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 decade during which I went from 9 to 19 was 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 in plastic carrier bags amidst the park and hedgerow 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 scarcely 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.
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 decade during which I went from 9 to 19 was 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 in plastic carrier bags amidst the park and hedgerow 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 scarcely 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.
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