Girl On The Net: My Not-So-Shameful Sex Secrets

‘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 need to fancy you that much. Consequently, I believed guys just needed a spare half-hour and a structurally sound erection and Bob’s your undiscerning horny neighbour, a shag would be all mine.

Poor number one.

Not only did he have to cope with a girlfriend who was far more confident—and for ‘confident’ read ‘loud, horny, and unafraid to mention it’—than him, he was also solely responsible for battling years of ingrained stereotypes about his gender.

Sometimes he had a headache. Sometimes he was tired. Sometimes it would get to eight p.m. and he was simply empty of spunk, having managed to successfully live up to my expectations for a good four hours already. He’d shyly ask me if I wanted to watch TV or listen to some music. He’d offer me food, cigarettes, a refreshing walk in the sunshine, or if things were getting desperate he’d play his guitar, staring earnestly at me to try and tap into a romance that neither of us was old enough to be comfortable with. Occasionally, when all else had failed, and his attempts at distracting me simply led to comments about how I loved watching his hands as he strummed his guitar and could we have sex now pleasepleaseplease, he’d lead me into the kitchen and encourage me into protracted conversation with his parents just so that he had a chance to rest.

It’s not that I’m insatiable, I’ve never been insatiable. Thanks to my superlative wanking skills, I’ll happily go without sex for a while. And as an adult I’d see this situation for what it was—a slight mismatch in sex drives that could easily be solved by a bit of conversation and compromise from both parties. But I wasn’t an adult, I was sixteen, and as such I was devastated. I was a sixteen-year-old girl who had been told that all men would want to fuck her, that they were only after that one thing, and it was I who’d have to feign headaches and manage expectations just to get a decent night’s sleep.

Having been conditioned to believe this, it was humiliating to find that this man—my man, my teenaged boy—who should by all rights be an insatiable sex pest, was immune to the sexual temptation I threw at him.

I’d whisper filthy things, dress in cheap Ann Summers lingerie, strip naked for him and beg him to touch me. My attempts at seduction were as ham-fisted and incompetent as his undiplomatic rejections, but that just made things worse.

Late at night, after another failed attempt to tease an erection out of his exhausted cock, I’d lie next to him in his single bed, beneath a poster of Shirley Manson looking like teen-punk sex made flesh, and cry myself to sleep.

As an adult I know these lies for what they are—not all men want sex all the time, and not all women will punch the air in celebration if they receive a ‘get out of sex free’ card. People are just different, with different drives and needs and desires. I didn’t understand that back then, but I wish I had. It would have saved me the misery and heartache of trying to work out why I wasn’t sexy enough for my boyfriend, and it would have saved him the humiliation of having to explain to his sixteen-year-old lover why he couldn’t maintain a fifth erection in one night.

It’s important to challenge the assumption that ‘men are only after one thing’, because publicly recognising that it is definitely not true helps all of us feel a bit more normal. If young women grow up thinking that all men want to sleep with them, we’re not giving them the gift of insight, we’re telling them an outright lie. A lie that will lead to humiliating disappointment for our daughters, and—most importantly for my poor first boyfriend—give our sons a reputation that they could never possibly live up to.

But I shouldn’t complain about number one. As I say, it was mostly the fault of the weird expectations I had about male libido that led to my sexual frustration. I don’t mean to cast aspersions on his manhood—he was actually incredibly good. I am gobsmacked that we managed to have quite as much excellent sex as we did given that neither of us knew much beyond what we’d been told by teachers, parents and the aforementioned well-thumbed copies of FHM.

So although the sex wasn’t quite as copious as I’d have liked, it was certainly decent, and I won’t complain just because the poor guy hadn’t yet managed to overcome the limitations of biology and started producing six gallons of jizz per day from a permanently erect penis. We’d still shag a lot—at his house, at my house, at parties. In sheds, behind bushes, in tents. We learnt enough about each other’s body that we could frig each other to simple, gleeful orgasms during snatched moments—on buses, in his parent’s kitchen and, of course, in the darkest corners of the local park. On one memorable occasion we shagged in a treehouse, learning two lessons at once, namely that a) sex is much better when your friends aren’t standing nearby shouting ‘Timbeeeeer’ and b) it’s impossible to remain aroused when you’re within three feet of a garden spider.

Our parents soon learned what we were up to, and were given ample opportunity to lecture us about condoms, carelessness and conception. The Talk came earlier for me than for him, and certainly far earlier than my mum would ever have expected:

‘Can I stay round his house this Friday?’

‘What, in his bed?’

‘Yep.’

‘Umm … we need to have a talk. I don’t want you sleeping with him until you’re completely ready.’

I thought it appropriate to cut the chat short early to save embarrassment. ‘I already have.’

‘You have? But … when?’ For some reason as soon as they have children parents forget that sex can be had in places other than beds, and at times other than night time. I have not yet met a single teenager whose parents haven’t insisted on placing restrictions on couples sleeping together. As if without the sleeping there can be no sex.

‘Yesterday. And a few days before that. And every time I’ve been at his house for the last few weeks.’

‘Oh. Well, are you using condoms?’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s good.’

In hindsight, it might have been cruel to spring things on her so quickly. My sister, who was eighteen months older, had showed no signs of wanting to rampantly hump anyone, and I felt like I was jumping the queue.

I was clearly opening doors that my mum hadn’t quite been ready for me to see behind, and I got the distinct impression that she felt like she’d let me down. Like she’d missed out on the chance to talk to me about sex before I actually did it. Still, after she’d shed a few tears for my lost innocence, and warned me to be careful, I hopped up and went to get ready for a night at number one’s house.

‘I’ll be careful. We’ve got loads of condoms.’

‘Well, that’s good. But it’s not just the pregnancy thing. It’s the heartbreak thing.’ She didn’t hold me back, just let me breeze out of the room with a ‘good point’ hanging in the air, but she was right. No matter how many packets of Durex you have, the heartbreak thing can still get you.

Number one taught me a lot. Other than how to shag, and how to stop asking him for a shag when he was knackered, he taught me that I wasn’t going to die alone. This was comforting, as I’d spent the previous year chasing plaintively after First Love and staring into the mirror wondering what, exactly, was so horribly wrong with me that my love was destined to be unrequited. I’d begun to wonder if perhaps the reason First Love wouldn’t fuck me was because I was just fundamentally unfuckable. Glasses, bushy hair, puppy fat and a tendency to correct people’s grammar did not really work to my advantage when trying to convince anyone I was a sex kitten. But although First Love remained resolute in his decision to Just Be Friends, number one seemed to like whatever limited charms I had to offer.

And, curiously, as soon as number one started liking me, other boys did too. It began gradually. Those boys who’d previously laughed at me started to simply ignore me, and those who’d ignored me gave the occasional ‘hello’. It probably helped that, in my relentless quest to make number one have sex with me as often as was biologically possible, I’d taken to wearing clothes that showed off my obvious bits: out went the baggy shirts and jumpers, in came skintight, low-cut tops, and skirts in which I was—for very good reason—nervous to bend over. And it wasn’t just the way I dressed. I started acting more like someone who was a possibility. The guys who’d previously written me off weren’t stupid—they recognised that although I was uncool, I was nevertheless getting laid, which significantly increased the possibility that I’d be willing to lay them. They weren’t all interested—some were still far too cool to consider me. But if you throw a stone into a crowd of seventeen-year-olds you’re bound to hit a good few virgins, at least three of whom will almost certainly have an undiscerning erection.

I wanted so much to talk about fucking. I wanted to talk about it to others who’d done it, and especially to those who hadn’t. Don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t looking for sex tips. Given my age the best I’d have got from my peers would be untried-and-untested playground shite, things that grown adults have long since realised are either faintly amusing or complete turn-offs altogether.

‘Try putting a condom on with your mouth.’

‘Put whipped cream on his dick then lick it off.’

‘Get him to suck on an extra strong mint then stick his tongue in your fanny.’ (This last one, attempted by at least four of my close friends at the time, only ever resulted in either ‘ow’s, ‘euggh’s or ‘meh’s.)

I didn’t want to talk to people to get their advice; I just wanted to hear them talk about fucking. I wanted to know how they felt about it—what they liked and didn’t, what they’d tried and hadn’t. I’d listen to my friends telling stories in voices that sounded much more confident than they were, and I’d imagine them getting hard, getting wet, frotting each other in exactly the way number one and I would. I’d store the tales up for later when I was sucking number one’s cock. Who needs porn when you’ve a headful of teenage orgies and a nice, solid prick in your mouth?

I don’t know if they thought the same about me. I’d like to think so. And I certainly told my fair share of stories. Even if the guys I was talking to weren’t specifically interested in me, they were certainly interested in genuine, honest-to-goodness real-life accounts of sex. This was evidenced by erections they thought I wouldn’t notice pushing visibly at the fabric of their jeans. Or T-shirts swiftly and casually draped so that they covered a guy’s crotch. Alongside those I’ve mentioned already, there was one guy on whom they had an especially satisfying effect: First Love.

We were still speaking to each other on the phone. Once a week he’d call me, or I’d call him, and we’d spend hours lounging around chatting. We’d talk about anything that was happening in his life and, on account of our mutual interests, everything that was happening in my life that had anything to do with sex. I relayed tales of my latest fuck, my worries about number one’s sex drive, my guilty lust for other boys who’d stare openly at my newly displayed tits. And I’d hear him at the other end of the phone getting—if not necessarily hard—interested.

‘What’s it like being on top?’

‘It’s fun, I guess. It depends on what he’s doing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if he’s touching my tits, it’s good. If he’s looking a bit bored, not so much.’

‘I think when I start having sex that’ll be my favourite position. Do you keep your bra on?’

‘Sometimes. Most of the time, actually. I like it like that. I prefer to be a bit less than naked. It’s hotter.’

And so on.

‘Has he ever fucked you with your knickers on? Has he ever come on your face? Has he fucked you in the … you know?’

And on. And on. He painted the most vivid pictures for me, of things I could be doing and had done. And I felt vaguely guilty because relaying the sex I’d had seemed ever so slightly hotter than actually doing it, because I was relaying it to him. Guiltily, I’d imagine not number one’s hands firmly gripping my tits while I lowered myself onto his erection, but First Love’s. With his thin wrists and quick fingers and the thick black watch on his right arm. Sometimes, when I tumbled onto (always ‘onto’, rarely ever into) bed with number one, I’d guide his hands to the places First Love had talked about, and imagined how he’d grin at me as he got undressed.

I would have given anything to know if First Love’s cock was hard while we had those conversations. I’m not an idiot—I didn’t expect him to hop on a train and come all the way back to me just for the promise of me writhing around on his dick. But I wanted him to understand that he and I could work together. Not just because we were friends who were capable of holding a conversation for more than ten minutes about something more significant than A-level coursework, but because we’d fit together so well when fucking. That he was the perfect guy for me because he wanted to fuck just like I did. As much as I did. As hard as I did.

While he was chasing girls in his new hometown, playing at being cool and interesting and—I cringe to say it—‘boyfriend material’, all he wanted he had already: a willing, horny girl. Although I’m sure there were any number of these girls in his new town, crucially they’d be unlikely to come out of the woodwork while he was chatting them up by offering bowling, cinema trips and the aforementioned ‘coursework’ discussion. To me he offered filth—dribbling, throbbing, knicker-moistening filth. The fact that he could only have these chats with me made me not only willing and horny, but—to him at least—unique.

I didn’t quite have the words or the confidence to say it at the time, but what I was trying to tell him, and number one as well, is that I like sex. I want sex. Women want sex. You don’t need to take us bowling to distract us from realising that you find us explosively attractive. OK, you might not be best off starting a date by saying ‘Hey, I’ve got a massive erection for you right now,’ but you don’t need to pretend to be a sexless Ken doll. Women like sex, and we want to know that you’re horny. Most of us want to feel desired and lusted after and attractive. Ultimately, of course, if we fancy you then we want to fuck you: we’re not just doing it as a favour in exchange for a cinema ticket.

I was initially too busy basking in my fucklust for number one and my miserable unrequited First Love to notice number two. He wasn’t exactly a friend, just a guy I happened to have a couple of classes with. But apparently he’d been noticing me. One day he passed me a note that read: