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?’
Of course I went to the party.
Almost everything about number two reminded me of First Love. He was intelligent, he was witty, he was funny, he was more than willing to take the piss out of me. But best of all, he was a virgin. A genuine, honest-to-God, never-even-fingered-a-girl virgin.
Number two was tall—he’d have to be—and blond. He had big shoulders and thick wrists and soft, fat fingers. I was fascinated by how different he was to number one: loud and brash and extrovert, while number one hid shyly behind me. His height and bulk was a welcome change from one’s lithe nimbleness. It made me feel small and delicate in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I was curious about how it would feel to have him lie on top of me, pinning me down with hands that were stronger than mine. He felt different, acted different, smelled different.
Where number one had grown used to my almost constant need to fuck, number two was practically shaking with a need for it. His wide, terrified eyes pleaded not ‘I can’t’ but ‘can I?’ It was desire coupled with fear—the fear that if he actually tried to fuck me we wouldn’t be friends any more. He’d play the short-term game and try to cop a feel only to find that me and my tits would walk away for ever. I’d look at number two and will him to make a move, and he’d look at me and will me to let him.
It was a frustrating friendship. We’d joke, and play, write filthy notes during English lessons, and brush up against each other on the bus. When we hugged I quivered at the feeling of his hard-on digging into my hips. And yet all the time he was holding back because he thought I wouldn’t want him. While I’d spent my childhood being told that men always want sex, he’d had the lesson from the other side: women didn’t want sex, and that was that.
These lessons are still being taught, despite the material being dramatically out of date. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve shocked a guy by admitting what is not exactly a revolutionary truth: I like it when guys come in my mouth. I like anal. I like that thing boys do late at night when they nudge me with their erection as a means of testing whether I fancy a shag. That it takes time for a new message—women like sex too, dickheads!—to be disseminated isn’t particularly surprising, what’s surprising is that the message took hold in the first place. It doesn’t do us much good as a species to maintain the belief that fifty per cent of the population doesn’t enjoy something that the other fifty per cent is desperate for.
As far as number two was aware, there was some magical formula that consisted of flowers, fun and flattery and if you got those things in just the right quantities then a girl would reward you with a grudging fuck.
But he was wrong.
I wanted him so badly I utterly ached. His tentative touches would leave me trembling—hot and wet and desperate for him to do more. And it’s so hard to say ‘do more, please do more’ when you’re seventeen and insecure and only just getting to grips with the fact that you’ve got boobs, and puppy fat, and legs you’re apparently supposed to shave at least once a sodding week from now on. As an adult I’ve got over this problem, and will happily open my mouth to utter a ‘please, please fuck me’ when the situation demands it. But when I was younger I was still nervous—of rejection, of being labelled a slut. So I waited, and I writhed, and I masturbated vigorously thinking about his touches and praying that he’d become a bit bolder.
We’d spent countless nights together already, having fallen onto adjoining portions of floor when house parties wound down. Ever aware of the potential for gossip, we’d touch each other up in the dark, breathing as quietly and as infrequently as possible to avoid waking those who were sleeping nearby. I’d lie next to him panting with longing, while he tentatively ran his fingers over my nipples. He never tired of the feel of them, the miracle of keeping me on a knife-edge of desire for so long. By the early hours, when we finally managed to sleep, my nipples would be red-raw and throbbing with pain.
Eventually I realised he wasn’t going to make a proper move. Having never experienced sex, he was happy to stick to whatever we were doing—touching each other gently to facilitate future wanks—until one or other of us was driven completely insane. So I got a bit bolder myself.
One night, in a bed with a few others asleep beside us, he slipped his hand tentatively into my knickers. I was slick with frustrated desire, wet as only a teenage girl can get. He was trembling with fear and so hard I worried I’d hurt him if I squeezed his dick with any kind of vigour.
When his hand reached my cunt and he realised how wet I was he couldn’t keep silent—he moaned.
Just remembering number two’s surprised, lustful moan is one of my hottest memories.
After hearing his stifled cry, I couldn’t leave without doing something. At that point I’d have traded my money, my youth, even my as-yet-unfinished A-levels just to have him inside me. I whispered to him and grabbed his hand. We left our friends sleeping and scurried into an empty bedroom, where we fell onto the bed—me in a panting, aching heap and he in a trembling, terrified one. I kissed him; I told him I wanted him. I fluttered my seventeen-year-old eyelashes and begged him to fuck me.
But he couldn’t fuck me.
He was so scared that he couldn’t get hard. I sucked him gently, I told him he was hot, I told him I was desperate for it, and eventually I got him just hard enough to roll on a condom and try. I climbed on top of him, slipped him into me, and sat down slowly on his semi-hard cock. But it was clear that it just wasn’t happening.
He’d lost his virginity—just. But he’d mislaid a fair portion of his dignity, too, and it broke my heart to think that instead of remembering me with a gleeful nostalgia, he’d look back on the whole thing with shame. The idea of that made me desperately sad. And, OK, the idea of not actually getting to fuck him at all made me sadder. He believed sex was a gift I was bestowing on him, to have him open it only to find the sexual equivalent of novelty socks was more than I could bear.
A couple of weeks later, at his house, he was relaxed. Not calm, as such—his cock was straining at the fabric of his jeans—but he was much readier to fuck.
‘What do I do?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘Can I do this?’
‘Yes. Please.’
‘What if I’m crap?’
‘You’re not.’
He ran his fingers nervously over my body, touching wherever he thought he was allowed. I pulled up my top, unhooked my bra, guided him. I wanted to show him he wasn’t just allowed, he was needed. I needed his touch, needed him inside me to quell the aching hurt in my cunt. He didn’t need to make me come, he just needed to be in me, to give me some release.
He struggled to take off his jeans, his hands shaking with lust and frustration. I helped him get them off, wrapped my legs around him, and held myself up, nice and wide and easy so he could slide himself in.
With his hands each side of my head, he pushed his cock into me—deep and rock hard. I felt it stretch me out, open me up, scratch the itch that he’d created during those long nights of furtively stroking my nipples. The itch he’d created with that anguished desperate moan.
The sex itself was good, but the best thing was that as I sighed with satisfaction he finally understood that I wasn’t exchanging sex with him for anything: sex itself was the goal. I wasn’t fucking him because he wanted it, but because I needed it. I need sex like I need music and dancing and chocolate cake. And I was no more ‘letting him’ have sex with me than I’d ‘let’ someone give me a birthday present.
I grinned as he sped up, and thrust angrily against him so he could feel every movement. As he got closer he let out a strangled cry, and I squeezed my cunt and thighs extra tight around him as I felt him come hard inside me.
It was possibly the best five seconds of my entire fucking