as soon as they have children parents forget that sex can be had in places other than beds, and at times other than night time. I have not yet met a single teenager whose parents haven’t insisted on placing restrictions on couples sleeping together. As if without the sleeping there can be no sex.
‘Yesterday. And a few days before that. And every time I’ve been at his house for the last few weeks.’
‘Oh. Well, are you using condoms?’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s good.’
In hindsight, it might have been cruel to spring things on her so quickly. My sister, who was eighteen months older, had showed no signs of wanting to rampantly hump anyone, and I felt like I was jumping the queue.
I was clearly opening doors that my mum hadn’t quite been ready for me to see behind, and I got the distinct impression that she felt like she’d let me down. Like she’d missed out on the chance to talk to me about sex before I actually did it. Still, after she’d shed a few tears for my lost innocence, and warned me to be careful, I hopped up and went to get ready for a night at number one’s house.
‘I’ll be careful. We’ve got loads of condoms.’
‘Well, that’s good. But it’s not just the pregnancy thing. It’s the heartbreak thing.’ She didn’t hold me back, just let me breeze out of the room with a ‘good point’ hanging in the air, but she was right. No matter how many packets of Durex you have, the heartbreak thing can still get you.
Number one taught me a lot. Other than how to shag, and how to stop asking him for a shag when he was knackered, he taught me that I wasn’t going to die alone. This was comforting, as I’d spent the previous year chasing plaintively after First Love and staring into the mirror wondering what, exactly, was so horribly wrong with me that my love was destined to be unrequited. I’d begun to wonder if perhaps the reason First Love wouldn’t fuck me was because I was just fundamentally unfuckable. Glasses, bushy hair, puppy fat and a tendency to correct people’s grammar did not really work to my advantage when trying to convince anyone I was a sex kitten. But although First Love remained resolute in his decision to Just Be Friends, number one seemed to like whatever limited charms I had to offer.
And, curiously, as soon as number one started liking me, other boys did too. It began gradually. Those boys who’d previously laughed at me started to simply ignore me, and those who’d ignored me gave the occasional ‘hello’. It probably helped that, in my relentless quest to make number one have sex with me as often as was biologically possible, I’d taken to wearing clothes that showed off my obvious bits: out went the baggy shirts and jumpers, in came skintight, low-cut tops, and skirts in which I was—for very good reason—nervous to bend over. And it wasn’t just the way I dressed. I started acting more like someone who was a possibility. The guys who’d previously written me off weren’t stupid—they recognised that although I was uncool, I was nevertheless getting laid, which significantly increased the possibility that I’d be willing to lay them. They weren’t all interested—some were still far too cool to consider me. But if you throw a stone into a crowd of seventeen-year-olds you’re bound to hit a good few virgins, at least three of whom will almost certainly have an undiscerning erection.
I wanted so much to talk about fucking. I wanted to talk about it to others who’d done it, and especially to those who hadn’t. Don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t looking for sex tips. Given my age the best I’d have got from my peers would be untried-and-untested playground shite, things that grown adults have long since realised are either faintly amusing or complete turn-offs altogether.
‘Try putting a condom on with your mouth.’
‘Put whipped cream on his dick then lick it off.’
‘Get him to suck on an extra strong mint then stick his tongue in your fanny.’ (This last one, attempted by at least four of my close friends at the time, only ever resulted in either ‘ow’s, ‘euggh’s or ‘meh’s.)
I didn’t want to talk to people to get their advice; I just wanted to hear them talk about fucking. I wanted to know how they felt about it—what they liked and didn’t, what they’d tried and hadn’t. I’d listen to my friends telling stories in voices that sounded much more confident than they were, and I’d imagine them getting hard, getting wet, frotting each other in exactly the way number one and I would. I’d store the tales up for later when I was sucking number one’s cock. Who needs porn when you’ve a headful of teenage orgies and a nice, solid prick in your mouth?
I don’t know if they thought the same about me. I’d like to think so. And I certainly told my fair share of stories. Even if the guys I was talking to weren’t specifically interested in me, they were certainly interested in genuine, honest-to-goodness real-life accounts of sex. This was evidenced by erections they thought I wouldn’t notice pushing visibly at the fabric of their jeans. Or T-shirts swiftly and casually draped so that they covered a guy’s crotch. Alongside those I’ve mentioned already, there was one guy on whom they had an especially satisfying effect: First Love.
We were still speaking to each other on the phone. Once a week he’d call me, or I’d call him, and we’d spend hours lounging around chatting. We’d talk about anything that was happening in his life and, on account of our mutual interests, everything that was happening in my life that had anything to do with sex. I relayed tales of my latest fuck, my worries about number one’s sex drive, my guilty lust for other boys who’d stare openly at my newly displayed tits. And I’d hear him at the other end of the phone getting—if not necessarily hard—interested.
‘What’s it like being on top?’
‘It’s fun, I guess. It depends on what he’s doing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if he’s touching my tits, it’s good. If he’s looking a bit bored, not so much.’
‘I think when I start having sex that’ll be my favourite position. Do you keep your bra on?’
‘Sometimes. Most of the time, actually. I like it like that. I prefer to be a bit less than naked. It’s hotter.’
And so on.
‘Has he ever fucked you with your knickers on? Has he ever come on your face? Has he fucked you in the … you know?’
And on. And on. He painted the most vivid pictures for me, of things I could be doing and had done. And I felt vaguely guilty because relaying the sex I’d had seemed ever so slightly hotter than actually doing it, because I was relaying it to him. Guiltily, I’d imagine not number one’s hands firmly gripping my tits while I lowered myself onto his erection, but First Love’s. With his thin wrists and quick fingers and the thick black watch on his right arm. Sometimes, when I tumbled onto (always ‘onto’, rarely ever into) bed with number one, I’d guide his hands to the places First Love had talked about, and imagined how he’d grin at me as he got undressed.
I would have given anything to know if First Love’s cock was hard while we had those conversations. I’m not an idiot—I didn’t expect him to hop on a train and come all the way back to me just for the promise of me writhing around on his dick. But I wanted him to understand that he and I could work together. Not just because we were friends who were capable of holding a conversation for more than ten minutes about something more significant than A-level coursework, but because we’d fit together so well when fucking. That he was the perfect guy for me because he wanted to fuck just like I did. As much as I did. As hard as I did.
While he was chasing girls in his new hometown, playing at being cool and interesting and—I cringe to say it—‘boyfriend material’, all he wanted he had already: a willing, horny girl. Although I’m sure there were any number of these girls in his new town, crucially they’d be unlikely