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 to come out of the woodwork while he was chatting them up by offering bowling, cinema trips and the aforementioned ‘coursework’ discussion. To me he offered filth—dribbling, throbbing, knicker-moistening filth. The fact that he could 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
