Girl On The Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets

She tries to nod; she wants to nod. She knows that this will be the final stroke of the onslaught, the last fresh wave of pain that might push her through to orgasm. But she can’t nod, her hair’s held tightly in the grasp of the other man, and the leader has her pinned from behind, holding himself and his thick cock still, teasing her cunt while he waits for a response. The guy at the front starts thrusting harder, pushing her back onto the other man’s dick. Making strangled grunts in the back of his throat. She knows he’s going to come, can feel him start to come, can feel his dick twitch deep in the back of her throat as she makes a muffled cry.

Thwack.

So this is what I did through my teenaged years. In between trying to pass exams and not get too bullied at school, I wanked. Frantically, furiously, and with a passion and commitment that the world tried to tell me was just for boys.

I’d sit in lessons and think about wanking. I’d eat dinner on my lap in front of EastEnders and think about wanking. I’d get into the car to visit my dad and spend the twenty-minute journey thinking about wanking. How much can I get done between now and Sunday night?

Perhaps the world’s not yet ready for the slick and desperate wanking power of teenaged girls, but I wish it were. I wish it had been when I was young. Because although it occupied most of my waking thoughts, actually doing it made me feel weird. Not like an excited explorer stood on a cliff-edge of opportunity, but like a lonely hermit in a cave, scared of what the outside world would think when she told them about her discovery.

I’d learned how to wank, which made my life immeasurably more fun. It gave me something interesting and free to do with my spare time, and let me explore the disgusting things that went on inside my head. But I’d also learned to keep as quiet as I could about it. I’d learned not to talk about it or dwell for too long on the things that I did in the dark. Every other thing about me was normal—tediously so. But this secret thing I did was a bit unfeminine, a bit abnormal, and certainly not something I should openly discuss.

It took me a good few years to unlearn that lesson.

2. Sometimes it is necessary to give someone crisps so that they’ll grope you

The problem with adult men is that they just don’t touch my tits enough. I’ve never met a straight man who says he doesn’t like tits. And yet as grown men they miss out on a million opportunities to touch them up. I can think of no occasion when I’ve been relaxing with a guy on the sofa that wouldn’t have been immeasurably improved if he’d had one hand idly exploring the inside of my shirt.

Teenage boys were fantastic, for countless different reasons, but the most fantastic thing of all was their obsession—their pure and complete satisfaction—with touching my tits.

I wasn’t particularly popular at school. I was the geeky kid, the one who did well in exams but badly with the boys. The ‘good’ one, for whom detentions were so unthinkable that the one time I did get one my mum reacted as if there’d been a terrible miscarriage of justice:

‘Oh, you poor thing. Is there an appeals process?’

But despite the surface impression of being a good girl who’d pass all her exams with flying colours and have little time for boys in between, I was burning up with lust, with heat, and, above everything else, a desire to have my tits touched by boys.

Many of my girlfriends were the same. To greater or lesser degrees, all of us wanted to find someone with whom we could retire to a quiet alleyway and experiment with a bit of tit-touching. When you’re young, the jolt of electric surprise when a hand brushes a nipple—even through the bra—is as powerful as a passionate fuck might be to someone older.

And yet none of us wanted to be the one who suggested it. No girl could actually say, ‘Hey, guy who is one of our friends but who I don’t technically fancy, would you mind just rubbing my tits for twenty minutes or so until I slick my knickers?’ So we made things happen. Stealthily, subtly, without ever suggesting we might be ‘up for it’, we made things happen.

One summer, my friend Amy and I went on a mission to get our tits touched. We didn’t discuss it but we both knew that was the plan. As reasonably unpopular girls, we understood that no matter how short our skirts or how much make-up we inexpertly applied, we’d never hit the teenaged jackpot of an actual boyfriend. So we settled for the next best thing—we lowered whatever expectations we’d been foolish enough to have and headed straight for the guys who seemed most willing.

At school there was a group of boys rather cruelly known as the ‘untouchables’. These were the guys who would never get slow dances at the discos, the boys who were a bit pervy or nerdy and were generally given a wide berth. The bullied kids always stuck together, so we gravitated towards this group, and would spend countless hours swigging cheap cider with them in parks, swapping the right answers for our homework, and occasionally getting them to touch our tits.

That summer, Amy and I picked a pair of them who were quite good friends, and spent our time engineering situations in which we could get them alone. We didn’t want to shag them, and weren’t even bothered about snogging particularly—an activity which I’d found to be relatively unsexy and to require far too much post-snog facial wiping. So, no shagging, no snogging, as little conversation as we could get away with—all we wanted to do was get their hands on our tits.

Darren had his own bedroom, furnished with a bunk bed left over from the days he’d shared with an older brother, and a cheap TV/VCR in the corner on which he and his friend Rob would watch endless shit B-movies to pass the time until evening. Every morning for a couple of weeks, I’d walk to Amy’s house, knock on her door, and we’d set off to Darren’s.

Plastered with more make-up than was realistically necessary for a day spent sat in a darkened room, we’d knock on Darren’s door and ask him if Rob was around. He usually was.

‘You watching films today?’

‘Uh … yeah.’

‘Can we watch them too?’

‘Umm …’

‘We’ve brought Pringles.’

‘Come in.’

Eagerly, we’d rush into Darren’s room, where a poorly scripted horror film would be playing on the TV and Rob would be reclining on the top bunk of the bed. Even when our visits became routine, he always looked surprised to see us.

By unspoken agreement, Rob was mine, and Darren was Amy’s. I’d swing up into the top bunk, she’d settle into the bottom one, and we’d all sit in silence and pretend to watch the film.

An hour and a half was never quite long enough. It would take half an hour for Rob to get over his nervousness and make a move on me. Long after all of the movie characters had been introduced, and thrown into whichever perilous yet implausible situation the film required, he’d shift slightly towards me and brush against me with his arm. I’d respond eagerly, brushing back against him with slightly more pressure, and angling my chest so that the next move he made would have him pressed against the side of my tits.

‘Are you comfortable?’ he murmured. This was my cue.

‘Not really, can I sit in front of you?’ I replied, so quietly that the rustling coming from the bottom bunk would almost drown out my whispers.

He gulped, nodded, and I slid in front of him, so that his back was pressed against the wall and my back was pressed against him.

With our eyes still firmly on the TV, he’d make tiny, gradual movements to shift his arms so that they were holding me around my stomach. I watched the film, taking in nothing except the feeling of his hands moving ever so slowly towards my tits. The on-screen heroine would scream and flee from the latest danger, and I’d be screaming inside my head, ‘Go on, up a bit.’

I was dripping wet. Feeling the soft, gentle touch of his hands on my top would drive me mad with lust. That kick-in-the-gut feeling of need was eating away at me, and I willed him to go further.

He started breathing more heavily behind me, shaking a bit with the heady excitement that a girl was letting him touch her. She was actually, unless he was very much mistaken, shifting slightly to move her tits closer to his hands. Pushing back against him so that she could feel his jumpy, throbbing erection pressing into the small of her back. He wasn’t watching the film, just seeing the pictures. And as the people on the screen grew more terrified of whatever B-movie monster was chasing them, he was getting ever closer to having both of his hands cupped around the soft, jumper-clad, erotic holy grail—an actual pair of tits.

He wasn’t mistaken. I was doing all of these things. Subtle gestures made way for more direct ones, as I leant back and felt his hard, aching dick pressing into me. My nipples were rock solid and stood out clearly even through a bra and a thin jumper. I wanted him to touch them. I pressed myself against him and shifted to bring them closer to his hands, willing him to feel them, to be determined, to squeeze them nice and hard through the fabric.

Finally, just before the climax of the film, he’d cup his trembling hands around the actual curve of my tits, and I’d shiver with satisfaction, a wave of lust spilling more wetness into my already soaking crotch.

As steadily and silently as I could, I reached my right hand behind me to feel his hardness. I felt, rather than heard, the gulp in his throat as he realised what I was doing, and he squeezed my tits harder, clinging to them as if otherwise I’d move away. And I looked down at him running his hands all over them, as I grabbed at his dick through his trousers.

His cock wasn’t thick, but it was long, and so so hard. It twitched in my hand as I rubbed at it through his thin sports trousers. The fabric was slippery to touch, and I could feel a spreading wetness at the tip as he leaked excitement out through two layers of cotton. He’d grip me harder, using his first two fingers to trap my nipples in his grip. With every touch we’d both get wetter and I’d be willing him to come. I wanted to know what it felt like—to give a guy that feeling.

Eventually, with a sore arm, soaking wet knickers and a desperate need to feel Rob shoot spunk through his trousers, the film credits would start to roll. Everyone sat up straight, moved apart, and pretended we’d done nothing as Darren got up to change the video.

Then the whole process would start again.

I have Rob to thank for a lot of things, but mostly the tit-touching. Having proved to myself that no matter how thick my glasses or how depressingly lanky my hair, some boys would still allow me the pleasure of a mutual grope, I moved on to other boys, to see whether they’d do it too.

To my unending delight and gratitude, they did. Late at night in the park I’d join in games of spin the bottle, hoping whichever boy I landed in the spin would slip a hand up my top while we kissed. Guys at school would give me friendly hugs, and grab my tits in what I was often disappointed to realise was a joke. One boy, who I sat next to in maths classes, would run a vibrating pager over my school shirt, watching as my nipples got hard beneath it. He’d grin and get hard and then turn it on under the table, sliding it under my skirt and gently over the crotch of my knickers. I was amazed, delighted, and desperately horny to find that if I jokingly suggested to boys that they touch my tits or grab my crotch, they would.

Unfortunately, the only one who wouldn’t was the one I wanted most of all.

My First Love was a boy I met in English class. A skinny, witty, Irish boy, who for some reason just didn’t like me at all. I hated him at first too. His wit and his volume were too similar to mine, and I didn’t appreciate the competition. I’d make a joke, then he’d make a louder one and win approval from our giggling classmates. So I’d make a joke at his expense, and get a louder laugh. He’d reciprocate, and escalate, and make me seethe with competitive rage from behind my exercise books. This war continued until he called a truce, and the passion and hatred of our frequent fights developed into a warm reciprocal friendship.

Instead of fighting, now we’d sit next to each other in classes, making quiet, secret jokes to each other. We’d spend hours on the phone at weekends, dissecting what had happened during the week. We’d open up a bit about our habits and lusts, and what our rampaging hormones made us want to do.

Not to each other, you understand—despite my desire for him I knew that he’d never be mine. He was slightly cooler than me—not popular, but cool. And with my high test scores and big glasses and ignorance of popular music, I most definitely wasn’t. I settled for simply being friends, projecting an air of calm platonic happiness, while in secret I fell hopelessly in love with him.

‘Can anyone tell me what the difference is between weight and mass?’

I daydreamed during science classes. It was one of the few lessons in which First Love would sit further away from me and I could watch him from my desk, as he laughed and wrote notes to the guy sat beside him, ignoring the teacher until just the moment when he’d be called upon to answer.

‘Come on, anyone? Mass versus weight, anyone?’