Girl On The Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets. Литагент HarperCollins USD

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.