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

It was during a science class that I realised I loved him. I was watching him writing notes, admiring his long, quick fingers, his thick forearms accentuated by a chunky watch. I looked at his hands and was struck by a powerful image, of him pushing me roughly against the wall in an alleyway on the way to school, using both hands to push at my tits as I hiked up my school skirt.

I felt that deep, throbbing lust and I squirmed on my stool. I could feel myself getting wetter, as I kept my eyes on his hands and wished I could be alone to touch myself. That quick snapshot—the roughness of his grip and the force of him pushing me against the wall—was the first genuine fantasy I’d felt for a real person. I don’t think I imagined us fucking at that point, I just pictured how desperate he’d be to come, how hard he’d rub himself against me, and how his hands would stray from my tits to grab my arse through my knickers and pull me forward against his dick.

I ran straight home from school that day, not speaking to him, or even to my friends. I waited until my sister was safely settled in the lounge, unlikely to return to our shared bedroom, and I wet my fingers, touched my clit and thought of him, him, him.

‘You need to be careful,’ said Dad. ‘I know it might seem like a platonic relationship to you, but boys are different. It’s hard for a boy to stay platonic. He’ll be thinking of you in other ways, so you need to make sure that he knows how you feel.’

Listening to my dad telling me that First Love wanted to fuck me was almost as painful as hearing First Love tell me he didn’t.

Both of us would protest if asked whether anything was going on. ‘Oh no, we’re just friends. It’s not like that.’ But I’d watch him during school, I’d speak to him whenever I could, I’d hang on his every word like each one was a magical secret, and I’d go to bed at night wishing he would touch me. ‘Honestly, we’re just mates. Nothing’s going to happen.’ But God I wanted it to. He was as interested in girls as I was in him, but for some reason I could never give him that feeling. We’d play-fight and we’d hug and sometimes we’d sit so close on the sofa that I was scared he’d hear the throbbing of my cunt, but he never touched me.

Other girls were more interesting to him. My friends. My girlfriends. Amy. He’d snog Amy with slobbering, desperate passion then turn to me, with a semi-hard dick, and let me know all about it. And I’d smile, and congratulate him, my potent, lucky best mate. Well done, man. Good on you. You got some. And then go home to sob silently into my pillow, and relive the times when—in my head—he’d fucked me.

Dad, again: ‘It’s not that boys are only after one thing. It’s just that they’re often thinking about this one thing. They want sex even if you don’t, so you have to be careful not to lead them on.’

I sat through the lecture with gritted teeth and a determined smile. I smiled as hard as I could to stop myself from crying. My dad was telling me how inevitable it was that First Love would try to fuck me, and I was replaying in my head all the times he’d told me, ‘No, I don’t feel that way about you. Let’s just be friends.’

My dad told me that, as a woman, I’d be irresistible to anyone with a penis and a pulse. Men have erections and they need someone to fuck. And of course First Love had erections, and he wanted to fuck too. But no matter how fun I was, how young and horny and wet and eager I was, he still wouldn’t fuck me. As I listened to my dad telling me to push First Love away if he made any advances, I remembered all of the ways in which this boy had rejected me, and I felt an actual physical pain in my chest.

‘What I’m getting at here is that he’ll be thinking these things about you all the time. I want you to be careful. It’s not that I don’t want you to be friends with him, I just don’t want you to break his heart.’

And it broke my fucking heart.

After years of friendship and countless hours of longing, First Love eventually moved away. I still spoke to him every weekend—languid hours spent lying on my bed, one hand comfortably down my knickers, listening to him tell me about his new life, his new school, the girls who were much prettier than me who might or might not be interested. But I could at least forget him for a while during the week and focus on finding that lustful feeling elsewhere.

I made rather awkward friends with a gang of laid-back stoners. Although I wasn’t keen on everyone in this new, scruffy group, it opened up plenty of new opportunities to have my tits touched. I still thought about First Love, and whenever I met a new boy I’d be looking for elements of his character that reflected Him—a quick wit, a dirty smile, lovely big hands or a penchant for chatting about wanking. And he remained the only real-life person who had ever featured in one of my fantasies. He’d left an impression on me that I realised would never go—the first person who’d got me hot and wet and then fucked off without giving me any release.

But my new friends were fun as well. We’d hang out in shy groups after school, arguing over the artistic merits of Kurt Cobain, smoking lopsided joints and feeling better than everyone else.

They introduced me to a lot of new things, some of which (like smoking and super-noodles) I’ll never forgive them for. But they also helped me to lose my virginity.

‘Ow … ow … ow … please sto— oh, you’ve stopped.’

I lost my virginity in a shed. That’s right, I was classy. But I wasn’t that different from others in the group. Without parents willing to host big parties, we spent most of our evenings swigging cheap cider in parks and frotting in darkened alleyways until the tension would build up and we’d find a place to fuck. Any place to fuck. Fussiness about these things was considered bad form. At the time you’d be seen as ‘stuck up’ if you insisted on a place that had walls, let alone an actual bed.

I met number one just before my sixteenth birthday. He was tiny—around five foot five—with soft skin and bright green eyes. He wore torn jeans and smoked roll-ups and spoke with a slight, shy stutter. Best of all, though, he was not fussy. He was horny and willing and desperate to have a girlfriend. He didn’t just want to hang out on the outskirts of parties and kiss the girls who were drunk enough to fancy him; he wanted to be at the centre of it all, one of the couples. The couples didn’t have the same rules as everyone else. They didn’t have to get wasted at the beginning of the evening and then try to pick out the second drunkest person on which to try and experiment. The couples would just drink for pleasure, occasionally excusing themselves from the group to go and fuck in someone’s parents’ bedroom.

The first time we had sex was at his birthday party, the night before my own sixteenth. Friends milled around in his garden exchanging dares and competing to see who could be the most visibly drunk. Number one and I joined in for a while until my desire and his pressing erection made it difficult for us to sustain conversation. We slipped away from the party and into the shed.

It sounds drab, but really it wasn’t that sort of shed. We weren’t dodging spiders and secateurs. It was effectively a converted room—painted walls, carpeted floor, and enough cushions strewn around that eight or nine teenagers could sit in a huddled circle with a reasonable degree of comfort. I’d been in the shed with number one many times before. We’d go there with friends after school and he’d sit awkwardly behind me to hide his pressing erection. When they’d all drifted home for their dinner, we’d snog for endless hours, enjoying the distraction that meant we didn’t have to talk. But this time when we entered it felt more purposeful. We weren’t just going to snog, it was his birthday, after all. Something different, something better was going to happen.

We took the key.

I locked us in from the inside and settled down on a pile of cushions. He double- and triple-checked the door, then lay awkwardly on top of me. We could still hear the party going on outside.

As with all teenage sex, it began with some excessive and enthusiastic snogging—dripping tongues, heads moving frantically from side to side, jaws working against each other. We sank into the familiar rhythm of the kiss, and I pushed myself against him, parting my legs to rub myself on his dick. He frotted back, pushing urgently against me, running his hands up under my clothes. He pulled down my bra and slid his fingers over my aching nipples.

I unzipped his trousers and rubbed him incompetently. He pulled at my tights until they were halfway down my thighs, trapping my legs together uncomfortably, but affording him just about enough clearance to push his fingers into my cunt.

I sighed. I squirmed. I wished he knew how to do this with more purpose. Not just a fumble or a feel or a token gesture, but to actually fuck me with his hands. To make me come. It takes time to learn that there’s more to first, second and third base than just ticking off a box on the way to a home run, and neither of us had quite realised this yet. Although the contents of someone else’s pants is unrelentingly fascinating when you’re that age—and, if I’m completely honest, it still is now, even though I should be concentrating on more adult things like mortgage payments and regrouting the bathroom—the fun of touching them is far outweighed by the fun of rubbing the contents of your own pants against them. Eager though we both were, neither of us could be said to be giving a proper ‘hand job’—at best we both pulled off a ‘mediocre-rub-job’ accompanied by a lot of belt-jangling and catching of zips.

I moaned with one part desire and at least four parts frustration, and he pulled away, reaching for a condom in the pocket of his jeans.

OK, I’m going to lose my virginity now.

This revelation was not particularly nerve-wracking, but it was a surprise. Despite my status as the least experienced person in my group of friends, few people I knew had actually had sex. It seemed unfair that I’d get to be the first one.

‘Are you sure about this?’

He nodded and put the condom on with an ease that showed he’d been practising with the free ones. After only a bit of fumbling with my tights, he slipped inside me, gasped, and I wasn’t a virgin any more.

Apart from the thought that I was no longer a virgin, there were plenty of things to occupy my mind for the five or six seconds between penetration and ejaculation.

Am I bleeding?

Does it get better?

Has he ripped my tights?

What should I be doing?

I can’t wait to tell First Love about this.

Treacherous thoughts. I tried not to think about him, about how I’d wanted it to be him who was doing this. It wasn’t that I needed the moment to be special, but I was sure his hands would be steadier, his cock thicker, his arms even tighter around me. I held my legs as far apart as my tights would allow and tried to push thoughts of First Love right out of my head.

It hurt a bit, he grunted a bit, and then it was finished. I hadn’t come but I had felt his cock nice and deep inside me, scratching an itch I hadn’t realised I could scratch. He’d replaced my virginity with an interesting, different feeling. For the first time ever I felt full, satisfied.

He kissed me and pulled out, careful to hold the condom on tight to avoid telltale spillages. We awkwardly rearranged our clothes, smiled shy smiles and walked hand in hand back to the party. Despite first-time nerves, it had been a roaring success. We’d fucked without embarrassment, tears or noticeable staining on the carpet. No one’s mum had burst in, no one’s friends had shouted ‘Oi! What are you two doing in there?’ and above all neither of us had been too drunk to remember what happened.

He picked up a two litre plastic bottle of cheap cider and offered me the first swig. I took a gulp, passed it back to him and we joined in the chat. Whenever we’d catch each other’s eye we’d smile conspiratorially, delighted that we’d thrown away our virginities together, astounded that we’d done so well, and aching to do it again.

OK, he wasn’t First Love, but he’d do.

3. Apparently there are things you can do with a boyfriend that don’t involve sex

Inevitably, number one and I set about having as much sex as was humanly possible in the often very short times we’d be together. I’d head straight to his house after school, and had a curfew of nine p.m. This meant we had roughly five hours in which to consume as much as we could from the all-you-can-fuck buffet.

Naïvely, I’d assumed—based purely on a passing reference in that classic educational film Grease—that sex took around fifteen minutes. My assumptions around that were shattered in the five seconds it took number one to jizz away our virginities, so I modified my expectations and assumed that fifteen minutes was the average recovery time between quivering ejaculation and the next enthusiastic hard-on.

I was swiftly proven wrong.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m sucking you off.’

‘But … we’ve only just had sex.’

‘Yeah, about fifteen minutes ago. Now can we have sex again?’