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?’
‘Umm … how about we watch telly for a bit?’
To paraphrase everyone’s parents: I wasn’t angry, just disappointed. Everything I’d ever read, seen and heard about sex, including the rather memorable chat from my dad, had promised me that men were constantly on the boil. Sure, they’d occasionally neglect their erections to leave the house and hunt for food or Xbox games, but realistically there was very little chance that a man would turn down sex with a woman he fancied. Some publications—notably FHM, which I devoured as if it were The Idiot’s Guide to Men—even went as far as to suggest that your chosen man didn’t
