The Virginity Project

The Twit and the L word...

Today’s storyteller tells a fine tale. And offers some good advice in the process. ‘Life’s an adventure’ she says, ‘and some good things are worth waiting for. There’s no point worrying over things you can’t necessarily control, all you can do is make sure that whatever is happening, you enjoy yourself.’  Easier said in retrospect perhaps than performed at the time but hey, these are words worth expressing.  She throws some quirky detail into the story too. Did anyone else lose their virginity in a garden shed with a double bed in it? I thought not. My garden shed was full of paint pots, shovels and spiders.

I also liked the fact that she put her clothes back on halfway through losing her virginity and then had her boyfriend take them off again. This shits important.  It reminds me of a night, years ago, when a very handsome boy - who later came to be known as The Twit to my friends – and I were back at my house. It was pretty obvious what was about to happen but still. I had two thoughts when I returned from the toilet to find him sitting in my bed having removed every single shred of clothing he’d been wearing. Number one, that’s a tad presumptuous and number two, way to take the excitement out of the situation dude. What can be more exciting than undressing each other for the first time? He’d taken the wind out of my sails. I probably should have recognized the signs right there and then but it was fun on the occasions when he managed to get his moves in the right order.

‘I really enjoy reading your blog. Who’d have thought a website all about sex would be one of the nicest and most touching things on the internet! I don’t know if you’ll use this, it’s a pretty average losing-it-to-a-boyfriend-story. Maybe I should use this as my title to make it sound more interesting: my week of Sex, Drugs and Rock n Roll, in which for the first time I took class A’s, finally did it and also said I love you.

I met L whilst lost on a bus late at night the October before last. I was with my friend and he was with his, a guy I had met a couple of days ago at my new job. Over the next few months I became good friends with the guy from work, and we used to hang out in a group that included L. Pretty soon it became obvious that we liked each other and everyone in the group was pressuring us to get together, but we were both hampered by our pathological shyness of the opposite sex. I had never had a boyfriend, and whilst that doesn’t seem like such a big deal now, at the time I was really embarrassed about it. Also the sex thing…it all sounded quite scary and I wished my friends would stop asking when I was going to lose my virginity! Anyway, fuelled by much alcohol, L and I finally kissed, hurray! Maybe we would have got together then but just a few days later I was due to set off on a 3 month trip round South America which definitely put a stop to that.

Traveling was amazing and I had loads of new experiences but I couldn’t stop thinking about L and I was so happy when he got in touch and we started emailing. When I got back, very brown from Brazil, we met up and almost at once started seeing each other. It was awesome and we spent at least every other night together, but we didn’t go all the way or even talk about having sex. Then, after a night of drinking on the way back to mine he confessed that he’d recently been to an STD clinic, got the all clear, and how did I feel about us sleeping together? I felt a bit embarrassed actually but I was happy he was thoughtful enough to get checked out. Drunk I agreed, sure, let’s do it tomorrow!

Well of course the next day I felt too hung-over and hadn’t had enough time to think about it, but at least now sex was on the table. Over the next few days we had plenty of opportunity, we even got our own room in a hostel when we were searching for Uni accommodation up North, but it never felt quite right and I always had some excuse not to do it that particular night, even though I did want to do it. I was beginning to feel bad that I’d agreed in the first place if I was just going to keep saying no. Part of it was that I had always believed that first time sex should be with someone you love - old fashioned I know - and even though I really liked L I didn’t think I loved him. I remember wishing I could feel that way, and worrying if I didn’t feel it then I never would. Now I look back that’s a very strange way to think after being with someone for less than 3 months.

Anyway, around this time my best friend texted to ask if me and L wanted to go to this party with her and her boyfriend and take MDMA. I’m not a reckless person, but she’d done it quite a lot of times and said it was amazing and I’d read up all about its risks on the internet so I thought, why not? L’s good friend is, amongst other things, a drug dealer, so we got it off him, and in what is possibly the coolest part of my life so far and because L was at work that day, I was in charge of organising the deal. Obviously I should add that of course, drugs are not cool and the taking of them should not be in any way encouraged.

Well the party was amazing and so were our bombs of MDMA. There is nothing on earth like the feeling of euphoria as all that serotonin floods your brain and you feel as though you are made of candy-floss. And guess what another effect of MD is? Yes, a feeling of sincere and deep love for everyone in the same room as you…but especially the person who you are kissing with lips that seem to have turned into marshmallows. Luckily, me and L had agreed beforehand that saying the L word for the first time whilst off our faces on drugs was not a great idea so we didn’t, but we both wanted to. Strangely enough, the next day I wanted to say it as well, and it was hard to tell if it was for real or if I was still feeling the effects of the night before, something apparently known as the ‘after-glow.’

The next day I felt absolutely terrible. The second day after taking MD is not known as suicide Sunday for nothing. It seems my brain was seriously struggling with the effects of having a year’s supply of serotonin used up in one night. Worse, I had a cold and had bitten my lips to pieces so kissing became very painful. I sincerely wished I had said a firm NO to drugs, and we’d stayed in and had sex instead.

After a couple of days I recovered enough, and L came round that night as usual, only this time it was different. We knew we were going to do it. I kind of wish it had been more spontaneous now because I remember it was kind of awkward at first, we didn’t know what to say to each other. We have a shed at the bottom of the garden with a double bed in it which is where we always sleep, far from prying parents ears, and so we went down there and started kissing.

Things got heated until eventually clothes were off, condom was on, positions were taken up and….I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have sex, or I wasn’t ready, I just felt so nervous and even trying to have sex really hurt. L said it was fine, we’d do it another time but I had made my mind up to lose my virginity that night, and that’s what I planned to do. So we started kissing again and stuff - which is when I decided that what I actually wanted to do was get dressed. So he could undress me again, but slower this time. I wander if anyone else has ever gotten re-dressed in the middle of losing their virginity. I even went back up to the house for some of my parents red wine, which we drank just a little bit of out of plastic children’s cups, because I thought it might make me relax and stop it hurting so much. L said he admired my pragmatism. Soon we were lying in bed alternatively kissing, and staring into each other’s eyes, very romantic. And that’s when he said it. And I said it back. We loved each other.

Wow. In the end I think that’s the most important thing that happened that night. Not the sex, which happened a few minutes later and really hurt quite a lot. Ultimately being in love with someone is a much more important first. By that I don’t mean people should necessarily become too worried about losing their virginity to someone they’re in love with - L saying I love you would have felt just as special if I’d already had sex years ago. In fact no-one should have to worry about whether they have or haven’t lost their virginity at all, there are more important things in life.

Saying that, nobody should worry about those other firsts - like relationships and love - and when they will happen either. I say this because I wish someone had reassured me of the same thing when I was younger and my friends all seemed to be having boyfriends and doing stuff that I wasn’t. Life’s an adventure and some good things are worth waiting for. There’s no good worrying over things you can’t necessarily control, all you can do is make sure that whatever is happening, you enjoy yourself.  And if at all possible, go to Brazil.

Now me and L have been together for nearly a year and I’m absolutely crazy about him. By the way, we’ve come a long way since that painful first time. The sex is now mind blowing, not that I have anything to compare it to, but trust me, it is. In case you’re wondering, I never did MDMA or any other serious drug again since that night, awesome experience though it was.  It’s a terrible cliché, but it’s true, the only drug you need is love.’

Warning! Seasonal soppiness alert: The Virginity Project is going to post something warm and mushy. It is Christmas after all. And Christmas is a funny time of year. It’s a bit like L.A. It’s a wonderful town if you’ve got something good going on in your life but it’s a potential sprawling pool of loneliness if you don’t. The Virginity Project is having a high old time of it at the moment but for those who aren’t, take heart, nice things do happen, and often when you least expect them.

A while back, I pondered on the idea of ‘love’ and what that meant for people. I was researching a feature I was writing for a broadsheet and I wanted to know how people felt about the finding – or not – of love. I particularly wanted to know what teenagers felt about that. Do they need to find love? For themselves? To keep up appearances? Do we have to have romantic love in order to survive? Does the media give us unrealistic expectations for our love lives? Well, I can’t answer that last question today but seventeen-year-old 'Maddie' had something to say about the rest of it.

"Hi Kate,

I’m a 17 year old female, born in 1993, and my name, for the purpose of this piece, will be Maddie. Now, instantly as you discover that I’m 17, you’ll most likely be questioning the content of this e-mail, as when someone below the age of 22 speaks about love, their thoughts are disregarded as they ‘Don’t even know what love is’ - and that’s a very true statement. I have no clue what love is (well...romantic love at least). However love, not just romantic love, but material, physical, friendship and family, fascinates me. I think it’s perhaps for the exact reason that I don’t know what it is, that it fascinates me so greatly, after all, humans do have a great fascination of the unknown. But despite my age, bare with me, hopefully my two cents is worth something.

So basically, I’m 17, and have never had a boyfriend. Now although I’m reassured that this isn’t that unusual, and that I’ll find a boy some day, it makes me panic. The thing is, it’s all well and good for these people (all people who have had a vast history of romance) to be telling me that I’ll find a boy, but they’re missing one more vital piece of information....not only have I never had a boyfriend, I have also never been kissed.

You will most likely now be imagining some girl who is quite possibly socially retarded, and is physically not in the least bit appealing to the eyes, so I will now attempt to change your premonitions of what I look like, and how I behave in social circumstances. And even if you don’t think that I’m some weirdo, I’m going to tell you anyway, in an attempt to boost my slowly sinking self esteem.

I have a number of close male friends, have a high leadership position within my school, play sport, musical instruments and do alright in school. I get invited to parties on a frequent basis, and I’m fairly certain I’m normal looking (and slightly above normal looking when I put on make-up). So the fact that a boy has never even looked at me in a romantic way kills me slowly (that’s a semi lie. I’ve been asked out twice, once by a friend who I just didn’t see in that way, and a second time by my best male friend, who then proceeded to retract the offer because ‘the sex would be weird’.)

I feel like there must be something wrong with me. Everyone says ‘Oh I’m so jealous. It would be so great to be single again’. But is it? When you’re in a relationship you always have the option, so if being single is so fantastic, why don’t you too be alone? I have never told anyone about my frustration at my apparent ‘forever alone’ status. I guess it’s because I’m not often serious about such matters, and consequently it would be awkward for me to speak openly about such sadness. I know I’m only 17, and I’ve got plenty of time to find some boy who finds me lovely and wants to hang out with me, but I feel like I’ve been waiting for so long. Some of my friends have had so many romantic and/or sexual partners, and I can’t help but think... ‘Isn’t it my turn to be loved?’

Anyway, I know this basically turned into a therapy-make-myself-feel-better-about-being-forever-alone e-mail, but hopefully you enjoyed reading about how in a world so full of perceived mistrust and hate (so dramatic, I know), that love is, in my eyes at least, the most important thing.

Feel free to e-mail me back, or not, it's up to you. I've got plenty more stories on how I've been in love with the same guy for 2 years and he hasn't even noticed. It's great. Thanks, ‘Maddie’

I know what you’re thinking. What’s mushy about that? Well I’ll tell you. One of the (many) nice things about being the owner of The Virginity Project is that from time to time, people write and update me on their stories. So that what may have started out as a very sad tale can often take an unexpected turn for the better.

Earlier this month, Maddie emailed me out of the blue:

‘Hi Kate, I sent you an e-mail a few months ago and promised to update you if anything occurred within my love life, so, I suppose this is the update. Around 3 weeks ago, I received the text message I thought I'd never see - the guy who I've liked since I was 15 asked me out, and things have been going wonderfully ever since then.

I guess there's nothing more to add to that update except to say that I suppose miracles can happen! Also, I have to congratulate you on the success of the play! Keep up the good work! :)

Thanks, ‘Maddie’

And if that doesn’t warm the cockles of your heart, try The Muppets. This is foolproof.

The Virginity Project wishes you very happy and peaceful holidays X

One does have those moments when you look at your life and think, how the heck did this happen? I had one such moment this week at the ominously named ‘Literary Death Match’. Now who would have thought that lil’ ole me, the girl who barely scraped her O’levels would get to be a literary gladiator one day?

That said, whilst I might not have had the attention span it required to excel academically at school, I didn’t do so badly on the sports field and I remind myself of that each time (that’ll be a total of 4 times now) that I get an invitation to read or perform. Sport requires a ‘performance’ of sorts. If I focus for a moment; I can still feel the euphoria one feels as one stands at the edge of a gym mat, mind already living the moments ahead and then launching an attack that sees itself played out as a series of leaps, turns and tumbles that hopefully end in something vaguely death defying, dangerous and beautiful. Ok, I was only 13 at the time, it probably wasn’t that great but even now, I still remember feeling this: it’s always better in ‘performance’ than it is in practice.

There is something so seductive about the thrill of competition that one can often achieve something - in my case; height - that simply wasn’t possible when it was just me and my gym coach in the room. I remember leaping a full five inches higher when I was crapping myself in front of an audience at the borough gymnastics competition. Adrenalin brings out the best in us.

With the idea that somewhere inside me, that 13-year-old nutter might still exist, I stepped out onto the stage at Literary Death Match and read my favourite story from my book. I was slightly concerned about the fact that I’d have to use the C U Next Tuesday word several times but I was third up to read and the lovely Kat Brown tested (very beautifully it must be said) the water for me. It held firm and then one of the judges talked at length about ‘rimming’ and the last of my fears disappeared.

In any case, it’s hard to go wrong with a story like this one so, as an early wordy Xmas present, I’m going to repeat the un-abridged version. If everyone’s virginity loss experience were as good as this one, I’d be out of business. And if you want some grade A entertainment in the new year, get yourself along to Literary Death Match and cheer yourself up for the new year. Here we go....

Born in 1962, Charlie Thomas was the unfortunate victim of Thalidomide, a drug that was given to thousands of women in the 1960’s to relieve morning sickness. Tragically, and unbeknownst to them, it also caused dramatic birth defects. Charlie Thomas is a tall, handsome man who just happens to have arms that finish at his elbows. A smart, popular boy, we join his story at the age of sixteen, just as The Sex Pistols were ransacking the late 1970’s and just as Charlie’s mother and stepfather had moved from very ‘happening’ London to the very non-happening Welsh countryside.

‘It was the late seventies and my school consisted of Welsh people who were into Elvis and absolutely everyone wore flares. But there were also the children of the hippies that had moved to the country and formed all these hippy communes. One of them was a lesbian commune.  Can you imagine how popular they were with the local villagers? They were lesbian, dope-smoking, patchouli smelling English people and they were all witches as far as the Welsh were concerned. 

There I was, in the middle of all this and then she walked into the room.  She was the daughter of one of these lesbian couplings and she was called Stella.  Stella had huge bosoms, reeked of ‘teenage’ and sashayed down the hall in a way that stopped everybody in their tracks.

Our village was having a village hall disco one night. Imagine my surprise that day when Stella came up to me on the bus and said, ‘Are you going to be at the disco tonight because I’d like to dance with you?’ Pandemonium. You know, it was just a little bit too much for the other passengers. The weird English punk guy with the short arms getting propositioned by the witch girl with the big boobs.

The evening came and went and I walked her back to the end of the lane where her commune was and we had a bit of a kiss, but she had this really annoying all-in-one denim trouser suit on so any idea of getting hold of those breasts was just not happening because it was like a second skin. 

Cut forward to about a month and she invited me back to hers for tea.  By this time we were almost officially girlfriend and boyfriend and it was the weirdest house you’ve ever been in.  There was a woman called Gloria who looked like a man and had a moustache. An actual moustache.  Now I look back on it and I just think, yes, they were a bunch of lesbians in a hippy commune. It was the late seventies in Wales, what do you expect?  But at the time, for this little straight boy, it seemed really weird.

Anyway, the mother sent us off to Stella’s room with our tea and Stella got her Jimi Hendrix record out. She was still in her school uniform and she lay down on her bed lolling the legs slightly open and I was sitting on the floor so you can imagine the view that I was experiencing.  Then she just went, ‘Touch me’. What she actually meant was, you have got carte blanche to go straight to base three.

It was basically being offered to me on a plate. The sexiest bitch in the school, with the biggest tits, was showing me her vagina and saying, ‘Touch me’.  I had never really got anywhere with anyone and there it was, all there, for me.  I bottled it.

I wasn’t ready for it.  I needed the base one and base two, you know?  I hadn’t even touched her nipple.  I wasn’t ready to insert my fingers into places that they didn’t know what to do with once they’d got there. So, in a rather desperate moment of attempted comedy, I put my finger on her knee, because technically that could be construed as ‘touching’ her, and thinking that I’d also answered with wit to mask my insufficiencies.

Cut forward again to a month later and there was a gang of about five or six of us that were the dope-smoking, punk-rock-liking, beer-drinking naughty people, who also had the parents who cared the least.  We would hang around together, staying up till four and sleeping in the living room. On one of these nights, Stella and I were the only two left.  It was three in the morning and there wasn’t enough bedding for two so we slept together.

One thing led to another and she lay down and opened her legs and I sort of got on top of her, I had no notion of foreplay or anything like that and I managed to put it in her with a little bit of assistance, and then I started putting it in and out and in and out again.  And I remember thinking, is that it?  Is this what I’ve been waiting for?  Because this is shit!  This is nothing!  I didn’t come either, so I didn’t really understand the feeling that can go with it. I’d done it. I’d done the act but I didn’t have the feeling. 

It wasn’t long after that that we were doing it every night and I’d kept it from her that I couldn’t come.  We used to do it in the public toilets up the lane from the disco where everyone used to go. It was so popular that you could usually recognize the grunts of a familiar co-worker. Then one night she just sat back on the toilet bowl and went, ‘Where’s your fucking spunk?’  Or something like that.  She was a game girl, Stella; I was a very lucky boy.

That weekend, I saw a film called ‘Candy’ and I was wanking while I was watching it.  Suddenly I felt this really weird sensation, kind of like buzzing. My ears went a bit weird and I stood up and ran into my room, still with a hard cock, and carried on wanking, my legs felt wobbly for a second and I thought, oh my god, what’s going on, and then suddenly, yes!  Finally, I’ve orgasmed! I’ve come.  Produced sperm.  Da da, da da! I’m a man!  And that was my virginity. 

I was desperate to see Stella again after that, obviously. I think I got one more in, and that was the one where I finally managed to have sex with her and come.  A week later, Stella’s best friend Nancy asked her if she could borrow me because she wanted to lose her virginity. College was beckoning and she was buggered if she was going to go off to college still a virgin. Stella actually said to me, ‘Would you mind sleeping with my best friend?’  I was kind of like, ‘Err, sure, yes, I’ll do that’. 

And I did. I actually enjoyed that a lot more because I almost thought I knew what I was doing by then. Happy days.  Directly after that, when I went off to my A’ level college, I was quite confident and buoyed with the success of my double whammy in the summer holidays.

I met an older woman next who introduced me to LSD and the clitoris.  She was thirty and I was seventeen. I called someone a cunt in the pub and the next thing I knew I was being punched in the face and I was on the floor with a woman leering over me with pink hair, Dr Martens and a boiler suit. She was pointing at me shouting, ‘Shut up!  I like my cunt!’ and it was literally, like, ‘Wow!’ at first sight.

She was a communist and she was very angry. She looked at me and saw a man who’d been disabled by the state because basically, that’s what Thalidomide had done.  She wanted to unlock my anger by fucking my brains out and giving me acid. She was partially successful. Sexually speaking I had a lot more of an idea about what I was doing by the end of that summer.

I had a lot of partners over the years because I was in rock and roll bands and I was shagging everything I could get my hands on. Some moves were not an option to me, because of the disability stuff; there were some areas that I literally could not reach.  So I became damn good at oral sex to make up for that. Making the leap and learning how to go down on women was a huge step forward for me because then I could absolutely guarantee their pleasure.

Many years later, this is pathetic of me I know, I tried to sleep with Stella again but it didn’t work. Halfway through the date I realized that I didn’t actually fancy her any more and I was just trying to get closure on something that … didn’t need closure, so that was as far as it went.

I have been married to my partner for fourteen years now and I’m an old hippy. I believe that the physical plane is not as important as the spiritual one, and I’m also a pagan insofar as I’m anti Christian insofar as I believe we should have as much physical pleasure as is possible. And practice it as much as possible, because it will help us reach Nirvana.  Rather than abstention from physical pleasure. No!  I don’t agree with that. Absolute rubbish!  Wank, fuck, do all of that as much as possible, that’s what I say.  Because, come on, who of us here can quite honestly say that in times of stress, bringing yourself off in the bath or whatever, doesn’t relieve the damn stress, and make you feel better afterwards?  How on earth can that be a bad thing?’

Do you think that when Marvin Gaye wrote Sexual Healing, that perhaps he might have been thinking about today’s story? I think so.

It never ceases to amaze me just how much one person can right someone else’s wrongs through the power of sexual experience alone. Today’s story is a lovely example of that. It reminded me of a man I interviewed many years ago. It was by accident really because I had just interviewed his wife for my book. Afterwards, he started quizzing me about other people I had interviewed. Had I had any ‘difficult’ stories he wanted to know? No, as it happens, I hadn’t at that stage.

At which point, he offered up his own.

Suffice it to say that as he sat and told me a story that involved teenage sexual abuse, I felt a renewed sense of urgency to finish my book. That I was onto something important because people carry some huge stories around inside themselves.  This man had never let his out. Why would he? He felt ashamed of it even though it hadn’t been his fault. I knew that other people might benefit from hearing it. But what I really remember about that day is the unexpected ending. His first marriage finished in failure because he couldn’t get over the past, until, in his thirties, he met someone who redressed the balance.

‘Jane was a really gentle, simple soul but she was absolutely fantastic with people. She was brilliant with social relationships. I was with her for four years and she slowly taught me what women are all about. She literally took me by the hand and guided me very gently.

That was the first time in my life that I understood anything about sex, about what women required, and about what they appreciate. I learned more about sex in the first three months with Jane than the whole of my marriage to Jean. I learned what it was like for a woman to have an orgasm. I learned what actually triggered an orgasm. I learned what a woman was looking for and what it all meant. It was all completely new to me at the time and it felt like waking up’.

Here is how today’s storyteller redressed the balance.

‘The first version of how I lost my virginity is quite literally painful for me (in more ways than one). I was 13 nearly 14. I had been with my brothers best friend on an off since I was 9 years old, rather naively believing that he was the 'one', planning to get engaged and married all before I was even 18!

Several months prior to the night I actually lost my virginity. We had tried to have sex but I found it too painful to carry out the act and asked him to stop, which he did. The only time he respected my request to stop. The second time was the weekend before my 14th birthday. For some reason he decided he wanted to have sex with me and nothing was going to stop him. Although initially I did agree to going through with it, my common sense kicked in (as did the knowledge that my entire family were in the house) and I asked him to stop. He refused and continued. I couldn't stop him from doing it. He was 15 when this happened.

Not long after this happened I decided that even though he had taken away my virginity, that technically and in my own eyes I was still a virgin. Which leads onto the second and 'official' story of how I lost my virginity. Which was also around a birthday, but my 20th this time. Although this version is slightly unbelievable to some as I have been told.

I lost my 'virginity' to a member of staff at the college I attended. He was not a teacher but a member of support staff in the college's student union that I was an active part of the student committee of. He joined not long after I had been elected onto the committee and just before the beginning of the summer break. At the time I was dealing with a lot of issues personally and he offered a shoulder to cry on. This obviously forged a bond between us that got stronger over the summer holidays as we talked a lot via text.

Upon returning to college in the September, I began to realise that there was something there. It took a few months before we started seeing each other in secret. In fact the first kiss happened at college and was a bit of a shock for us both! The November after that, we ended up at his house, the illicit kisses in the SU office where no longer enough. He knew about my past encounters with men and took we took it at my pace. He was very gentle and kind and did everything right, it was everything I imagined.'

In honour of ‘#Granumentally’, whose twitter feed I discovered this morning and who turns the very grand age of 87 today, I decided to run this story from my book. ‘Edna' was 93 years old when I interviewed her. I loved the fact that she was prepared to tell me this story although having said that, it was very much in keeping with the kind of character she was. She told things like they were. She was happy to share. Men of that generation were definitely not into talking about their personal lives whereas women of almost any age have a fluency when it comes to the discussion of their personal lives. It’s in our nature to talk about how we feel.

Note the use of language in Edna’s story. She never mentions the word ‘sex’ once. That’s absolutely in-keeping with the sexual and social mores of the time. It was not the done thing. Or, as she also pointed out to me, one didn’t mention ‘going to the loo’. One talked about ‘powdering one’s nose’ or ‘brushing one’s hair’ but one never mentioned anything that even alluded to the fact that we had bodies that, er, did stuff. All those clichés that we hear are absolutely true. But it never sounded to me as if Edna lived less of a life as a result. 

‘The First World War was already a year old when I was born in 1915.  Both of my parents were involved in it so I stayed with my grandmother in Surrey.  She had big boobs and feather beds and I loved it.  I used to get into bed with her in the morning in this feather bed, and the boobs, and that was my first few years of life.

Eventually my mother gave up war work and we went back to live in Wimbledon where I had been born.  One day I was playing and a man passed around the house and I didn’t know who he was.  My mother was sitting on the table and she had had her hair cut. She used to have beautiful hair and she had an Eaton crop and she was smoking a cigarette and he came back and found this woman who he had left with lovely long hair and didn’t know what a cigarette was, sitting on the table, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. That was my father.  My little brother was born nine months later.

Though I had two brothers, I never knew what a man looked like until I got married. Now, how my mother kept the two brothers from me, one bathroom, has always been an enigma. You’d have thought I would have had an idea, but I didn’t.  Sex was a forboden (sic) subject.  And going to the lavatory was a very private matter and that’s how it was.  My mother never gave me any advice. When I started periods, she just said, ‘You’ll have these once a month and don’t let your brothers know’.

Eventually, as I grew up, I left school and got a job as a receptionist in a hotel in Bloomsbury.  I used to meet lots of chaps and I hung onto my virginity. It was taken for granted that I would. Some of these chaps would grope around but I had had this austere sort of childhood and no one was going to get too near me.  Men fumbled and tried to find their way through like the prince did in ‘Sleeping Beauty’ and he had to get through all those brambles and everything. Well, they never got that far with me.

I was in love several times, deeply in love. I was going to commit suicide when it ended but I decided not to in the end.  Also my father was ill.  We thought he had cancer but he actually had TB.  He contracted it in the trenches during the war. It lay dormant and took a hold of him when he got older. I used to visit him in the hospital and he would write me these wonderful little poems. I was in love with a man from Peru at the time so there would be a little poem entitled ‘My friend from Peru’ and another time it would be something else. Anyway, he died, just before the Second World War.

Although I was engaged to the chap from Peru, there was no familiarity at all in those days, a kiss good night and that was it.  Eventually, he went back to Peru and I was to go out to Havana and get married to him. In the meantime, I met Henry and fell in love with him and we decided to get married.  Unfortunately, how it worked out with dates, our wedding day, 12 January 1940, was also the anniversary of my engagement to the chap from Peru and all these roses arrived and my mother was absolutely furious.  She said, ‘What are you going to do with them then?’ and I said, ‘You put them on dad’s grave’. So that was that and Henry and I got married.

Before our wedding, I would go up to London at the weekends when Henry was free but we always had separate rooms.  One night he did come into my room and got into the bed and things could have gone on from there but with my austere upbringing; I knew that this wasn’t right so off he went. I had half lost my virginity when I say that I’d been fooled around with and manhandled by previous boyfriends but when I got married, that was when I really lost my virginity.

I was frightened on my wedding night and when I saw how he looked, I laughed. I’d never seen anything so funny. In spite of having two brothers I didn’t know what a man looked like.  My mother had never told me anything. She never said anything about what would happen when I got married, I had to find out by myself.  On the first night I might tell you, I thought this is much ado about nothing, but then I got to quite like it.

In days gone by virginity was a commodity that was sold.  Today virginity is a very cheap thing.  On the one hand, I don’t think the ideal thing is to keep yourself pure and meet the right man and save yourself for marriage, I don’t believe in that at all.  But I feel sorry for young people now because they’re taking their young days and making the most of them but I think there is going to be a regret later on. I don’t think poor girls setting out for an evening’s boozing and then all finding a one-night stand is a good way to start.

I think it is very likely that if you’re in love with someone and you’re not married, that it can happen in a natural sort of way; that happens. But to go out with the intent, that you’ve got condoms in your bag, I don’t like it.  The whole point about marriage is that you grow into a deep friendship. You grow older together and you become deeper friends.  Henry and I were very deep. We were very good friends.’

Being a topical blog, I probably should be flagging up the fact that Glee has just dealt with ‘the first time’ scenario but number one, I haven’t seen it yet and number two, my US counterpart Therese at ‘How to Lose Your Virginity’ will do a much better job of ‘appraising’ it than I…which she does, right here. I’d like to like Glee but frankly, I still haven’t got over the demise of Buffy.

I should probably also flag up the fact that on last night’s ‘Made in Chelsea’, Ollie Locke and his agent came up with the ground breaking idea to interview as many people as possible about the loss of virginity and turn it into a book. I am truly ahead of the zeitgeist. I guess I’ll let them find out in their own time that that ship has sailed!

Meantime, today’s story took me straight back to my own. A radio interviewer once commented that my story – which he read in my book - seemed a bit cold and business like. That it was a job to be done, a box to be ticked. Because it’s true, at 15 years old I was hideously aware (that’s a bit sad isn’t it), of the fact that most of my close friends had lost their virginity….and I hadn’t. Not that anyone else cared about this detail, but I did. So the interviewer wasn’t completely wrong. I was on a mission that needed to be accomplished and the cute French boy I met on a Spanish holiday was the man for the job.

On the last night of his trip, we snuck up into the hills and did the deed. It was just about as far away from how I had imagined the experience to be than you could possibly comprehend. It was bound to be great because he was so good looking. Right? Wrong. It was what it was. Two young teenagers fiddling around with very little knowledge of how it’s supposed to ‘work’. Ouch. We’d known each other for less than two weeks too which doesn’t really help. But the prescient part of the story, the bit that I really remember is the ‘girl’ part of the story. Despite the fact that I hadn’t felt connected to my experience, I did feel connected to him. And walking away a few hours later, not knowing whether or not I would see him again felt weird.

There is something in the make up of a woman that makes this so. It’s an ancient thing. It’s a cosmic trick if you like and if it were any different, the human race would not survive. It really is as simple as that. We need to feel an attachment to our mates so that we stick together. More so when we are young and fertile than at almost any other time of our lives because sex has the potential to produce life and if life is produced you can be damn sure that you won’t want to be alone.

So wondering, as today’s female story-teller does (despite the fact that she first thought her lover an ‘arrogant knob head’), ‘if it doesn’t mean something more to both of us’ is the most natural feeling in the world. I felt it when it happened to me, today’s story teller feels it and if my radio interviewer had been a woman, she would have felt it too. Its part and parcel of being female and we are built this way because we need to be, whether we like it or not. On some levels, it’s slightly irritating. I mean, wouldn’t it be so much simpler if we could all be like men? But at least it gives me the opportunity to completely contradict myself…..

I think men and women are more alike than ever before. I have come to this conclusion whilst sitting and listening to hundreds of men and women share the complexities of their intimate lives with me. But you don’t need to do this to reach the same conclusion, just look at the world and the way it has changed. Women have stamped all over male territory. We earn money; we buy our own houses and generally look after ourselves whilst damn well doing what we like these days. Meanwhile, the men’s ‘personal grooming’ market has grown out of all recognition. Men moisturize, wax and powder whilst taking paternity leave and occasionally chucking the day job in on a permanent basis and becoming stay at home dads. The times they are a changin’. So……where we will park the evolutionary will to attach ourselves to our mates, the piles of hormones and the traditional balance between the sexes in amongst this gender related confusion?  Perhaps our physical make up might change to start mirroring what’s happening in society? Is this possible? Or more to the point, even desirable?

What will our relationships with each other look like in another 500 year’s time? I have absolutely no idea but whilst I am not sure I would like to stay there, I sure wish I could time travel and take a peek, I really do.

‘Hi, I'm Belinda*, I'm 15 from Manchester, England and I lost my virginity about 3 hours ago. I know this may seem like a weird thing to do, but the guy in question has left, so it's not like I've just left him in my bed to write an email about what's just happened.

This feels so strange telling the bare-honest truth to a total stranger, but we agreed, share no details, at all, to our friends.

Charlie and I aren't boyfriend and girlfriend. Up until a few months ago, I didn't even count him as a friend, because I thought he was far too arrogant and a general knob-head and while I still think that, now it just adds to his charm. He was the first and only boy I ever kissed, a month ago, and somehow it's progressed into something that I'm telling you now, all through the wonders of Facebook and it's instant messaging services.

It wasn't perfect, but I never expected it to be after my friend told me how disappointing her first time was, but it was perfect enough for me. I didn't come or anything, but it felt good, and he seemed to have a good time…..so good in fact, that tomorrow I need to go get the morning after pill, which should be fun, making up an excuse to my mum about where I'm going.

To put it in the crudest terms, because there's no other way to put it, I didn't expect giving a blow-job to be so easy. A lot easier than a hand job. It was sore at first but then we eased into it and I did enjoy it immensely….he's fun to be around, because we're both incredibly sarcastic, we understood each other, and it eased the pressure, and made it fun. We were better by far with me on top, and I didn't mind, because I could get the pressure and the angle I wanted from that position. I bled a bit, which he didn't expect, and I forgot to expect.

But, that's the technicalities.

I didn't understand 4 hours ago how much this connects two people. Even though this was only meant to be a 'friends-with-benefits' style arrangement, I'm sitting here still smelling like him, and thinking of the beautiful things he said to me, and wondering if it doesn't mean something more to both of us, but neither one wants to admit it.

That's my story. I still can't quite believe I actually have a story! Thanks a million and one for letting me unload my shit on you!

Belinda Jakes (initials BJ, it's a burden)’ 

*names, as ever, are changed to protect identity.

Good day mate...

Greek islands are nice and all but frankly, who needs them? I mean really, I would so much rather be back here in the Smoke, working, hustling for my next day job and generally contemplating the incoming British winter.

Seriously, things aren’t so bad in my world. For one, it appears that I bought the beautiful weather back home with me and for another, The Virginity Project and I have much to celebrate together. If I didn’t say it enough already, I am over the MOON to be nominated in the final of the Cosmopolitan Blog Awards 2011, not only for The Virginity Project, but also for Big Guy Small Dog Blog. Both of these nominations were a huge surprise to me and if you would like to help me win, please vote for me here. The Virginity Project is in the sex & relationships category, Big Guy Small Dog Blog in the Handpicked Media lifestyle section.

As if that weren’t enough, I went this week to see the first run through of ‘The Virginity Project’: the play. It opens next week at The Tristan Bates Theatre in Covent Garden and watching the voices come alive on the stage last night was fascinating. If you live in London, come along and say hello. If you don’t, worry not, it is going to be streamed live from Camdentheatres.com and the whole production promises to be a unique, interactive theatrical experience. Come join!

Meanwhile, on a more somber note, lets take a trip down memory lane and recall the first person who really let us down. We all have one. There is something quite special, in a bittersweet way, about the first person who takes your heart, tramples lightly over it and hands it back to you slightly bruised. But it’s a rite of passage in much the same way as losing your virginity is. It’s a part of life. Sadly for today’s storyteller, it’s a two in one deal. Virginity loss AND being let down. Still, she lives to tell the tale and she tells it well…..

Born 1988, England

‘When I was 19, I gathered all my savings, gave my notice in at work and for the flat I was renting and got on a plane to Australia. I went on my own because I wanted to. I was fed up with seeing the same people all the time and wanted to do something different for a year. I headed to Brisbane and stayed in a hostel in the city. I met new people every night and felt amazing. About 2 weeks in I went to a bar with my new friends and started chatting to Shane. I'd never been interested in boys back home and they'd never been interested in me, but he was something special. We chatted all night and spent the following weeks together.

We'd kiss and touch but I'd always stop things just as they progressed. I could tell it frustrated him but he'd put on a smile and we'd cuddle instead. After 6 weeks of 'no nookie' he got fed up and left Brisbane without telling me. I found out after a guy who worked in the hostel asked me if I was missing him yet. I cried constantly for 3 days and became completely withdrawn. None of my new friends could get through to me. A week later I packed my bags and moved up the coast to Cairns. I made a resolution to get a grip, make more friends and forget about Shane. 

On my second night in Cairns it was New Years Eve. I made my way to the centre of town, found a backpacker bar and ate dinner on my own. Gradually I started chatting to people and decided to see out the night there. I was never really a massive drinker but I drank a lot that night. A guy whose name I don't remember kissed me at midnight and shortly after shoved his hand up my dress, so I told him to fuck off and left the bar.

I was staying a 10-minute walk away and the streets were full of people celebrating, making out and throwing up. I saw Shane only about 200 yards outside the bar, he smiled at me and came over. As soon as he hugged me I burst into tears on him and within the space of 10 minutes I told him I hated him, loved him, never wanted to see him again, wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and asked him how he could leave me. He started to walk me back to my hostel; we kissed numerous times and eventually made it back to my single room. When we got in the door he pushed me down on the bed. It was exciting, I wanted to sleep with him and show him what he missed out on. I didn't tell him it was my first time, and if it was obvious he didn't say anything.

When I woke up in the morning he was gone and I was angry. I packed up my stuff again and came home for good. When I arrived home I lied to my friends, told them yes, I had FINALLY lost my virginity - to a gorgeous guy from Scotland who I met in a bar and had a whirlwind relationship with. I don't know why I bothered lying but I've regretted it ever since.

It was only last month when told my partner the truth about losing my virginity that I finally felt relieved! I was embarrassed up until then but he made me feel so much better about it. It feels so amazing to finally get my experience down in writing!

Thank you,

M’

Ships passing in the night..

We’re back to boats again. Several posts ago, we heard from 'Stuart', a man who sails great big boats all over the world, the captain of the ship if you like. But as he poignantly points out, he is ‘a boy doing a man’s job’. He believes this because he has never had sex. If only he knew how many emails I get from men and women just like him, perfectly normal people who, for one reason or another have never gotten around to ‘sealing the deal’.

I digress. Today’s storyteller comes from the Channel Islands and met her ‘first’ online. She then travels to France to meet him and is surprised when, meeting and spending time together for the first time, she feels nervous. ‘It was daunting and awkward to me, sleeping in the same bed as him and getting used to being open around someone new and different……I was not ready for the intimacy just yet, it took me by surprise.’ No shit!! It always surprises me – although I don’t know why. I was probably the same at that age – at how hard people are on themselves. How could you, at 21 years old, particularly never having had a close relationship, expect to feel comfortable around someone that you have only ever spoken to on the phone? Albeit most days for 5 months but still…..imagining something and being there are two different things and intimacy can be scary when you’re young. And is it even intimacy we are talking about anyway? A genuine intimacy is something that grows between two people over a period of time. It is symptomatic of the comfort and ease that two people feel together. Sex is something different. Don’t confuse the two. Although when they do happen to collide, it can lead to a life-changingly pleasurable situation.

One step at a time and all that.

‘Hi there Kate,

My name is Nicky, I am 22 and I live on Guernsey which is one of the Channel Islands. I read your article in Glamour magazine yesterday and it got me thinking that I would really love to write down how I lost my virginity. I love to have a record of things to look back on, and I hope my story will be interesting to you!

I met my other half through internet dating last year. I will admit that I have never taken such a risk before as to go to France, across to a different country to meet someone off the internet. Was I, at 21 years old, ready to have a proper adult relationship with someone who I had only talked to for about 5 months before hand? Was I just settling for the first man to ever show me any attention? What will people think of me? I have always had low self esteem issues so just the pure belief that someone could love me for myself was hard to get used to at first, and to me seemed a valid reason to take the plunge and make the first step.

That first boat trip I took over was the most nervous I had ever been about anything in my life. I had butterflies and my heart was going a million miles per hour. I was so scared of what he might think of me and what would I do if it didn’t work out how I hoped? My mum didn't even know that I was going to France. She thought I had gone somewhere on a 'girls' holiday. I had to take the plunge, not only for the possibility of having a long term relationship but for myself. It was something completely out of my comfort zone, but I figured what was life without a little risk? 

I arrived in France to meet him. The man I had been talking to online for 5 months. It was daunting and awkward to me, sleeping in the same bed as him and getting used to being open around someone new and different, I was so used to talking to him that to be around him physically I felt very shy and it took me a few days to just get used to that. The first night we spent together in bed was awkward. I was not ready for the intimacy just yet, it took me by surprise.  We kissed but it was too much too quickly, I could feel him getting excited in bed and it scared me. I was a virgin with hardly any experience, in bed with a man for the first time in my life. Yes at 21 it seems a bit old, but I felt I waited for the right person to give my virginity too which I always viewed as a gift. I used to be religious but I am more indifferent now that I can enjoy my life without feeling guilty for doing things like drinking too much or having sex before marriage that people would ultimately judge me for. Who have I got to prove myself to other than myself? I have learnt so much that life is what I can make of it despite what other people think.

Anyway the week progressed that I spent in France last July. Me and the other half went to the supermarket. Ironically we both were eyeing up condoms in the aisle. We went home and later that evening last year we were getting frisky, and I decided there and then that yes he was the one I wanted to do it with, and yes I knew that we were going to be together for as long as we both lived.

I don't know what made me decide that but I love the fact that my first time was with someone I knew was worth waiting for and that the story of it is amusing to me. So as I said we were getting frisky in bed and I said that I wanted to go all the way with him. He asked me if I had any condoms and I said no, I thought you had some. So as it turned out, at about 10 pm in Catholic France we decided to drive to the nearest town to look for a condom machine. We tried several places with no such luck. Although it seems crazy, I suggested that we drive all the way to St Malo which is a 70 mile round trip….for condoms. We looked at each other and we decided that, yes it was worth it for my first time. So we arrived in St Malo, get out the car and go into the walled city, walking around looking for shops that might sell condoms. I spot a newsagents and I make him go in there. He asks the guy for condoms who takes them out from under the counter as if it's a crime, gives them to him for a euro and winks and says, ‘Have a good time’. My boyfriend comes out of the shop, hands me the packet which I stuff in my jeans pocket, (I still have the box as a memento) and then we go back to his house to, well, do the deed. Which I will admit is not all what its cracked up to be. It hurt and I felt sore afterwards. I didn't orgasm but me and him have found ways around that. We love to do other things to each other which is part of the adaptation of having a relationship. A year on the passion is still there and I am counting down the days until I see him again soon. I am so glad that one risk for love has worked out in favor for me'. 

Man Up

One of the things I loved most about writing my book was the opportunity to talk to men. It will come as no surprise to learn that women are fairly well versed when it comes to the art of self expression. From the moment we are born, and right into adulthood, crying, talking about our feelings and expressing emotions are all acceptable (and frankly enjoyable) pastimes. Not so if you are a man. Men might embrace their feminine sides more than their grandfathers or their father’s generation did, (just check out my other blog) but in the end, men are still wedded to the idea of ‘being a man’ and all that this entails. I could write a thesis on the architecture of ‘being a man’ having interviewed so many of them for my book, and may well do at some point but for the moment, have a read of this. This story goes to show just how much men hold in – and therefore why my job was so easy. What’s the betting that if you met ‘Stuart' in regular life, you would never in a million years guess his secret?

It also brings home the idea that losing virginity is about so much more than just having sex for the first time. It’s about acceptance as a human being and an attractive one at that because if no one wants to have sex with you, what does that tell us? Of course, with hindsight, we know that it tells us bugger all. Life just isn’t that straightforward or simple but try telling that to a boy, or even a man, who has had very little close intimate contact with the opposite sex.

Warning: this story may break your heart a little bit.

‘To Kate

I came across your article in my brother's girlfriend’s magazine. (Reader, he means last month’s issue of Glamour). I suppose I shouldn't have been reading it, but a consequence of this was that I came across your project. When I hear or read about sex, I feel frustrated, sad and depressed as I have only had negative sexual experiences in the 10 years since I SHOULD  have lost my virginity at the age of 17. The sexualisation of women is a common issue raised in the news and media at the moment. One thing that is apparent to me is how people always discuss the effect this has on young women. Nobody ever considers what effect this has on young men. Here is my story on how I lost my virginity.

As a teenager I always enjoyed DJ’ing and listening to music. When I look back, I think music was my comfort zone, something I hid behind in order to avoid actual conversation with people. By the end of college at the age of 19, all of my friends had started to have sex and had girlfriends and I had not. I decided to try something completely different to my hobby of DJ’ing & music. I started a deck officer cadet-ship in the merchant navy. This lasted three years, I worked on oil rig supply ships in the stormy North Sea. I also sailed on a special underwater ops ship from Cape Town, across the Indian Ocean to my first transit of the Malacca strait (with me on Pirate watch!). This trip was concluded by a visit to the ‘Four Floors of Whores’ entertainment district, immediately on arrival at the Port of Singapore. This I didn't like. The idea of me, the western white man paying a less well off-in life Asian girl, who was only interested in me because I had money and the potential to get her out of her own country and life; quite a common thing to happen between western merchant seaman who can't get a western women. Not for me.

By the age of 22 and after much study in college, I finally passed my examination and gained my ‘Ticket’ the license required to work as a deck officer on board any merchant ship in the world, no matter what size or type. But I was still a virgin, still a boy doing a man's job.

I had kept in contact with the friends I had grown up with, so that summer, after passing my examination, I headed for Newquay where at least 15 of us partied hard for a week or so. Maybe I would meet a girl on this holiday, after all, all the friends around me (both males & female) including my younger brother had been sexually active for years. But it wasn't to be. The week ended with me feeling more frustrated than ever, particularly on that beach with all those half naked women walking about.

I went back to sea a few weeks later now wondering if I would ever have sex, yet now a 3rd officer, being left alone on the navigation bridge with sole responsibility of a multi-million pound vessel. Surely a girl would realize that I'm not a loser? I felt I had proven myself by getting my ticket - yet nobody apart from my parents seemed to realize what I had achieved.

The next year was spent working on a deep-water drilling rig out of Egypt, gaining promotion to second officer I navigated our vessel to Morocco, the Canary Islands, The Bahamas and in and around the Gulf of Mexico, working 6 weeks on 6 weeks off. The six weeks on was stressful, navigating across shipping lanes and dodging fishing vessels. My leave got even more frustrating, finding myself in the ‘negative cycle’ where ‘the more you think about sex, the less likely you are to have it’. 

Finally it was my 24th birthday and I had had enough. Desperate and despairing with life, I visited a prostitute in Amsterdam. She was very nice and professional considering I had had a few beers. She was tall and she had her hair in blond pigtails and she was about 35. I only managed penetration for about 20 seconds or so. I didn't really think of sex that much during the weeks following my loss of virginity, however on return back on leave when I'm surrounded by couples and sexy women walking down the street I certainly do. I'm now 27 and have yet again been rejected by another woman I met online and went on a date with last week (the 4th rejection in as many dates). I have enough sea time to go for my Chief Officer license, but do not see myself being able to pass it; my mind is elsewhere, frustrated and depressed. I'm living in a world where women rule, they decide who they want to sleep with not men. I fear for my future, why me? When I do go back to college I will be living in a city for a year and will not be at sea. Hopefully this will increase the chance of me meeting someone.’

Born March 1984 in Scotland.

My non-perfect perfect first time..

How I wish I had posted this post yesterday. The mercury was rising in London yesterday. Today it is not but my story teller still lost his virginity on a hot sticky day in July. Mostly I like this story because he explores the idea of perfection, something that we have talked about recently.

People strive for perfection in all sorts of departments. Losing virginity is one such department and it’s a losing game. You can’t plan perfection. Perfection just happens. The very act of striving for perfection renders its existence null and void before you’ve even begun. To my mind, if something really is perfect, that conclusion can only really be reached in retrospect. Here is a man who didn’t plan his first time. This is a man who admits he did not love his lover, nor did the experience involve ‘rose petals and candles’ but upon reflection, he realizes the experience was perfect for him.

I also love the fact that he read about The Virginity Project in a feature I wrote for this month’s Glamour Magazine. He is a gay man so perhaps its par for the course but put it this way, he is not the first man I have heard from this month who likes checking out Glamour and they’re not all gay. Fact. Guys like reading girl’s stuff.

‘I read about your work in this month’s 'Glamour' magazine, and found it immediately interesting. I too have always found such a traditionally taboo and significant concept intriguing. I felt compelled to write to you about my experience. I'm a 20 year old gay man, and I lost my virginity when I was 17 to a man I barely knew. I'd met him on a night out the evening I turned 17, but I didn’t see him again until about 3 weeks later. He was so not my type, or anything like the sort of man I had imagined I would lose it to, but he was charismatic, about 6 years older than me, and incredibly 'together'.

He had his own city centre apartment and expensive clothes. To a teenage homosexual still living at home, this all seemed amazing. It was a sticky hot summer’s day in late July, and we agreed to meet in the gay quarter near where he lived for a drink. We got there, but being such a beautiful weekend, everywhere was packed. He asked me if I fancied getting a bottle of wine back at his place, and I knew right there and then exactly what that meant. I agreed, we bought the wine and walked up to his place. My heart was in my eyeballs and I couldn’t remember what to do with my tongue in my mouth. We proceeded to get a bit tipsy on the balcony, and I can remember the heat being so intense. I suggested moving it to the bedroom (the wine did wonders for the confidence), and we did. He had no idea I was a virgin, and still to this day I don’t think he does. He was kind and sparkly, and he looked after me. It hurt, like a bitch frankly, but I did ease into it in the end, and found myself really enjoying myself.

We made love again a few months later and it was just as fun. I just thought, with all the stories I hear from friends about how shitty their first times were, with horrible people or bad places, it would be nice to show that some can be perfect. I didn’t love him, nor do I now. There weren’t any candles or rose petals, but it was absolutely perfect for me and I always look back on that hot day in July and smile. I can’t wait to buy your book and see what other people have experienced.’