The Virginity Project

Masculinity 2.0

Years ago, my car mechanic, a man I’ve had many interesting conversations with sitting under the arches of his Latimer Road ‘shop’ asked me ‘but Kate, does a man even lose virginity?’

Probably not in the same way a woman does. There aren’t physical ramifications for men (don’t get me started on the ‘cultural’ ones) but one thing I do know is that men spend a lot of time thinking about it. Not so much in the ‘I’m desperate for that to happen’ way.  That’s a given. I’m talking about the multitude of anxieties and questions that go through a man’s mind as he teeters on the brink of sexual communion for the first time. I may never have known this until I decided to write a book and a blog about it. I definitely didn’t think men would queue around a virtual block to enlighten me about their insecurities, heartbreaks and desires. I was so wrong.

Men have been some of my greatest, most forthcoming interviewees and if I’d ever stopped to think about it, why wouldn’t they be? Women have all sorts of opportunities to share their inner worlds. I have been encouraged to express how I feel my entire life. It doesn’t mean I do it but that’s not the point. The option is there and I’ve never been asked to quash my emotions in favour of ‘being a man’. I have not been told to man up when I am under duress.

I am as angry as the next woman about gender inequality. I’m angry on behalf of my mum who didn’t get to do half the things in her life that I’ve got to do in mine (although she has given it a bloody good bash). I am cheesed off about the mingy playground I played in at school whilst the boys got a big yard because ‘boys need to let off steam’. I’m still irritated by the way that some men were happy to intimidate me out of taking to the pool table as a teenager because it was deemed male territory. Play by all means, their faces said, but we are going to stand here and smirk at your attempts to connect the cue to the ball (until the day I played a lucky shot at a traditional smoky boozer and wiped the table out in one go. My smirking opponent, a stranger who had clearly thought he was going to show me the error of my ways threw his cue to the floor and flew out of the door muttering expletives).

All of this stands, but its important to say that for me at least, it is not at the cost of my empathy for men. In my mind, these two sets of thoughts and feelings can sit side by side and deciding that one is right and the other unquestionably wrong is not constructive. We won’t travel anywhere new by refusing to try and understand each other’s plights. I don’t need to cease being angry in order to try and give men a platform. Because the more men understand how I feel, and the better I package that up and communicate it, the more this translates in to real-time thoughtful behaviour. And vice versa.

Writer Matt Haig met with a barrage of vitriol when he proposed something along these lines earlier this week and that’s a shame. Everyone has got something to bring to the table and suggesting otherwise is unimaginative. Lets lick our respective wounds by all means. I have not stopped licking mine since the day I read this – but lets continue the conversation and attempt to evolve at the same time.

In the meantime, The Virginity Project has been moonlighting on behalf of masculinity. I’ve been back to my interviewing roots and talking to guys of different ages and backgrounds about how they experience being men. In doing so, I hoped to discover something about the way that masculinity has evolved over the last 75 years. As ever, my men folk knocked it out of the park. No one held back. Conversation flowed. Tea was drunk. Feelings were expressed. The (very edited) results are published in The Independent today.

I am also re-publishing a peep into the life of a young man, a virgin who wishes his life were otherwise. I will say no more.

‘I grew up in a very religious house. And I went to religious schools. When I started secondary school, someone asked about sex ed and was told that you would have to do ‘Leaving Cert biology’ to get that. At no point did we get any kind of sex ed prior to that. I did biology (for honest reasons!) and the talk could be boiled down to: ‘Sex happens between married couples. That was the talk. Nothing about safety, nothing about pregnancy.  And if you have sex you will be punished. That was my sex ed.

Making matters worse, when I was fifteen, I developed psoriasis, a very unpleasant, genetic but noncontagious skin disorder, which didn’t help my growing interest in girls and my desire to look cool. I learned how to hide it, by growing my hair long and wearing long sleeves/pants all the time. I kept trying with different girls, but was incredibly self-conscious and would often find myself unable to talk to them about anything more than ‘nice weather, innit?’

When I reached college, having finally freed myself from the shackles of small town life, I decided that was a whole load of crap and resolved to get cool clothes, meet interesting people and try sex for myself. It was a bit of a shock to learn that I still had no clue about talking to women. In hindsight, I can see several situations that I could have possibly turned into something more. Maybe. But I kept trying to break out of the repressive programming of 19 years. And then I had a minor freak-out in a club. Under the strobe lighting, the psoriasis on my scalp and upper body stuck out like day-glo dandruff. And this happened every time I went to a club. I still had the bars and events and college. While studying for my masters, I moved into a house and found myself sharing with 7 girls (all with boyfriends). It was an education and I learned a great deal about women. But always, at the back of my mind, I kept remembering how bad the psoriasis could get.

Ultimately, I finished college without ever having a girlfriend. This is despite my friends, frequent trips out and the numerous societies I took part in. The psoriasis was a constant burden. I learned to cover up a lot of my problems in college.

After college, I was in search of work, and found myself in a few strange places, including India and Russia. The jobs and language barrier made it quite difficult to find people my own age. I eventually found employment back home, in the city I went to college. I knew the streets, I knew all the names, the doormen, I knew the bands; I was set. My job was hard and time consuming, but worthwhile. I ventured out several weekends a month, to different gigs or bars. I got a job with a music magazine, and would often get in for free. I started kick-boxing, along with volunteering at a soup kitchen twice a week. I was spending my days working, my nights hanging out with my new friends, and my weekends getting into gigs for free. It was great.

I was and still am generally happy with my lot in life. Yes, I would sometimes wonder what it was like to hold someone in my arms as they slept, but I would just remind myself of the numerous good things in my life and just say it will happen when it happens. I kept myself out there and did things I enjoyed and believed in. I have few difficulties socially, and can talk to most people, but when I try for something more, I fall flat on my face or miss the cues to act.

After an absolutely hellish week at work, I returned to my flat ready for a nice long weekend of sleeping, listening to music and watching TV. Instead, my flat mates had a few friends over and I got talking to a girl who I’m going to call Jess.

She was pretty; she was funny, she had similar hobbies to mine. After a few hours of listening to increasingly bad music, she looked me right in the eye and said: ‘This is getting a bit much. I bet your room is a lot quieter.’

As I led her up the stairs, all I could hear was the theme to Chariots of Fire. She stopped in the bathroom to do whatever arcane magicks women do to prepare, so I classied up my room a bit. The door opened, and a beautiful lady in just a bra and shorts entered my room. We haven’t even kissed yet. She begins to open my shirt, then paused. ‘What… the fuck? She stepped back, vomited on my bed, and asked ‘What the hell is wrong with you?!’

Psoriasis.

She pulled her top back on and walked out. After everything, after getting my life sorted, after getting someone who wanted to be with me because she liked me, and this was how it ended. I didn’t leave my room for the weekend. I didn’t eat, I just slept and watched porn and slept and watched porn. She was the last girl I approached. I haven’t tried since then, about 6 months.

I only ever told one friend of mine about that night. He recommended I see an escort, and gave me a list of his ‘go-to’ girls. Talking about escorts and prostitution opens up a whole other can of worms, I’m not the biggest fan of it, but I’m not going to condemn the ladies involved, and I can understand why some (not all) people go. He then told me to try the ‘pump and dump.’ Take a guess what that is. If someone, man or woman, wants a string of one night stands, I got no problem with that. As long as whatever happens is between consenting adults who use protection, then you can do whatever.

Trying to bring me around to his way of thinking, he told me about the ‘unholy abomination’ he woke up beside earlier that week. I’m sure there are plenty out there, men and women, who can tell similar stories. Go out, get drunk, go home with someone, cold light of day it’s a Hammer Horror. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be someone’s funny sex story, and I don’t want to have one myself. I’m not looking for true love, or waiting until marriage. I just want someone I care about, and who in turn cares about me. I want to bake cakes for someone. I want to hold someone in my arms until they fall asleep. I want to be with someone who wants to be there, not because they have an obligation or for money.

So that’s me. A 26-year-old genetic abomination who never kissed a girl.

Born in Wales'

Cock-a-doodle-don't

 …and then it was 2015. To kick off the New Year, I thought we’d start with something silly. The Virginity Project tends towards the serious at times. Much like impending spring time – at least we hope for impending spring time – light relief is always a good thing.

‘Laugh away’ wrote my contributor after I died laughing reading his story. Even if the sun hasn’t found its way to the UK yet, I can assure you it’s the first mention of the phrase ‘my cock was ruined’ this year. If not ever. You’re welcome. Enjoy!

‘When I was 15 years old, I stayed the night at my best friend Toby's house quite a bit during the summer of’ 93.  He lived a 5-minute bicycle ride away from my insanely hot 15-year-old girlfriend, Lisa.  Her father worked, so she would be home all day with no parental supervision. 

In my mind, I knew I was getting closer to a 'home run', as I'd previously made it as far as third base, mostly at Lisa's prompting.  She looked strikingly like Cindy Crawford in her prime, great body, flowing brown hair, piercing eyes.  She always smelled like ripe strawberries and I love strawberries. 

One day during the summer, I rode my bike over to her house and her loud mouth, annoying friend Sarah was there.  This girl was cock-block deluxe.  She would not leave us alone, even when Lisa asked her to.  However, once we finally got her out of our hair for a moment, we began to make out on her bed.  I put my hand down her shorts, and into her panties.  I fingered her for a bit, but of course, loud mouth returned.  She was soaking wet and I was hard as a rock.  She got off her bed, took my hand, led me to her bathroom, turned on the fan, and locked the door. 

We undid each other's button fly shorts.  Button fly pants are the most annoying thing when you're in a hurry. She hopped up on the bathroom sink and I began to stimulate her with my fingers again.  My cock was so hard I thought I was going to run out of skin if it got any bigger.  She began to jack me off. 

Masturbation has always involved some sort of lubricant... up to this point.  See, it had always been my hand doing the stroking, never a girl's.  Because there was no lubrication of any kind being used here, she began what felt like rubbing the skin off my dick.  What was I going to say though?  I had a beautiful girl jerking me off.

This went on for a few minutes before she asked me if I had a condom.  I did not.  She however did.  She asked me to lay down on the bathroom floor before she rolled the condom onto me.  She got on top of me, and guided me in.  She began to ride me.  Kinda.  She was actually hurting me.  The rubber against my rug-burned-cock was painful, and the condom was a bit large for my 15-year-old penis, but dammit, I was having sex!

I never got off.  I have no idea if she did.  When I left, I couldn't wait to get back to Toby's house, so I could rub one out.  I locked myself in his bathroom and used a handful of Vaseline to do it.  My cock was ruined.  It felt like it was on fire.  I remember how disappointed I felt.  Like, that was sex?  I also remember not feeling particularly any different than I did before sex.  Well, other than my dick wasn't on fire. 

My name is Taylor, I was born in 1978.  I live in Wichita KS and I gotta chalk up my experience of losing my virginity as a bad one. 

It's got much better since then.

As a side note, about 15 years later, after we both had kids and had been divorced, Lisa tracked me down, and we had some fun as adults for a few weeks.  We got each other off plenty.' 

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‘I stumbled across your blog today after hearing about your book on Dan Savage's podcast. I think your project is a really cool idea. I wanted to tell you my virginity loss story because it's a good one and there isn't much occasion to tell it.’

Never a truer word spoken. How often do you get the chance to regale a total stranger with the story of your first fumbling attempts at sexual intercourse?  Not often enough in my opinion. Not only that, but in another first, we feature that rarer-than-hen’s-teeth-tale today: the amusing virginity loss story. I won’t bang on about it but I don’t get a lot of these so make the most of it.

Finally, in a shout out to nerds of the world, here is living proof of that most thrilling of facts…..chicks definitely dig nerds.

‘To frame things, I'm kind of an introverted nerdy guy, so in high school while I had friends and so on, I was pretty awkward and definitely didn't hit it off with the ladies. I figured I would play a bunch of soccer, play a bunch of video games, do well in school, and try to figure out the whole love thing in college. Then, in the summer between grade 11 and 12, I got this sweet job as a summer camp counselor at a sleep away camp teaching kayaking, Magic: the Gathering, and Dungeons and Dragons. I usually leave out these last two when describing this job to people, but I feel here this information serves to make a point. I realize you may need to look them up ... I am a giant nerd.

So in this job, I hung out with a bunch of kids, ran around with them, and nerded out with them. It was great, in many ways the best job ever. Then, I met this girl who was teaching pottery at the same camp. She was hot and smart, and more astoundingly to my 17 year old brain, seemed like she was into me. She laughed at things I said. She asked me about things that other people would try to get me to shut up about. She seemed happy to see me and be around me. She was artistic and so much more outgoing than me. We had fun just joking around and doing nothing. Of course, despite being head over heels for this girl, I had no idea how to proceed to make any kind of move; I had never even kissed a girl. Luckily, she was a couple years older and a bit more experienced.

We were hanging out by the lake on a night off and she confronted me with all kinds of awkward questions, like whether I was into her, whether I had kissed a girl before, whether I wanted to kiss her specifically. Somehow she seemed to find my stuttering admissions and beet red face cute or something. Then we made out a bunch. And she taught me how to be less bad at it. I was spending a lot of time embarrassed, but was I ever loving this job….

A few days later we had an even more embarrassing conversation about having sex. She was so collected. I can't even imagine the look and color of my face. Again however, she seemed to think my inexperience was endearing or some such. On my next day off, I drove the couple hours to the nearest town for a package of condoms and then I waited for the next night we both had off together. Those were the longest two days of my life. My excitement grew and grew until it was finally the day. We waited until well after all the campers would be in bed (2am or so), went down to a very romantic secluded grassy beach near the lake, talked a bit, and made out some more. She explained how I would probably be really quick, being my first time and all, so she wanted to get off first. That seemed fair so I got to learn about how to give oral sex. She seemed happy to give me very specific instructions, which was good.

What seemed like an hour or so later, exhausted in muscles I didn't even really realize my tongue had, I got her to climax and we were ready for my turn. I was so excited. I moved on top of her, we kissed a bunch more, and finally the moment I had built up in my mind, I entered her.

It felt so good. I was in heaven. The feeling of the grass between my toes and the wind on my back, it all just went away.

That's when things went all pear shaped.

After maybe 30 seconds of bliss, there was a brilliant flash and the loudest clap of thunder I had ever heard. I jumped right out of her in startlement. Then we started to hear something falling, but it didn't sound quite like rain. Bigger and heavier and more solid. And sure enough I got hit square in the back by something big, hard and cold. Now I had never been in a hailstorm before, so it took a second to figure out what was going on. (Also, who ever heard of hail in July? WTF!?) And these hail stones were big. Not quite golf ball sized, but not much smaller than that either. And they hurt; a welt raising, bruising kind of hurt. She huddled under me for a few seconds then we made a mad dash pulling on clothes and running for our respective bunks. I showed up back at the bunk in jeans, only jeans. No shirt. No socks.

No shoes. No underwear.

Of course the hail, followed by my getting back out of breath, woke up a bunch of the campers who immediately started asking what was going on,

where I was, where my cloths were, and why I was covered in big red welts. I made up some story about being out swimming in the dark and getting caught in the storm (which the other counselor seemed to know was bull poo). Around this time I realized that inside my jeans my now flaccid penis was still in a condom which had become plastered to my inner thigh and was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. At that point, I just cracked up laughing. I was laughing and laughing to the point of crying, and obviously I couldn't tell anyone what was so funny. I waited out the storm and went back to collect our clothes thoroughly frustrated, but with a certain amusement that comes of the minor train wrecks in life. Those times when you can say ‘why me!?’ but really everything is fine.

Thankfully, we got a few more chances at it before the end of the summer, none of which ended in a hailstorm.

Anyway, that is my first time story. I hope you find it as funny as I do.

Cheers,

Scott*

*name changed to protect 'Scotts' identity.

What it feels like for a girl....and a boy

The Virginity Project has been away sunning itself on a Greek island again and exploring the beautiful graffited ruins of down town Athens. 

Whilst it was gone, bad things happened. The Virginity Project has sat down on at least 16 different occasions to write about the so called ‘virgin shootings’ in Isla Vista and beat an uncomfortable retreat each time due to a case of severely conflicting emotions. These events have unleashed a storm of words, discussions, vitriol and verbal scraps. On balance, it’s a positive thing that we’re having these ‘discussions’. These are challenging times and I often wish we could time travel to see what people will write about the relationship between men and women in the early 21^st century. Because I think they will say it was tricky. I’ve written about this before. Women have pushed forward so much in the last 50 years that a lot of people no longer recognize their once familiar landscapes and strange as it might sound, I do understand why the noses of some men are out of joint.  I don’t like it. But I understand it. Mary Beard wrote something great about this recently if you’d like to read more.  

The conflict for me lies in the slightly strange life I lead. Being female…feeling deeply disturbed by what I see happening to my fellow women folk at the hands of men but also having a rare access-all-areas pass into the male mind these last seven years. Men have revealed much to me via this blog.  Even in the face to face interviews for my book, men have been more honest and emotionally open than I ever could have imagined. Its enabled me, if not to walk in others shoes, at least to get a taste of what it feels like for a boy. Because you might think that times have changed, that men buy moisturizers and embrace their feminine traits in a way that they once didn’t but that doesn’t mean their lives are less complicated or happier. The notion of what it means to be ‘a man’ is very much in flux. In fact, no phrase was mentioned more in conjunction with the loss-of-virginity-stories I have been told than that of ‘becoming a man’. The two are inextricably linked so you can imagine the stress this can place on men when the v card is dangling painfully out of reach and so-called ‘man hood’ has not been attained.

I began to reference this on a piece I wrote for vice.com recently because I’ve observed that losing virginity is a different type of difficult for a man. I think of it like this. Imagine if a woman wanted to lose her virginity but she wasn’t having any luck. What do you think would happen if she walked into a pub and expressed a wish for a willing volunteer? In all probability, someone would put their hand up. She might not have picked him as her first choice but that’s not the point. Men and women may have totally different criteria when it comes to choosing partners but in the minds of many men, it is always on offer for a woman - in a way that it isn’t for a man.

Women are largely in control of when virginity gets lost (except for when they are forced into it. I’ve got some of those stories too) and that’s the way the evolutionary cookie crumbles. 99.9% of men get this. They hope for the best and wait it out if need be. If it gets really bad, the brave seek therapy and occasionally they reach out to someone like me. I take it as a good sign that they value themselves enough to do so and encourage them to keep talking. In seven years of emails, a very small handful of men have demonstrated scary levels of entitlement and anger towards the opposite sex because they’ve not yet deigned to have sex with them.

Modern pornography doesn’t always help. To clarify, as per Cindy Gallop, I am not anti porn but I am pro knowing the difference between pornography and real life.  Oh the irony! That so much modern pornography depicts such man-made ideals of what a woman is and what she ‘wants’. Because as it turns out, most women don’t want to be fucked with no preamble whatsoever whilst having their hair pulled and their vagina’s spat on. Its not difficult to see why young men can get totally the wrong idea about the opposite sex when they watch porn that depicts women as voiceless vessels to masturbate into. It must be easy to get a woman into bed right? Sometimes yes, depending on how a woman feels. A lot of times, no. We want our minds to be engaged before we share our bodies and if you can make us laugh, and I‘m talking a good old fashioned belly laugh, the kind that cannot be faked under any circumstances, we don’t care what you look like, you’re half way there. This is the real stuff. This is the engagement between two people that will lead to a sexual encounter that both parties will get something out of and it is never something that is given because the male half of the party is ‘entitled’ to it. Or as someone understated so beautifully on the Guardian comments section recently, ‘women are not social workers’.

We are at sixes and sevens with each other. For this reason, this Facebook status made my heart sing. Danielle Miller runs the Enlighten Education program for young women in Australia. The first time I encountered her work I knew, based on the emails I receive from blokes, that a male version could be a showstopper. And so it goes:

‘A year ago, due to the pleading from my clients, I designed a program for boys called ‘Myth Busting’ that debunks myths around young men. I called on the expertise of Nina Funnell to help (especially around how we can make boys aware of the powerful role they can have in helping eliminate violence against women). Although I delivered this to rave reviews with hundreds of young men, I knew that I didn't want to be the one presenting this long-term. It needed a male to really drive it home; boys need strong, positive male role models. Enter Goodfellased.com and today Myth Busting hit 250 16 year old Western Sydney boys.

Wow. The school said they have never seen or experienced anything like it. The boys not only were completely engaged the entire time, they willingly completed their evaluations and wrote reams (there goes the myth that boys don't like communicating/won't write). 100% of boys said they'd highly recommend it. 98% of boys rated it as either Very Good or Excellent.

I actually cried reading some of the heart-felt things boys had to say about what the session meant to them. And you know what? The BIG, SERIOUS, CONFRONTING lessons (e.g: around what to do when they witness violence/sexism, how to respond when a female friend may disclose etc) were the things they raved about loving the most. I couldn't be prouder or more thrilled. This is going to be a game changer.’

I concur with all of this. As I left Athens a couple of weeks ago to go down to the islands, I passed by Monistiraki and came upon a gang of men and boys street dancing together outside the station with a boom box and loads of scratchy beats. I was hurrying to meet someone but before I knew it, I was sitting cross-legged on the sun heated paving slabs, transfixed and gladly putting money into the hat they handed around at the end. What got me, what actually made a tear dribble down my cheek at the end wasn’t just the skill but the raw vulnerable expression of their performances. It was so pretty and edgy and powerful all at the same time and it made me wish that all men could find something as joyful and as physically exhilarating that made their hearts sing in the way it clearly did for this bunch of men and everyone who had stopped to watch and love what they were doing.

Dancing may not save the world but it could be a start. In the meantime – and in celebration of Men’s Health Week - lets try and understand something about each other’s interior worlds and have patience with each other’s learning curves. I often think of Cindy Gallop who befriended one of her trolls by mailing him and trying to get to the heart of what was really bothering him. Turns out he was a virgin, and really unhappy about it. They became digital friends and when he eventually lost his virginity, she was the first person he wrote to to inform her of this momentous event. I’m not suggesting we befriend our trolls but just to consider the facts. The weapon that women have always had is their ability to communicate and express the way that they feel. Not all of us are great at it but as a broad evolutionary brush stroke, it is something that sits more comfortably with women than it does with men. It’s a skill that men need to hone, and they need every encouragement to do so. Men, in return, back us up when you get the chance, call out bad behavior when you see it amongst your friends and try not to start sentences with ‘yeah but…’ when we tell you about the things we see happening around us that really hurt because without wanting to sound like a big hippie, the best and only way forward is together.

Finally, can I take this opportunity to assure you, because my feeling is that a lot of male hostility is driven by a subconscious fear that men are becoming surplus to female requirements; that this will never happen? You bring something special to the party and I’m not just talking about your population-increasing DNA. We like you for you. We like your awkward man dancing. We like the bit behind your ears, floating down towards your neck that smells so delightfully and sexily like you. We can’t get enough of your insane desire to find the ‘perfect’ espresso (what was wrong with the cup we had at, oh never mind…) and your need to dress in full Bradley Wiggins kit for a mere bike ride to work. We mostly think you are the cat’s pajamas and this is set to change on The 10^th of Never.

Welcome to Camden

This story seems fitting for several reasons. One: its teller comes from North America, home of the USA, where my book has just been published (WOOHOO) and two; he lost his virginity not 500 yards from the desk I sit at as I write this. Chalk Farm. Or the Borough of Camden to you.

If you are ‘a punkish arty kid’ as Tom paints himself, there could be no more appropriate backdrop than the beer stained (amongst other things) streets of Camden Town. As an aside, I took against Camden for the longest time but I’ve come to slyly like it. As gentrification saps the life blood from London, Camden remains as it ever was. It’s grubby. At least once a week I’ll mutter ‘welcome to Camden’ as a topless man walks past me in 12 degrees of freezing cold. There are more piles of vomit here of a morning than any borough in London but……I like its vigor. I like its honesty. I like the fact that it’s never boring. It’s such a cliché but Camden is packed full of larger-than-life characters. It’s no surprise that Amy Winehouse made it her home and I love Camden for making her their un-official queen.

Today’s punkish arty kid spins a good tale. Kudos to his 17 year old brain for ‘not exploding right then’ and despite the fact that nobody would blink if such a thing happened, it would be a shame because then we wouldn't have heard this story. Here we go.

'Hi Kate. Here's a story for you :)

I was born in 1983, and I'm from Canada. My first time was, well, pretty great. It was fluky and crazy and hot, and if I had to go back and do it again, I'm terrified I wouldn't be able to make the perfect sequence of events occur again.

I had recently turned 17, a punkish/arty kid in high school on the outside of Vancouver. I had been a quiet nerdy type for most of my childhood but a deliberate and drastic period of self-transformation at the end of grade 10 turned me into someone I never thought I could be. Specifically, someone who girls who liked, so I had to make up for lost time. This story takes place only 9 months after my first kiss. 

At the time, I was dating a girl named Hayley, a green haired punk girl. We'd been dating for 4 months and loved each other in that intense way you do as a teen. It was the beginning of summer vacation. My father, a thrice-divorced businessman was travelling to Germany and London for a business trip and offered to bring me along. I was reading Trainspotting obsessively at the time, so a chance to go across the pond was amazing.  After taking my final exam, I said goodbye to Hayley and took off for Europe for the first time. 

Fast-forward 4 days into the trip. We'd driven through Germany and were now in London. By this time the patience level between a teenage son and his father was stretched as thin as you'd expect. After we'd had dinner and grumped at each other for a bit, we wisely decided to hit up a pub to smooth things over. We were several pints in, getting along great again when this woman walks in. Gorgeous, with short black hair that reached just to her jawline. She was by herself, and seemed a little awkward and uncomfortable about it. I remarked on this, and my dad jokingly said ‘well ask her over then’ not thinking that I would actually do it.

But when I went up to get the next round, out of nowhere I actually got the nerve to do so, leading in with a (lame) joke about whether she was trying to pick up the nearly comatose drunk leaning against the bar, then explaining that we were visiting from Canada and would enjoy the company. She took me up on the offer and I led her back to our table.

Now, my dad had always been a bit of a skirt chaser, and had numerous affairs and dalliances throughout his many marriages. My bringing this beautiful woman back to the table suddenly piqued his interest, and he went into full flirt mode. The two of them chatted for a while about business (she was an accountant for a large auction house) while I drank and zoned out until the conversation turned to music. She and I had similar tastes, and it turned out she had come to the bar to see a punk show that was happening soon in the basement of the pub. She asked if I wanted to join her. (It turns out she had been making eyes at me leading up to this, but since I was 17 and dumb I hadn't actually noticed). I asked my dad if that was cool, and in that weird strained moment, you could almost hear our antlers clacking together while David Attenborough narrated this unexpected competition between males.

But he acquiesced, handed me some cash, and told me to be back at the hotel by midnight. The girl (Her name was Alex, she was 27 and had moved here from Australia) and I headed downstairs to see the show while my father finished up his pint. 

Here's the next amazing and fluky occurrence that I'm forever grateful for. There was no punk show downstairs that night. There was just a DJ setting up and he explained that the radio had played the wrong ad that day. Thank you, whoever messed that up and for making sure that Alex ended up at that pub that night. She asked if we should go up and rejoin my dad and I said I was happy for the break from him, so I asked if there was anywhere else we could go. She suggested a nearby club, so the two of us headed out into the night. While we chatted on the way, I asked if I could hold her hand. She told me: ‘Go for it’ and I did. 

We got to the club, grabbed some drinks, and grabbed a booth to chat/yell into each other's ear over the music. Obviously it only took about five minutes before we were making out hard. After about 20 minutes, she suggested we go back to her flat. We traveled up to her place near Chalk Farm station. I chatted with her roommate Dave while she made coffee and then she asked me ‘Want to head to bed?’

Kudos to my 17-year-old brain for not exploding right then, because it sure felt like it did.

As I got undressed, I explained that this was my first time. She told me that was fine, and mentioned that I should always take my socks off first. And then we proceeded to drunkenly fuck/fool around for four intense and hazy hours. Once we'd finally finished and lay down together, we got to chatting. She had asked me earlier in the night how old I was, and I'd told her 19. Now, post fuck, she asked ‘are you really 19?’ and I admitted no, I was only 17. She asked when my birthday was, and I told her it was in May. It was currently June, so I was just barely 17. She laughed to herself, and I asked if this was a problem, and she leaned into me and said ‘nope.’

Finally, it was time to head back, so she loaded me into a cab, and gave me her number and an invitation to come back the next day for a BBQ she was having for the World Cup. I got back to the hotel by 4 am. My dad had waited up for me. He didn't seem mad, but he didn't ask questions either.

The next day I was in a complete daze. An old friend of my father's had driven down to London to meet up with us, and the three of us toured the Tower of London with me lagging a few steps behind, trying to process what had happened. I had mentioned the BBQ to my dad, but he didn't seem keen on the idea, until finally his friend convinced him to let me go. He was a little more insistent that I at least get back by 1 this time.

So I made my way back to her flat, and hung out with her and her friends (all of whom teased her relentlessly about my age, and when I reached the age of 27 I could totally see their point). We watched the World Cup, and after her friends left we fucked again for a few more precious hours before we finally had to part ways. I could have made out with her in front of that gypsy cab forever. 

The next morning, we flew back to Canada. As we drove home from the airport, my dad said to me ‘don’t worry, I won't tell Hayley a thing. That's your business.’ Oh right, my super serious girlfriend. My 17-year-old brain had shoved any thoughts of her right out of the way once it saw the chance to lose my virginity to this woman a decade older, and to this day I haven't been able to summon any real guilt over what had happened.

Life tossed me this experience, and I took it, and I've never regretted it. But, since I was still 17 and shitty, I didn't tell Hayley what had happened. The relationship fizzled out of its own accord part way through the summer anyways. Eventually she found out what had happened; information tends to travel in high school. She was probably right to punch me in the stomach the way she did when she found out.

So that's it. That's my story. Right place, right time, right city. 

Cheers. 

Tom’

What happens abroad probably won’t stay abroad

For once, I won’t intro a story. Ok, just a little one. Some stories you just want to chuck right out there, fresh off the press, pretty much the moment they land in your inbox and tell the world about them. A lot of shitty things happen in this world. Here is a story that doesn’t include any of them. Please listen to ‘La Isla Bonita’ for added atmosphere.

‘Dear Kate, 

I'm an American almost-woman (although now maybe more woman than girl), age 21, currently studying abroad in Europe. I lost my virginity just about two weeks ago. This is how it happened: 

I am what some people might call a ‘late bloomer’* when it comes to sex. I didn't have my first kiss until I was 18 (in a blow-up pool filled with foam at my first frat party), and have only had a few brief relationships in my life. Thanks to years of listening to the Savage Love podcast, I'm a firm believer in the concept of losing your virginity in stages: first hand job, first blow job, first person who sees you naked, first person you see naked, etc. Over the past few years, since starting college, I've ‘lost’ each stage except actual penetrative sex, mostly with different men. In no way do I consider myself a ‘slut’. I just like to share my body and have others share theirs with me, and that sometimes a connection of a few hours can be as powerful as those that build over several weeks.

*a late bloomer (Novemer in the Balearic Islands)

I arrived in Spain in January for a semester abroad. I hadn't had any type of sexual contact with anyone for the entire fall semester, and was mentally preparing myself for experiencing the Spanish language (and Spanish men) in all ways possible. Before I left, I talked with a few close friends and decided it was pretty likely I would lose my virginity abroad. After a few heartbreaks and many nights regretting the opportunities I had to have sex and didn't, I was ready to go to Spain and come back literally a different person. 

Two weeks ago, my group of friends and I went out one final time before we all went our separate ways to travel over spring break. At this point, the other students in my program and I have developed a close group of friends, the kind who you could tell you're still a virgin and know they won't judge you. On this night, we started out at our favorite bar where the bartenders pour heavy and rarely make us pay. I wasn't trying to get wasted; I had a big trip coming up and still had to pack the next day. 

We were there for a few hours, and while my group filled almost the entire bar, there were a few locals as well. One group of guys in particular caught my eye. I talked to one of them, and we established that I'm an ‘extranjera (foreigner) and that I'm originally from California.

An hour later, my friends and I moved to another bar down the street. We weren't drinking anymore, just wanted a change of scenery. The same group of boys was there, and the one I had talked to, Hugo, slowly started moving his way towards my group, and in particular, me. After some more small talk, music started playing and pretty soon we were dancing...then kissing...then making out in the corner booth. 

Soon after, his friend, my friend, Hugo, and I walked to the nearby clubs to dance. Hugo and I were getting pretty hot and heavy on the dance floor, with hands everywhere and little attention paid to anyone else nearby. After a couple hours, we went outside for some fresh air. We were mostly sober at this point, more buzzed from dancing and the cool night air than from any leftover booze in our bodies. Hugo asked me if I wanted to go back to his apartment with him; I wanted to, but told him that if we did, I wouldn't have sex with him (clearly that changed). 

At this point, though, I was clear on my no-sex policy and said if he couldn't agree, ‘no pasa nada’ and I would go home with my friend. He insisted that it was absolutely okay and after a short talk with my friend, I left with him. In an amusing turn of events, his friend's car got locked in the parking garage and we ended up taking the subway back to his apartment. 

On the subway ride back, he asked if he would see me again after that night. For some reason, I decided to be a punk and said that I knew it was just a hook-up and he didn't have to pretend he was genuinely interested in me. He got honestly frustrated and all of a sudden, pulled a small hemp bracelet off his arm and tied it to my wrist, telling me ‘If at the end of tonight, or whenever you leave, you want to see me again, take this with you; it's my favorite bracelet and if you leave with it, it's a promise you'll see me again if only to give it back to me.’ That quickly put a stop to my brattiness; and for the rest of the ride we sat in near-silence fingering the frayed edges of his bracelet. 

When we finally got there, it was 7am. His roommate had dead-bolted the door, so there were several minutes of knocking until his roommate woke up, unlocked the door, and then actually saluted us as we made our way to Hugo's room. Once inside, it was probably less than half an hour until we were down to just underwear. 

Hugo stopped, reached for his wallet, and pulled out a condom. I had learned that his first language is French and that he's almost 24, but we both speak fluent Spanish; to me, there was something cool about all this happening for each of us in a second language. He told me, ‘If you want to, I have it; if you don't want to, we don't.’ After cautious mumbling for a few minutes, I finally spit it out: it would be my first time. To my surprise, he said it would be his first time, too. I didn't believe him at first: ‘You're almost 24! You're handsome! You live in Spain!’

He sat both of us up and told me that he's been ready to lose it for a while but that it didn't feel right until that moment with me. He told me that I'm the first girl he's brought back to his apartment since moving in over six months earlier. I know that some people will think that he was lying just to convince me, but I have a good bullshit detector, and I didn't think that his obvious hesitation and sincerity were fake. 

I told him that I had been waiting to lose it for a while, too, and that if he was sure, I was sure. If I hadn't believed that he truly was a virgin before, I did when it took him several tries to put the condom on. He was slow and gentle and it was both exactly what I thought it would be and like nothing I expected. 

When we finished, we decided that after almost 24 hours awake we should try to sleep a little. We ‘slept’ for an hour, and then woke up for Round Two. He stopped, though, because he didn't have any more condoms (the one in his wallet was a gift from his brother for when his lucky moment finally arrived). After more fooling around, I thought it was finally time for me to go home. It was almost noon. 

It took another hour to slowly find my clothes and put them on; every time I tried, he would pull the hem of my skirt or bra and I'd get distracted. We finally left his room and kissed goodbye for what felt like days in his doorway until I decided I really should leave. Right before walking out, I held up the wrist with his bracelet and asked, ‘Lo llevo conmigo?’ (I'll take it with me?) And he answered, ‘Lo llevas contigo’ (You take it with you). 

Due to travel plans, we won't see each other for another couple weeks. We've messaged several times and he wants to make sure we keep talking to not lose momentum, although with guaranteed sex at the end of our vacations, I don't think either of us is having a hard time staying interested. 

For the past two weeks, I've been waiting for some kind of regret to set in; to regret losing it to a near-stranger, to regret having it emerge from a night out, to admit that maybe I won't see him again. And two weeks later, I'm positive that I would have made the same decisions had we met totally sober on a Tuesday afternoon rather than in a bar on a Thursday night, and that I would have regretted more not having sex with him than I potentially will regret in the future having gone all the way. In the event that we actually don't see each other again, or that all his talk about being a virgin too was a lie, that's okay with me--in that moment, with him, it was perfect.

Sometimes things just work out, 

Katherine’

 

First there was a blog, then a book, and even a play. Now there is poetry. Today’s contribution is written by a man but told from a teenage perspective. ‘It's not firmly based on my own experience but draws inspiration partly from it, as well as from friends' stories, urban tales and media depictions.’ Like me, this man believes that ‘sex is not talked about enough in the increasingly sexualized world that we live in’.

I like that blokes have these unexpected perspectives. It’s too easy to believe that men and women are at war with each other. It makes a better story in a newspaper I guess. Shit is happening, there is no doubt. A new generation of women are finding their voices. But if I took one learning home from conducting all the interviews for my book, it is this: men are women are so much more alike than we think. I’ve heard as much sentiment, heart break, insecurity and vulnerability from men as I have from women. The difference is that women are more predisposed to talk to each other about the way they feel. Men store it up for the rare occasions that they feel ok enough about letting it all out. Or some random odd person who is writing a book about virginity loss teases it out of them with a guarantee of anonymity.

As is the norm on this blog, I’ve chosen a pseudonym for today’s writer but I’m happy to publish his real name should he wish me to.

 

My First Time

My knuckly fingers fumble

and the cognizance

of my anatomical incompetence

is etched upon my partner’s face –

still and unimpressed.

With dysfunction of my confidence

I’m heading for a fresh near-miss until

syrupy success.

 

Conscious of my thumping chest

I look to hers, and eager breasts

look back; expect to be caressed –

so, one hand short, I try my best

to pass this entry level test

and, yes,

my versed accomplice

signals progress.

 

Now, with vessel latex-rigged

for a voyage to the promised land

and a

bullheaded mentality

to ditch this damned virginity,

I’m in-

troduced to life as I don’t know it.

 

Not quite

my dreams of

pulling hair

and steaming love

but jerks

and unrelated

thrusts

(elbows everywhere!).

Positional switch.

 

A sound idea it proves (of hers)

as rhythm, effortless, occurs

and adolescent spirit stirs

as I see my fantasies

 

and feel the sexual slip ‘n slide

that raunchy film reels set in mind

the old R Kelly Bump N’ Grind°,

Well, Robbie, watch me go!

 

And the second time the helm is mine

approval’s shown in rolling eyes;

I sail through her dampened thighs

toward a virile future.

‘Til

a rushing wave

from deep inside

syringes up –

a pushing tide

My adolescence

pleads and cries

for prolonging of

this matchless high

Oh, Mr Kelly

tell me why

this brief first ride

has end in sight

She still pants

and writhes, unwise

to fluids reaching

record highs

 

And with reluctant

last goodbyes

my crew of debut

sea men flies

overboard

toward new skies,

splash-landing:

devirginized

 

---

° Bump N’ Grind sexually themed song by rapper R. Kelly, Robert Sylvester Kelly

It's only rock n roll...

I did a radio show with the World Service a few years back and was given a semi hard time by a woman who thought I didn’t place enough importance on ‘the first time’. She said it was something that should be treasured and saved for ‘the right person’ and not given away without a thought. I don’t recall saying it should be given away without a thought but I do think we are on dodgy ground when we start saving it for ‘the one’ - for a hundred different reasons. The most prescient one being that a first time is just that. It’s a first time. There will be other times. These, to my mind, are just as, if not more, important. Which leads me to this….

There has been much talk lately of a piece of research conducted by undergrads at the University of Tennessee and Mississippi that claims that the quality of your first time dictates the quality of your future sex life. With the exception of people who have terrible first time experiences, I’m not on board with this. Our first time experience is a meeting of many different factors and influences and after years of listening to your stories, I conclude that our first experiences are the product of the people that we already are, and not the other way around.

If you are a sensible person, you will likely make a sensible decision about the first person you sleep with. Ergo, your first time is likely to be better. My first time speaks volumes about what sort of person I already was at 15 years old: way too bothered about what other people thought. For that reason, I gravitated towards the most handsome man I could find in order to ‘get it out of the way’ and impress people at the same time. Not that I could have articulated any of this at the time.  I wanted the beautiful French boy who could walk on his hands and I got him. I was acting on pure instinct and the instincts in question were not the foundation for grand romance or earth shaking first sexual experiences. It wasn’t the worst time of my life by a long shot either. The point being that as I grew up, got past ‘the first time’ and got to know myself better, I made better choices. This is the ebb and flow of life. Virginity loss is not a one-stop, one-chance-only, if you fuck-it-up-its-all-over kind of deal - and the way we deal with our sexual encounters reflects this. Being a teenager is complicated enough without bandying around (more) misinformation about your first time. And no, its not going to look like it does in porn either. If it does, I can guarantee you the female half of the equation will be dying of boredom inside.

In the meantime, today’s storyteller tells a cracking good tale and brings to light the entire ridiculous charade that is virginity and its loss.

‘I recently discovered your blog and project. Instantly fascinated, I have read many accounts and in the end decided to share my own. I lost my virginity aged 18 in 2009 and am now 21. Aged 14 there had been a girl I liked. She was slightly older than me and liked me too. At the time I didn't catch on to that but she was persistent in her endeavor. She and her friend invited me and my friend to stay the night at theirs. I went, rather oblivious despite the obvious purpose of this double date. We watched films, chatted and got a little drunk. At some point my friend and her friend left and she kissed me. I was instantly turned on and went along with it. As clothes came off I wasn't phased or even thinking of what was happening. It was all instinct.

That's why when she asked me 'Are you a virgin?' I simply told the truth. It hadn't occurred to me to say anything but that. I look back now and realise she had expected the opposite. She stopped and smiled, 'save it for someone important', she said, and no amount of begging changed her mind.

Our friends however clearly believed that we had had sex, for that was precisely what they had been doing. Although I hadn't had sex and thoroughly kicked myself for having bungled it by admitting my virginity, I let everyone believe I had. I was smart, I read about it intensively. From chick flicks to sex forums and thus with not too little bluster and at least one supposedly confirmed lay I duped everyone. I was an expert, I never claimed I was good in bed (which is a good practice anyway!) and made sure I knew everything there was to know. I was terrified that my peers would discover my terrible secret and it came close a few times.

Then I went to university, where of course talk of sex is rife, many having had partners before or indeed were in relationships. Not to mention the stereotype of students having so much casual sex. In my first two weeks in halls of residence I consistently kept leaving and returning at the same as a good looking 26 year old Masters student. We laughed about it the first few times and then chatted happily, rapidly accepting this as the status quo. One night, out with my friends and rather drunk, I bumped into her on the dance floor in a similar state. Within minutes we were kissing.

We went home and as we were kissing and more clothes were coming off she suddenly stopped and asked me 'Are you a virgin?' Inside a part of me keeled over with a heart attack and died. But the years of bullshit and study paid off as I shrugged it off smoothly and answered with a glib 'if I were, would I know how to do this?' as I kissed down the length of her body. Of course, I hadn't done that either so I was rather terrified! Thankfully she was so aroused and easily stimulated that I was very successful somehow. She soon grabbed a condom and we had sex. Hot passionate sex where we both achieved orgasm. It was amazing and I was so proud of myself for not having fallen in the same trap as before. The elation of having done it, of having gotten over with it was amazing. The best part about it was that it reinforced my know it all, sex guru, seducer persona that I had already begun to bullshit my new friends with.

It was only later, as the elation wore of that I found it both terribly sad however satisfying it was that I had been able to lie about it.  I know full well that my close encounter with sex aged 14 and my being able to bluff the fact that I had sex certainly changed the dynamics of my relationship with my peer group both at school and at university. Most definitely in my favour. I had always feared people finding out yet after. I wished I hadn't had to have lied to avoid the stigma of not having done it. Especially since it is relatively hard for a spotty, socially awkward young male to do.’

I’m not a fan of the Daily Mail but even I have to admit to checking out the Side Bar of Shame sometimes and I’ll tell you why. If you’re taking a temperature check on current issues, if you want to know how a cross section of people feel about the world, the DM comments section is as good a way as any of finding out where people’s heads are at. Even if you suspect they might be the kind of heads you would cross the road to avoid.

Which is why you could have knocked me over with a feather on Friday. It really has come to something when DM readers are bored by faux lesbian bondage porn stories. I’ve nothing against Kate Moss. I’ve got a little thing about Rhianna but that’s got everything to do with Chris Brown.  Either way, here are two women at top of their respective games. I also appreciate beauty as much as the next person. But I find it achingly unimaginative that between the world’s most famous supermodel, the world’s most famous pop star and one of the finest fashion photographers in the world, a triumvirate of creative power if ever I saw it, they have managed to create yet another tedious fake porn shoot. I don’t know what surprises me more really. That or the fact that Daily Mail comments section managed to sum up my feelings so succinctly.

‘Can't imagine seeing David Gandy and Harry Styles in a similar photo shoot’ wrote one.

Excellent point.

‘Seriously’ writes another. ‘It is all so depressingly predictable now. I think women are going backwards in society rather than forward, sadly of their own free choice in a lot of cases. I'm not so old at 37 but I think the last decade has been dreadful and as someone who does voluntary work with 7 to 10 year old girls I despair at the effect our culture has on them’.

I couldn’t have articulated it better. I too fear for the effect this has on upcoming generations of children, particularly female children. I was watching X Factor a couple of years ago. Chistina Aguilera was the special guest. It was 7pm and she was dressed in a black basque, a suspender belt and stockings. She bent over a chair whilst she sung, breasts dripping out of her underwear as a male performer simulated penetrating her from behind. At that moment, I thanked god that I don’t have children. Because if I did, I’d have try and explain what we were watching.

I have a male friend who once told me that his opinion of women changed forever when he first saw pornography as a young teenager. He probably had to look pretty hard because he’s almost 50 now. It would have been the tattered shreds of a copy of Mayfair dug out of someone’s dustbin that inspired this sea change in his youthful mind. These days it appears you only need to turn on the telly on a Saturday night to get the same effect.

I’m tempted to mock my Mary Whitehouse tendencies but I shouldn’t because this shit matters. There are ways and there are ways of being sexy and as any healthy person knows, if not as a teenager, then hopefully as an adult, sexiness doesn’t need to be overt or obvious. It could involve a suspender belt but it doesn’t depend on it. Sexiness can come from within and in my mind, that includes the knowledge that you don’t have to be a porn-star-style-sex-puppet in order to get the attention or the admiration of the opposite sex. I’m old enough to rationalize this stuff. Sadly Kate Moss, Rhianna and Mario Testino, legions of your young fans are not.

Where do we draw the line? Is it healthy to live in a society that draws lines? Difficult questions to answer but I return to the words of the Daily Mail commenter. ‘I think women are going backwards in society rather than forward, sadly of their own free choice in a lot of cases’. Older women are mostly cogniscent of the fact that we have been sold a really crappy version of equality. Younger women – and children that watch X Factor – are not.

Today’s storyteller looks at similar issues, but through the lens of a man. Young men are led down the same wonky paths as women, just in slightly different ways. Which is why I thank god for the work of Cindy Gallop. You will see why here. What I love about Cindy is that she is prepared to jump into the fray with her ‘opponents’ and meet them with courage, humour and elegance. She puts her heart and soul into it. She really wants people, even the most bigoted ones, to learn and see things from a new perspective.  That she can turn a troll into a friend, and hopefully a happier man says so much. All hail Cindy.

Here, today's man chronicles his own search for some sensible information.

'Dear Kate,

I am 23 and have lived in New Zealand for most of my life.

Let me say first that my knowledge of sex as I matured was developed through the media. I believe that there is a particular message that the media tries to push. While it has become less prevalent in my lifetime as societal attitudes towards sex relax, I think it is still there and rather harmful. The message is, basically, that it is only males that like sex, they think about it far too much and they push the idea onto females, while females dislike sex. Of course I can’t speak for other males of my age, but the effect of this message on me was to convince me that sex is bad and I should ignore my feelings and desires. But of course it is not easy for a pubescent male to ignore his desires, so I had a number of years of furtively looking at men’s interest magazines (or to use that wonderful British term, lad’s mags) and sex-related books while I was in bookshops.

There were a couple of incidents that helped me change my attitude towards sex. The first was while looking at one of these lad’s mags. I looked at the scantily clad model on the front cover and suddenly realised how sad it made me. While not wishing to pass judgment on young women who pose for such magazines, it occurred to me that they were basically paid money so that they could provoke a certain reaction in guys they would never meet. I was sad because that was not about love. It was about lust. There must be something more, I thought.

The second incident happened while I was watching The Chatterley Affair, a fictionalised account of the obscenity trial relating to D H Lawrence’s novel Lady Chatterley’s Lover. This 2006 BBC production starred Louise Delamere and Rafe Spall as fictional jurors whose relationship (particularly the physical aspects) mirrored that of the characters in the novel. Apart from my obvious physical and hormonal reactions to the graphic sex being portrayed on screen, I noticed two important things in the film. One, the female character was enjoying the sex as much as the male character. In fact it was the female that was keen to try new positions. This was a revelation to me, given the ‘message’ that I referred to earlier. Suddenly, I felt a hell of a lot less guilty about my feelings. Two, the two protagonists clearly loved each other, and their sex had a magical quality because of that – more than the physical sensations, it was an expression of their love for each other.

After these incidents I began searching for material that expanded more on the romantic, rather than physical, aspects of sex. I also looked for material that discussed female perceptions of sex, so I could learn about what females thought and liked. The first website I found was My First Time (http://www.myfirsttime.com) which enabled people to post anonymously about their first sexual experience. There is a huge range of material on this site: short stories, long stories, graphic stories, romantic stories. The stories that affected me the most were the ones that discussed two friends who were emotionally close enough to each other to experiment physically, learn about each other’s bodies and eventually fall in love. A great example of this, which readers of your blog may be interested in, is story number 1330, entitled ‘Polly’.

The second website I found was Advanced Masturbation (http://advancedmasturbation.com). What inspired me most about this site was their mission to be completely non-pornographic and educational, to be a repository of information rather than, shall I say, a horniness bank. I have enjoyed reading the stories written by females, because I discovered that they like sexual pleasure just as much as males do.

The third piece of material I found was your book and blog. I am particularly interested in your commentary, and the life stories of the participants, because they lend so much meaning to the tales of virginity loss. Some of the stories are incredibly powerful in their evocation of an experience. I was particularly affected by the story of the young man around my age who has psoriasis, featured quite recently on your blog. He sounds like an individual with a wonderful attitude towards life given what he has gone through.

You have introduced me to some beautiful stories, and have helped me greatly in my journey to see sex for what it really is – a perfectly natural expression of love that can be enjoyed by both sexes. I don’t think it would be right to go into all the details of my personal virginity loss at this time, because the relationship has recently ended. However, I was very lucky in that my virginity loss was similar to that experienced by Polly in the story I mentioned on My First Time – it was about physical experimentation, mutual enjoyment and, most importantly, mutual love.’

All is fair in love and war?

I can’t deny as I walked around the new Yoko Ono exhibit in London this week that I had no idea how much she had accomplished as an artist way before John Lennon came on the scene. ‘Never mind Yoko Ono wrecking the Beatle’s career’, as someone noted recently, ‘the Beatles wrecked Yoko Ono’s career’. But no one mentions that because the Beatles were seen as a more significant force at the time. Which for some reason leads me to an exchange I had recently with a young man that I struggle to present to you.

It’s tricky when you simultaneously feel terrible for a person and totally disagree with their personal politics. I took major umbrage at this man’s use of the word ‘whore’ to describe the female lead in his story. Quite apart from anything else, it’s lazy and unimaginative. This is a word that boys use when they don’t get what they want and stamping their feet and throwing their toys out of their pram via the ‘W' word is the only reasonable course of action. My gut feeling was to point out to him that one day, he may be the father of a daughter, and one day, she may not give a man what he wants and he may call her a whore too. Perhaps that thought might put things in perspective?

Not to mention that the use of this word degrades one of the oldest professions in the world. I have three words for you: supply and demand. If people didn’t require the services of sex workers, they wouldn’t exist. It’s that simple. Deal with your guilt people. But don’t use the ‘W’ word when you can’t. But enough now because alongside my discomfort, I have a lot of sympathy for the man in today’s story. There is no doubt that his female counterpart took his heart, stamped on it and walked away. Even if she didn’t do it intentionally, this is what happened.  

Most significantly, I think this is one of those stories that on first reading, appears to be about one thing but is actually about something quite different. This is the story of a man mourning not only the loss of friendship and potential romance with a woman – his ‘first’ no less - but the friendship and strange intimacy that maybe only a war can produce. ‘We were co-medics in the same platoon in Afghanistan’, he writes. ‘We fought side by side for a whole year. We saved lives together. We carried dead bodies away together. We were best friends. But this home wrecking whore ruined it. I had my part in it by deciding to have sex with her. He was like a brother to me. I think we are all at fault, we are all idiots I guess.’

This is their story.

‘I am a 21 year old guy. I am a Combat Medic in the Army. So there was this girl who was cute, (*Brittany, she is in the Army also) I sorta liked her and she sort of liked me. One day I was hanging out with her and she met my room-mate. He is 26, also in the Army. (We can call him Ted). Anyways I lost her to him I guess. I didn’t really care very much about it though. Everyone looks at me as a 'cool guy' sort of I guess, everyone assumes I already lost my virginity. I just play along because I don’t want to look weird. It’s odd, I have fought in a war and have multiple valors and combat badges but I am a virgin... Sounds pretty weird. I guess I am sort of scared of women too. God knows why, whatever.

So Ted has a girlfriend back at home but he cheats on her every chance he gets. So pretty much Brittany would come over and sleep in his room every night. The mattress on the bead squak (sic) a lot so I can tell when they are having sex. He had been having sex with her for about a month. One night me and Ted were going to go a platoon party at a bar, she wanted to come along so she did. While we were there, Ted found some other girl and went home with her.  Brittany was crying and angry. I told her I would call us a cab back and she should sleep in his room and I will get her a cab back in the morning.

We started on our way back, got in the cab and she was clinging to me. I didn’t care, she was just being drunk and vulnerable. We get back and she is lying on my bed. I was lying next to her (because it’s my bed) she was lying next to me telling me about how betrayed she felt. I sort of talked to her but eventually fell asleep, I was pretty drunk. I woke up and she was gone, I didn’t really care. I got up to piss. She heard the toilet flush, and before I got back to the room she was in the bed again. I was a little confused. She told me I rolled over on top of her so she slept in his bed. I apologized and just got back in my bed, Brittany followed. If you know anything about the male body, we normally wake up erected. It’s the whole morning wood phenomenon. She started cuddling with me, and before I knew it she took her shirt off. I told her she wasn’t ready for me. She laughed. I told her to get ready. Her pants dissapeared. I had sex with her for about an hour, but I didn’t ejaculate. My room-mate was calling me, He snuk out of the girls house he went home with last night and needed a ride back. That’s when we decided to get breakfast and go get him.

The whole way to me riding over to get my roomie she talked about how we can’t ever talk about what happened, then she started talking about how much she hates Ted. We all got breakfast. She stayed over the whole day and again had sex with Ted that night. All the while she is married and has a kid. At first I had feelings for her, but about a week later she told one of her friends who spread it around. Apparently it is my fault. Ted moved out, to my knowledge she still stays with him every night. We walk by each other whenever we see each other, no eye contact, no greetings. She is in love with Ted, and Ted doesn’t like her very much. He uses her for sex and is open about it. Even though it doesn’t make her happy she is OK with it.

It’s been over a month now, my feelings for her have subsided. No texts or calls from her to hang out or to even say hi, no more facebook comments but we are still facebook friends. I am over her, but she still doesn’t give me eye contact or talk to me. After all this, I have deduced that she is a whore. My only regret, I didn’t wear a condom. I got checked and I am clean. I’m not emotional about this at all, she was last month’s news but I wish we could have at least been friends after it. That’s what happens when you lose your virginity to a whore though. That’s life.'

*All names changed to protect identity