meets girl, guy kisses girl, guy removes her flimsy top and firmly rubs her tits. Girl strips sexily. Guy removes her knickers. Guy plays with her cunt for far longer than the average guy would play with a cunt. Guy licks her clit, she sucks him off, they fuck in a minimum of three positions, he pulls his cock out and wanks onto her face, the end.
With slight tweaks to the details, this story runs through almost every porn film that’s ever been mainstream. It might be popular, and it might do good things for some people, but it’s frustratingly formulaic. Sex, actual sex, just doesn’t work like that. And it’s a bloody good thing, too. Actual sex is hot and fun and sticky and sweaty and it all happens out of order. If we followed a manual like the one they give to the porn industry we’d all die of boredom before we reached the come shot.
But I digress. When I was younger none of this occurred to me. I’d never seen any porn, I’d never watched anyone else fuck, and even the launch of Channel ‘we show tits late at night’ 5 only gave me some vague soft-core humping that didn’t quite press the buttons worth pressing.
My obsession was still with the word ‘thrash’, and derivatives of it, and the stories in my head were far more tailored to this personal quirk.
As I lay in bed with my duvet bunched around me, rubbing gently at my clit with silent movements, full-colour, scripted porn masterpieces would play out inside my head.
Angry, horny men would crowd round a girl and call her a slut. She’d groan with arousal, delighted to be the focus of so much desire. She’d twitch her cunt around the dicks she was being fucked with, or bend over a desk to get beaten with a thick, black belt. The guys around her would be pushing in, trying to get closer—to touch her, to grab her, to slap her arse and see how firm it was. To push their dicks into her mouth, her cunt.
One guy directs them all. He tells them this girl is good, that they’ll all get a chance, but that he has to punish her first.
Thwack.
‘You’re a filthy girl.’
Thwack.
‘I’m going to punish you …’
Thwack.
‘… and then I’m going to fuck you.’
Thwack.
‘Let’s see how wet you’re getting.’
Thwack.
‘Oh, you filthy girl.’
And as he makes the next stroke she cries out in pain, and one of the other men steps forward, tilts her head back by grabbing a clump of her hair, and forces his dick into her gaping mouth.
Thwack.
She’s flagging, the strain of keeping silent, of not making choking noises, is hard for her to cope with. Her breath catches and spit runs from her mouth to her chin to her chest. The guy with the belt pushes down on the small of her back, bending her further, pressing her to the table, squashing her tits against the cool smoothness of the desk while from the other end his friend takes grunting pleasure from her mouth. He draws his arm back ready for another stroke.
Thwack.
At that stroke the leader moves in, using his free hand to rub his already rock-solid dick. She bucks and writhes as he forces it into her, choking out a moan against the cock that’s already in her mouth.
‘That’s it. Take it. Good girl.’ He raises his stroke hand. ‘Are you ready for one more?’
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
