Number One: The Big V

It’s a rare case that anything works first time, so why should sex be any different? And even once you think you’ve gotten the hang of it with someone, it’s not all plain sailing. Just like that damned handle in the kitchen that’s always falling off – despite multiple repair jobs – it takes work and regular maintenance to keep everything running smoothly. Sex wouldn’t be what it is without the need to experiment, tweak and perfect your technique – after all, isn’t that half the fun?

Surprisingly (or maybe not), my first time was unremarkable. Back in the days when I was high on teenage hormones and perhaps a little something else, I was deeply in love with George, a beautiful and ambitious blonde-haired God, who was out of this world, much less my league (at least that’s what I saw at the time). Meeting every month or so at a well-known “rave” (glorified party in the woods), we’d made contact only a few precious times; including, to my great excitement, a kiss during Spin the Bottle. Other than that, I’d admired George from a very safe distance for a little under a year.

In any case, I’d been invited to his party through a couple of mutual friends, and had my heart set on taking full advantage. This was the night. As the party dwindled to a close, revellers slowly made their leave and George pulled me to one side, whispering how long he’d wanted this, and indulged me in a long, drawn-out kiss. Almost crazy with nervous anticipation, I followed him to his bedroom (typical, teenage, dirty) where we both got into bed. I don’t remember much about the incident itself, except that it was an anticlimax (excuse the pun). It didn’t hurt as much as the books say, but I remember feeling almost disgusted by his sweaty, inconsiderate body heavy on top of my own, and I certainly didn’t come.

Afterwards, I felt relieved that it was over, and extremely happy to be lying snuggled up to George at long last. However, two minutes later, he was on his way to the sofa protesting that we didn’t want to raise his friends’ suspicions. Alone, hurt and feeling strangely empty, I wondered if it would’ve been different if he’d known it was my first time, or if I’d been in a relationship; but I don’t know any girl who’s particularly enjoyed her first time, do you?

The next morning I was up before any of the other various passed-out teenagers, so began clearing up the house and rang my mum to ask for a lift home. Amidst piling beer cans into black bags, the doorbell rang and – being the only one awake – I went to answer it. A pretty blonde girl of my own age looked at me, bewildered, before asking where her boyfriend George was.

What’s the definition of ‘disaster’ again?

love... V