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

‘I’m so sorry I offended you. I didn’t 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?’

His ability to offend me combined with his nicely worded compliment had the desired effect. Not only did I want to go to the party, I wanted to sit on his cock and fuck him until he was dry.

I’ll rewind a bit. Number two had exploded into my life by not just offending me but enraging me. It had happened a few days earlier, when I was waiting at a bus stop with number one. I was standing up and number one was sitting on the bin just beside me. He, I think, had one hand down my top, and I was seeing if I could brush one or other of my hands over the erection he was cultivating inside his baggy jeans. I was enjoying the moment partly because of the simple, public hotness of it, and partly because we were in an excellent position for snogging, with our mouths at identical heights.

Height had always been an issue for us, because number one was short, and I have always been a massive girl. I stand at five foot eleven in bare feet, which means that in high-heeled boots I rock a good six feet three inches.

This didn’t cause any major issues between the two of us—after all, I was more than capable of retrieving things from high shelves without assistance, so it had never occurred to me that I should limit my potential boyfriends to those who could reach a couple of inches higher than I could. But for some reason as soon as I started dating a short guy, everyone wanted to point it out.

‘You’re tall,’ they’d say.

‘Why, yes, I am,’ I’d reply.

‘And he’s … well … he’s quite short.’ Usually uttered with a quizzical expression.

‘So he is.’ Usually uttered with an angry ‘when are you going to fuck off?’ expression.

‘Does it make it hard when you shag?’ they’d ask.

‘No. But it makes it hard to avoid spanking people like you who mention it,’ I’d wish I’d answered.

The average height for guys in England is around five foot nine or ten. Using this information, even the young version of me was able to deduce that if I only fucked guys who were taller than I was I’d spend most of my life alone. I decided that this was not a scenario I was particularly happy with.

Even leaving the practicalities aside—I didn’t fancy carrying a measuring stick around with me and wearing a T-shirt that said ‘you must be at least this tall to ride’—there is genuinely nothing wrong with a male/female coupling in which the guy is shorter. The only reason we think it’s weird is because cretins point out that society has expectations about height. It’s a way to make people feel self-conscious about things they have no control over—playground bullying that grown-ups should have grown out of.

Number one stood just a bit higher than my shoulder, but I got used to it after about a week. From then on the only time I noticed it was when judgemental strangers would make snide comments. ‘Don’t you get a sore neck?’ ‘Isn’t it hard to fuck up against a wall?’ They’re not really interested. They just want to discuss it and point out how ridiculous it is that we don’t conform to the exact physical expectations that they’d have regarding gender and height. Ha fucking ha.

I later learned that it wasn’t just height. People feel like it’s their business to comment on almost any aspect of your taste. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told someone how hot I find a particular guy only to hear them reply, ‘What, him?! But he’s so old/fat/short/bald/pale/scruffy.’

The only possible response to these people is ‘fuck you.’ Whoever you choose for a partner, there’ll be some weapons-grade bastard looking sideways at you with raised eyebrows, wondering what on earth it is you see in each other. If you listen to them the only people you’ll end up dating are the bastards themselves, while all the nice people look on from the sidelines, far too polite to ask why you’re dating someone whose idea of ‘compatibility’ is based purely on a size ratio.

Number one taught me my first lesson in ignoring the hell out of these people, and a bloody valuable one it was too.

So, back to the bus stop and the bin. Number one and I were snogging in full view of an understandably disgusted band of students. My black lipstick was smeared halfway across his face, making it look like he had a big purple bruise, and every now and then someone would mutter ‘Get a room,’ demonstrating how thoroughly the majority of people miss the fact that the only reason people frot in public is because they rarely have a room to go to. But neither number one nor I gave the tiniest of shits. We were young, and happy, and so horny it hurt. My cunt would twitch and I could feel the pain deep inside me as I pulled him closer, willing the bus to come quickly so we could head to his house and retire to the room our fellow students were so keen that we should get.

And then the bus drew up at the stop, and we turned around to get on. Two boys I vaguely knew were sitting on the upper deck, pointing down at us and laughing. I caught the eye of one of them, recognising number two from the classes we had together at college. As he caught my eye he laughed even louder, gesturing through the window to hammer home the point—unless it hadn’t been hurtfully obvious enough—that it was my boyfriend he was laughing at.

I gave him the finger, and then took the boy back home to fuck.

The next day I tackled him head-on. I didn’t mind being laughed at, but I wanted to know exactly why this borderline stranger felt he could comment on—or point mockingly at—the boyfriend I was so proud of. I confronted him in the only way that seemed fitting to a dramatic prick like me: loudly, angrily, and where I knew everyone would see. I wanted number two to feel as humiliated and pissed off as I did. I wanted him to feel sorry. I wanted him to know exactly why I was angry, and how he’d made me feel. And, because he was quite attractive and I was never one to miss an opportunity, I wanted him to get a good look at my tits.

‘What the FUCK did you think you were doing yesterday?’

‘I … umm … I just thought it was funny.’

‘What was funny?’

‘Your boyfriend.’

‘What about my boyfriend?’

‘He’s … umm … short?’

‘True. But he’s also a very good fuck.’

‘…’

‘If you ever do that again I will drop-kick you off a pier.’ I don’t remember my exact words, but I’m sure they were at least as obnoxious as these, if not more so. I tossed my head like an arrogant shit, put my hands on my hips, puffed my chest out just to make utterly sure that he had a good opportunity to look at my boobs, then turned on my heel and walked away.

Clearly what I deserved was to be taken down a peg or two. No matter how right I was—and I was—to tell him off, number two wouldn’t have been entirely to blame if he’d never spoken to or of me again, except for perhaps the occasional mention of ‘that shouty goth girl’. But he didn’t: instead he sent me that note:

‘I’m so sorry I offended you. I didn’t 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.