Skip to main content

My Love Life. Part Two. Virgin on the Ridiculous.

If you haven't read Part One, and you're not being deliberately contrary, you should probably click here.  We'll wait for you to catch up.

While the other boys were playing tennis ball football in the playground during both break and lunchtime, I could be found in the library.  I probably still have my "Librarian" enamel badge somewhere.  And there's still nothing you could teach me about the Dewey Decimal System.  My pants are off right now, girls.  Come at me, in orderly fashion.  Ideally alphabetically, well-thumbed, and with unbroken spines.

Strangely, the library wasn't where I encountered any kind of vaginal enlightenment.  Even from the books in the locked cupboard, for which you had to sign for the key.  I wasn't that unknowing.  And the decades of my youth were the peak of that horticultural phenomenon known as "hedgerow porn."  I was already aware that naked ladies sported an immense tangle between their legs, as though Brian Blessed was somehow emerging, chin first, from a caving expedition.  I'd seen this within the treasures to be found amidst the real undergrowth, even if some of the pages appeared to have been glued together to achieve a cardboard-like thickness.  Sometimes they tasted funny too.

I'm only joking.  They weren't really as thick as cardboard.

Summer term was a different thing altogether.  By my third year I was bold enough to emerge occasionally from my shelved sanctuary to join a gaggle of girl classmates on the school field at lunchtimes.  The naughty ones smoked.  Once they realised I wasn't going to grass them up, and that I also had an inside line on school gossip gained from access to both library insider knowledge and one of my parents being a teacher, (and teachers know teachers, and they all know stuff) they accepted me as one of their own.  Most of all Mickey, whom I loved with all the fervour that my colleague Elsa loves avocado toast.  She'll never be able to afford a house, obviously, but she's living her best life.

Mickey wasn't living her best life.  Mickey; doe-eyed, dark haired, svelte and olive-skinned, was in love with Frank; a fifth year who wore his tie knot fat and his aggression threshold trigger-thin.  Frank had an earring, an attitude, and a history of suspensions for fighting.  Frank wasn't jealous of me in the slightest.  In fact, he seemed to show me some grudging respect, possibly because I was the only boy in her year Mickey deigned to be friends with.  I certainly wasn't a threat.  And an occasional friendly arm punch from Frank as we passed in the corridors earned me kudos with my friends.  Although I'm told the bruising is unlikely to fade before I die.

Frank was, nevertheless, a massive cunt.  And he was a gargantuan cunt to Mickey.  Assault, shoplifting, arson, robbery and car theft became his speciality over the years to follow, by which time I'd moved schools.  Again.  But I saw Mickey's black eyes, and her pain in movement.  Somewhere, deep in a drawer, I have Mickey's autobiography, written just for me.  A couple of dozen pages in her appealingly round hand, focused largely on the way Frank made her feel.  I did what I could to intervene, and dreamed about beating Frank to a pulp on a nightly basis.  But even after Frank was incarcerated, I could only dream about Mickey regularly beating anything of mine.  I was fourteen years old.  It wasn't going to happen.  Literally.  I was a late developer.

My brain-dump notes for this lamentable period of "My Love Life" include, cryptically, scribbles such as that girl I got the cake for, the one I made eye contact with daily, but never spoke to, and, simply, lesbian.  And there are stories to be told there, but not now.  They're mainly about my presence in the friendzone; reliable, adorable, inconceivable as a boyfriend.  Lovable, but unfuckable.  Illegal, unlikely, and unappealing.

But those stories are not what you're looking for.  You want to know about how I lost my virginity, my first real love, and hopefully my last appalling underwear choice.  If you'd rather not know the result, look away now.

Martine Luther was my first proper girlfriend.  Obviously, with a name like that, she was known within my household, relentlessly, as 'King'.  Mobile phones were some years off, and the race to answer the family landline was brutal, especially if parents or siblings sensed an inkling of romance in the air.  Insensitivity wasn't even a concept in my upbringing.

<Phone rings.  Running feet, from multiple directions>
London 203671
Hello.  It's Martine.  Can I speak to BD, please?
<Pause.  No attempt to cover mouthpiece>  
BD!  King's on the phone!

Martine and I were nevertheless an item for a good few months.  Hers was the first nipple I felt (that wasn't my own), both inside and outside a bra.  Hers was the first hand to touch the front of my tumescent trousers.  Hers was the first pubic mound to grace the curve of my palm*.

*If we discount Kathy Barnett, on whom my dad walked in without knocking while I was deep in enthusiastic fingering.  It's probably merciful that he did, given that if you'd asked me back then I'd have guessed that a clitoris was a hardy perennial to be planted away from direct sunlight.  Kathy was otherwise destined for nothing but cystitis and disappointment.

Martine was the first girl I was ever naked with, apart from my sister, in the bath, and that's not even open to discussion, despite the offer of a contract from PornHub.  Let us not speak of this again.  Martine and I teased and we frotted but hadn't remotely approached, as the catchy acronym goes, PIV sex.  I was a year younger than her, and had seen The Graduate around this time, so wasn't going to attempt anything that Mrs Robinson hadn't encouraged me towards.  And I was terrified of being among the first half-dozen teenage fathers in my year.  Or, more accurately, the second half-dozen.

Mrs Robinson, as it turned out, wasn't waiting.  Martine and I broke up, and she fucked somebody else.  Her first.  Not his.  Everyone in school knew this shit.  Except me, as it turned out.  I was late to that party.  And still desperate for an invitation.  Like a loyal Thai, I loved The King, fervently.

So it came to pass that Royal decree ended the dalliance with the usurper.  We were to be reunited. It was as though nothing had ever happened, except an upswing in Martine's enthusiasm.  And after a couple more sessions in her bedroom involving petting so heavy that it would have smacked a rhino down, I was instructed to purchase some condoms.  A terrifying rite of passage for every male.  My 15 year old face burned so bright in Boots on that day that US spy satellites suspected a small nuclear meltdown had taken place.  Which, of course, it had.

The appointed day arrived.  Martine's parents were away somewhere and not due back until after I was expected home.  Giddy with anticipation, I cycled uncomfortably to her house and pole-vaulted awkwardly up the stairs.  I'd dressed in my most ladykiller outfit for this, but my British Meat sweatshirt (no, really) and favourite, dazzling white, terry towelling Y fronts were soon discarded on the floor.  I can't imagine how bad the other choices must have been to make me wear those, but amazingly, Martine didn't seem to mind.

Cuddling became kissing, which led to touching, and exploration.  Things became both heated and damp, like a tropical rainforest or a piece of toast accidentally dropped in the sink.  There are likely to be better analogies than this.  I'm open to suggestion.  My first condom packet was opened and Martine attempted to roll the thing on the wrong way, so that it stopped an inch or so down my shaft, leaving it looking like an angry chipolata sporting a tiny bobble hat.

Nevertheless, she persisted.  The second attempt achieved the full raincoat effect, and I was ushered inside.

At least, that was the plan.  But it was fucking agony.  I felt like my foreskin was being torn, forcibly, from the rest of my cock.  It took a number of tentative withdrawals and even more tentative attempts at insertion before I could bear to get even halfway in.  At which point, inevitably, I came.

Clearly, I'm not claiming any great prowess as a lover, but there was only one way to go from this point onward, and as afternoon progressed towards evening I began to show gradual improvement.  You can't fault a 15 year old's sexual enthusiasm, though it's kindest not to rate his early performances.  Not least when his frenulum is still catching up with the rest of his penis, as it transpired mine was.  But third or fourth time around we were beginning to achieve a semblance of climactic rhythm when the unmistakable sound of a car pulling into the driveway rudely interrupted our coitus.

I grabbed my clothes and bolted for the bathroom across the landing.  Just as her dad's keys were entering the front door lock far more smoothly than I had entered his daughter, my white towelling pants were flung into the room after me.  There was no lock on the door!  The sound of heavy footsteps ascending the stairs forced me to call out "Won't be a minute!" desperately, like a man having an enormous poo.  I was, indeed, shitting myself.

Emerging a few minutes later, with only one sock, my pants in my pocket, crimson of hue and tousled of hair, I was mercifully able to locate the errant foot covering (also white towelling, obvs) before heading downstairs for a polite grilling from Martine's parents.  I had a feeling they knew exactly what we'd been up to: I had the smell of sex in my nostrils and on my skin, and a hastily removed condom stuffed in the pocket of my jeans.  Martine and I never did it again, though I suspect I'd have struggled to maintain an erection in that house now I knew her parents could mount an ambush faster than I could mount their cherished offspring.

My pants fell out of my pocket somewhere as I cycled home, and were lost, like my virginity, within a matter of seconds.  I've never owned anything in white towelling since.

Things could only get better, right?  I had Sixth Form to look forward to.  I guess that'll be where Part Three starts.






Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Words...Don't come easy to me. But numbers do. Or do I mean number two?

Sunday evening.

Blog posts written:  None.  Inspiration stuck fast, like Augustus Gloop in the chocolate pipe,* with barely 400 words written about what happened after that first night in London.  Can't even tell if it's a good story or not.  
*This is not a euphemism

Cigarettes smoked: 1.  And I gave up last year.  I hate myself just a little bit more, which I've been working hard at not doing.Beers drunk:  2.  Not even enjoyed those.  They're colder than the still memorable message from The One; telling me she'd met somebody else; and every bit as welcome.Steps taken today: 19,004.  Good, but ruined by the beer.  And the cigarette.Pairs of trainer socks discarded after retreating to the arch of my foot within 50 paces: 2Pairs of trainer socks discarded in similar circumstances over the last couple of weeks: 5Pairs of trainer socks remaining in sock drawer: 0Pairs of normal socks rolled down to the ankle in the hope that I wouldn't look like a total Nigel in sho…

The Hookup. And the neighbours.

Tinder.  The allegation I'd read was that it was nothing but a shag-fest.  I hadn't even been familiar with the term hook up as anything other than a term for meeting, but I was reading repeatedly that this relatively new app was the place where millenials were compressing what I had known as "dating" into a one-night time-frame.

For liddle ol' Gen X me, that wasn't proving to be the case.  Apart from my First Ever Tinder Date, but that itself had been an anomaly that had simultaneously boosted my bruised ego and battered my busted heart.  I'd become unexpectedly but inevitably single after a decade of joy and another decade of unspoken "staying together for the sake of the kids."  The kids were all right, which would have pleased Jimmy Pursey.*  But that winter I was swiping, matching, messaging and experiencing the crushing disappointment of a series of chemistry-free first dates.
*Oblique nod to both remaining Sham 69 fans

By the time winter …

Is it too early to talk about cunnilingus?

It probably is, because look, we barely know each other.  I've only been blogging for a few days.

But, if we do somehow end up naked together, there's a chance it could happen, sooner rather than later.

Because, er, I like you.  And you like me.  That's how we got here.  And I'm turned on by you, and I want you to be turned on by me.  And the state of awkwardness peculiar only to those who have removed their undergarments in the horn-infested presence of another for the first time is mutual, so why don't I* take a lead here?

*Unless you've really got a frisk on and have already set the pace, so to speak.  I'm easy like that.  If we're already en le frottage, then let's be comfortable with each other.  I'll roll with it.  What goes around comes around, etc.

Michael Douglas probably wouldn't approve.  But then I worry if I wear a cotton v-neck, in case people think I'm copying his style.  Which of course I may be, subliminally.  Is this my …

I can't stand (other people) up for falling down

I had a first date arranged this evening. Quite low key; a quiet early evening drink on the edge of Soho with Olive, a Tinder match. Olive seemed bright, funny, interesting and attractive. A similar age, with children older than mine and a sense of humour all her own. We've been chatting for a week or two, not intensively, but a few times most days.  I know, deep inside, that I’m not entirely over “The One”, who I’ve loved and lost months ago but still ache for at inopportune moments, like most of the time that I'm awake. But she’s never coming back, so if only to prove to myself that I’m not going to become a complete recluse and spend every evening sitting on the sofa in my pants, spooning lard into my mouth from a giant tub while tears course silently down my cheeks, I’ve arranged this and a couple of other dates. You never know. I might meet someone nice. 

It won’t be Olive though. Two hours before the appointed time, I received a text:



Now this isn’t the end of the world. P…

Honesty, kindness, and unexpected boobies

I really, really want to be kind.  And honest.

I've not always been great at it, and in my twenties ended more than one relationship horribly, in a classic remake of "If I Behave Badly Enough They'll Chuck Me" - a movie that nobody's yet bothered to make first time around.  Except me, in live non-filmed documentary form.  Because I was a bit shit at saying, "Sorry, but I don't like you as much as I used to."  Actually, worse than a bit shit. I'm genuinely sorry about that.  Especially to the lovely girl that ended up marrying one of my other good friends.  I went to their wedding.  It's OK.  Honestly.  We're all mates.  Still.  Even after my flailing arms launched a full glass of red wine over her white dress last summer.

Phew.

Honesty and kindness hadn't entirely worked with Angie, who'd been my first serious newly-single rebound relationship. I adored her.  She'd been the champion grenade-thrower at her Senior School.  Alth…

The chef that grated

There's a pub I like, just on the edge of Primrose Hill park.  And on a sunny Bank Holiday weekend like this one, I'm not the only one that likes it.  Now, given the adjacent park; I can't guarantee that every woman in the queue for the Ladies is a bona fide customer. Presumably nor can the landlord, hence his reluctance to provide anything other than the smallest of toilet facilities; which leads to insanely long queues of increasingly desperate females every time there's a hint of warmth in the air.

It's impossible to linger at a table in the same corner of the pub as the entrance to the bogs for too long, though.  As the line of uncomfortable looking women snakes ever longer around the customers and the curved corner of the bar, the build up of uric crystallisation becomes almost solid in its pungency, to the point that the wise have to make tracks in search of fresher air before ingress to the lungs is completely prevented by the formation of that scourge of Th…

Gilbert, and the surprise.

I've got two fabulous children, who'll be 16 & 18 by the time I finish writing this.  Or 20 & 22, if current blog rate continues.  And I had a fabulous relationship with their mother, for at least 10 of the years we were together.  The other 10 were a slow car crash, obviously, accompanied by a life that was the very definition of "staying together for the sake of the kids".  Right up until the moment she told me she didn't want to stay together for the sake of the kids.  Which was a combination of both surprise and relief, although the former outweighed the latter for a while. Because details.

Several years of hindsight, notwithstanding the oceans of tears, hideously embarrassing displays of public anguish, and final realisation that maybe some therapy might allow me to knit together a few themes and help me to process why I've subsequently been so self-destructive; have begun to leave me in a pretty good place; culminating in a miraculously rescued …

Dating blogs are like chocolate - messy when things warm up

I joined Twitter just over a year ago, not long after I'd managed to fuck up the most important relationship of my shiny, new, post fucked-up-relationship, life.  While I wasn't going to write that disaster story any time soon, because it was all still too raw, there were tales I'd shared with a couple of friends of my previous dating exploits, and the urge was strong to actually write some of them down and tell them anonymously, while I surfed the wake of my broken-hearted malaise and took some time off from Tinder & Bumble.

What also inspired me to write a bit, after I finally came out of my miserable funk for long enough to start to read what was going on in the outside world, was that there were a few other people out there on Twitter linking to their dating blogs.  And they were (mostly) good.  And they were (mostly) anonymous, and other people commented on what they'd written and followed them on Twitter.  And although it sounded slightly like a massively nar…

My Love Life. A Tragedy in Many Parts. A Part in Many Tragedies.

I've been a bit blocked recently in terms of updating my own dating blog.  Mainly because:
I'm not currently datingI've written all the tales that follow my typical story arc*I can't write about having my heart shattered, because it isn't funny***If you haven't read my midlife dating blog before, it's fundamentally full of the various histories of dates I've been on that turned out to be massive disasters, one way or another.  But I try to make them mildly amusing, once I'm over the trauma **Which is basically point one.  But the rule of three applies.  Plus, I've spent ages writing & deleting all my heartache, bitterness & angst. Time has passed, I'm doing my best to let things go. Anyway, there's no angst room here. This was meant to be a guest post.
Then Alice kindly asked if I'd like to write a guest post on her blog.  And I accepted, because, unbeknownst to her, she'd inadvertently caught me at the sweet spot in the on…

He wakes to a text from Zeta...

I'd crash-landed back in London, newly single.  And gone to a bar with my bestie, Ryan, the very moment we'd carried the last hefty cardboard box up the winding stairs to my new home, and dumped it on the carpet in the hallway.  A carpet, it must be said, that generated sufficient electricity to power the needs of the developing world (or Lincolnshire, which is yet to develop).  Had only it been harnessed correctly, rather than via my feet, fingers and, on occasion, genitals, whenever I touched a conducting surface. Which was, sadly and predictably, often.  I'm a slow learner.  It hurt.  Every time.  For two years.  I hate static.

In a fit of brilliant inspiration, I chose to write the previous two parts of this story in the style of Enid Blyton.  Or, as Ryan put it the other evening, "Like a bad Ladybird book".  Except with allusions to the Famous Five and the Magic Faraway Tree.  And Noddy.  It's the story of an evening of furious post-move thirst-slaking in…