Rachel Hill's 'The V word' post inspired this little trip down memory lane...
It is night time, in the summer of 1983 and I have just parked my virginity by the wayside. Under a bush, next to an outdoor swimming pool to be exact. High up in the hills of a small coastal town on the Costa Brava.
As far as my fifteen-year-old mind is concerned, I have elevated myself right up to the height of those hills that peer down into the inky black Mediterranean. And all because I have done ‘it’.
How ‘it’ panned out in terms of sexual enjoyment is neither here nor there. I am so not bothered about that. The point is, that ‘it’ has occurred. I am no longer a virgin, and I am absolutely over the moon about it.
The next day on the beach, I wonder if I look any different? Can anybody tell just by looking at me? Does anybody here actually realise that I am now officially, ‘a woman’?
My step feels lighter. I am no longer lagging behind. I am out front with the rest of the pack, alongside my two best friends. We are equal and that’s all that matters.
I don’t bother to inform my friends of my newfound status. I know and that is enough. I carry around my secret like an exciting unwrapped gift. My protagonist, an exquisite boy from Paris, is halfway back up the motorway with a little bit of my heart. Leaving me with the larger part of the gift, the gift of adulthood.
A few days later, we are standing at the head of the beach, hot sticky layers of sand and Ambre Solaire factor 2 Oil caked to our shins and we bump into Danielle.
Danielle is kind of like the original slapper. Eighteen years old and with an immense bosom, she has regaled us almost daily with the most excruciatingly detailed descriptions of her nightly sex-ploits. I can still hear those stories in my head now. We sit in rapt attention, loving her for taking us seriously, for thinking that we might even understand half of what she is talking about. Now she turns the tables on us.
‘So which out of you three is still a virgin then’?
Never one to beat around the bush is Danielle.
‘I’m not’, says Fran. This is true.
‘I’m not either’, said Jane. Also true, hers recently misplaced with Dave the Skinhead.
All eyes were on me and my moment of glory had arrived.
‘I’m not either’, I said.
I can feel Fran and Jane’s eyes glaring at me as if to say ‘You what?!’
But I don’t say a word; I am as cool as a cucumber. They don’t say anything. Nobody says anything. They wait until Danielle walks away.
Then comes the bombardment.
I spill my sexy secret and float all the way home with my ‘pack’. An ice-cream cone in one of my fifteen-year-old hands, a cigarette staining the fingertips of the other.