The Virginity Project

Twenty-three

One goes about life. One browses the Internet; one sees things and hears stuff. Sometimes one finds something hilarious or touching and one wants to find a way to work it into a post but can’t quite find a way how and so one set’s oneself the challenge of segueing something random into one of your stories.

I’ve often wondered why the scent of pine trees is so much better at night. I lead a physical life but like most people, I lead an olfactory one too. Smells are like a memory bank and the smell of pine takes me on a direct route back to being 15 years old and losing my own virginity. My story is neither here nor there. It wasn’t the best moment of my life. It wasn’t the worst. It took me from A to B. It carried me from childhood and set me down in adult life. From this distance i.e. ages, there are elements of romance about the whole thing that only time can create. It certainly wasn't an experience that made me fall in love and it gave very little indication that one-day, sex might be exciting. 

But still…I see the romance. Not of the physical experience but of the era. It was my first holiday away from my parents. I was high, dizzy, drunk even, on freedom. I knew that this was just the beginning. That I was going to go on more trips, to more places, meet more boys, dance in more open-air discos whilst smoking dubious ‘cigarettes’ and generally being in charge of me. Heady times.

And it all played out against the backdrop that is Spain in the summertime. Sun, sea, beaches, trees and hills. Bathed in sunlight by day, shrouded in warm shadows by night. Labyrinthine white washed streets provided spaces to disappear into, unexplored territory to wander and of course, pine forests to sleep in. I might have felt nervous nestled amongst the pine needles – my ‘first’ and I used to escape to the woods and listen to The Cure on a beaten up old ghetto blaster whilst nestled in a sleeping bag for one - but I knew something interesting was happening. I’m telling you now aren’t I, all these years later?

I was creating the life I wanted to live and to this day, it still involves more or less the same. Travel, boys - or rather men – I don’t spend so much time in the disco these days but I do love to wander with friends, by myself, with someone special and experience new things, smell new smells and create new memories, sensory or otherwise. Which all led me to google the question, because I was curious, why DO pine trees smell so much better at night? Or was it my memory playing tricks on me? Someone else clearly had the same experience because I found the question, already posted, with a reply. 

‘Question: why does a pine tree smell nice at night but not as strong during the day?’

‘Answer: because the molecules of happiness are nocturnal….therefore they are more active at night = more of them reaching your nose.’

None of which really segues in quite the way I intended it to towards today’s storyteller. Except to say, she writes about life. Sometimes its good. Sometimes its extraordinarily shit. Sometimes, even when we are having a sub standard time, the experience is still taking us somewhere. Everything has its value, everything has its place. It may not be the end of the world, even if it feels like it at the time. The trick is knowing when to stay and when to move on. And, particularly in this lady’s case, how to recognize the people that really do have our best interests at heart.

‘Hi Kate,

I live in Australia and I was born in 1986. I've just been reading your book. I wanted to see if my first time would be like anyone else's ... and really I'm not sure if it is.

I was a twenty three year old virgin. That's the age my Mum was when she had me and obviously she had sex at least nine months before that and I have a brother who is two years older so clearly she'd been having sex for quite a while before then ... but for me, reaching that age really struck home…the idea that I wasn't living life.

I should probably point out that it wasn't just the fact that I was a virgin that made me feel like I wasn't living life or that I was weird. At the time I was severely depressed and in the grip of social phobia and barely leaving the house. I had no job, wasn't doing any schooling, had never had a real boyfriend, and in fact I only had two friends who I met up with every now and then and only because they were considerate enough to meet me one-on-one in ways that didn't force me to socialise too much.

For me the idea of losing my virginity was a way to face my fears. I figured that if I were to let someone do all those sexual things to me; if I were to be completely naked and vulnerable and penetrated, then the next time somebody wanted to hug me or simply lay a hand on my shoulder, I might not flinch. A bit like someone who is afraid of heights going up the tallest building so they won't be afraid to take a couple of steps on a ladder. 

I had been persuaded to join Facebook and there was a guy on there who liked me. When he suddenly started to show an interest in me, it was the most amazing thing in the world. I wouldn't even put a picture of myself on Facebook because I thought I was hideous (which isn't the case by the way, I'm slender, look young for my age, and I'm at worse average if not described by some as good looking) and yet here was this guy who was heaps older than me (ten years), experienced, was surrounded by lots of gorgeous women (he is a script writer, actor and director) and he wanted me. 

At first I was naive enough to think that he might be interested in me as a person ... as time progressed it became clear it was only my looks he was after. He wanted sex with me, not to date me. Over the course of several months I got nearer to the idea of being with him and then backed off, thinking that maybe I deserved more. I didn't really have any sense of self worth, though, to be honest - it was more of a worry over what others might think. Or what I might suggest to someone else in my shoes.

When my 23rd birthday came, I decided enough was enough. I was tired of hiding away and feeling disgusting and worthless and all the rest. I was sick of not properly engaging in life and denying myself these experiences other people took for granted. I was going to face my fears and grow the hell up already. When I've told a select few people about my experience I think they think that I was being used by him: older guy just wants sex with young virgin. If anything I probably used him. I was attracted to him, I guess, but I didn't really know all that much about him and there was no real connection. I just wanted to bite the bullet already!

I had to travel a couple of hours to see him and we went to a motel because he had some friends around his place and I didn't want to have to deal with them. He paid for the room, we went upstairs, and then he gave me my first kiss. Did I not mention that I had never been kissed? Yeah, I was that pathetic. I didn't like the kiss really - he was much better at sex, I think - but then I barely registered more than a mashing of his face against mine. Then he stripped off and I did too because it was clearly expected of me and then he led me into the shower.

He started to explore my body and I didn't have a clue what to do so he told me to touch him as well. I'm a good girl who follows instructions well ... but by the end even he felt weirded out by my disconnected watching way. He fingered me and then I think he might have gone down on me, I can't really remember, and then he asked for a blow-job. He told me not to worry, he wouldn't come in my mouth. I didn't realise that guys had pre-cum. I tasted the salty stuff and freaked over the idea that he was coming even though he said that he wouldn't and pulled back. He was clearly disappointed but continued on, not wanting to push me. He put on a condom and got on top and then it after some time it was all over. There was no pain.

Afterwards he turned on the TV and lay beside me, but was quite some distance away. There was no cuddling. He watched the football for a while and complained that I kept staring at him like I was expecting something ... I guess I was. I wanted to be told what to do next. Then he got up and said he had to leave and did I want a lift back to the station. I must have looked upset or confused because he reminded me that he had told me from the get-go that he was going to have a busy day and would need to leave. He even offered to let me stay in the motel for the night...I fell back on my flight impulse and accepted the lift to the station.

I had a one afternoon stand in a motel with someone I barely knew for my first kiss and to get rid of my virginity.

I hate to say it but I bugged him for a while afterwards, which of course did not endear me to him at all. He thought that I thought I was in love with him, but in truth I just wanted a do-over. I was frustrated that I had disconnected and besides for me it was a bit like a computer game. The first time I was lost and didn't know what was going on; the second time I was sure I would ace it because I had figured it all out. I never got that second chance, but it did help my confidence. I enrolled in a drama school, returning to the acting I had loved as a child but had become too insecure to do.

My sex life for some time after that wasn't very healthy. Not that I went out and had more one afternoon stands...at least not for a year afterwards. Whilst I was at the course I flirted with a guy or two online and I lusted over my teacher ... and when I finished the course I asked that teacher out and was turned down. I then went into a depression spiral and threw away all dignity. It wasn't like I had any relationships or times when I'd felt truly loved or wanted, so why continue pretending that I might have something like that? I was too screwed up for nice guys and bad boys only want one thing. I met people on Oasis (an online dating site) and would do lots of risky things, like meet them somewhere and let them drive me wherever they wanted so they could do whatever they wanted to me. I didn't care about condoms - though I asked them to cum on me instead of in me because I didn't want to have to deal with getting an abortion - figuring that if I were to get a sexually transmitted disease it wouldn't really matter. Nor did it matter if these guys hurt me. Or killed me. Hell, if they did the latter they would save me the effort - for surely that was where things were headed. 

Luckily I happened to meet a decent guy during this time. You see, not only was I meeting up with these guys who only wanted one thing, the little girl inside me refused to give up on the idea of being loved. I despised her for it, and so punished myself all the more, but I also fed her with normal dates with men who wanted more. That was how I met the guy I'm now with. As soon as I got with him I stopped playing around, of course, and I entered the first proper relationship I've ever had.

Surprisingly we've been together now for a year and four months. Not bad for someone who has never had a relationship before and doubts her self-worth, don't you think? The hardest part about it was confessing all of this to my boyfriend when I thought we might be going somewhere. I believe in honesty and as a writer and actor I know that drama comes from hiding things. If my life was a TV show, book or movie I would lie to him and he would find out in some horrible way and then all hell would break loose. I figured if he was going to leave me then it was better that he do so before I was too invested. He found it hard to take, being the sort of guy who has only had relationships and doesn't believe in that sort of fooling around, but he accepted both my story and me. Just as he accepts my mental health though he doesn't always understand it.

I guess the point of adding this part of the story is to show that my virginity loss story didn't screw me up and wasn't an indicator of how all my sexual relationships would be. In essence, it helped me break free of the shell I had hidden within and led to me actually living life. It wasn't a bad experience even as it wasn't a good one - in fact it's probably a bit nearer to the indifferent that you spoke of in your book. It was what it was. A means to an ends so that my life could keep going. And I'm still friends with the guy I spent that first time with, chatting every now and then. 

Anyway, that's my probably over-long story. Maybe I'm the only one who thinks it is different - it happened to me!!! Which is silly, probably. But just in case I am right and it's not something you've heard before I thought that I might contribute.’

Don't kill me...

I must have taken leave of my senses last week when I said that I hoped people’s optimism and independence shone out of their stories. To re-cap, I interviewed a cross section of people about the idea of ‘not having found love’. The interviews were published in the Guardian and I often felt, whilst doing the interviews, that when push came to shove, the people I interviewed had chosen the paths their lives had taken, albeit subconsciously, in order that they got to do what they wanted to do in their lives, and not what someone else wanted them to do.

But, one doesn’t always have control over one’s edits and so, in order to fit all the stories in, much of this optimism was edited out. No matter. It’s a fascinating collection of testimonies. But more significantly, the comments on the Guardian website are enough to make me think that I have opened an interesting can of worms. I think what gets me the most is the sheer amount of shame people feel when they talk about not having settled down with The One. And some of them, in my opinion at least, are way too young to be worrying about this. Where does all the judgement that they feel come from? How has society conspired to make people feel so terrible about themselves, even when some of them admit that they quite like their lives the way they are?

From my own point of view, the single life is not half as awful as people would like to believe it is. I’m human. I have moments when I really hanker after the comfort and physicality of an intimate relationship but boy do I make the most of my time whilst I have it. Being a woman in the 21^st century is an exciting proposition and whilst books are clearly not baby substitutes, having the time and the inclination to write one which, even if it doesn’t reach JK Rowling proportions will still outlive my stay on this planet, is a good feeling. The drive to work in areas that were not typically open to our mothers, to walk paths that are more diverse than most of our female descendants is really intoxicating. That’s me. Not everyone feels the same and as ever, I’m always interested in hearing your points of view.

In the meantime, I thought I’d publish two of the edits in slightly longer form as Stella in particular, got lost in the mix and Steven just makes me laugh. He has a brilliant turn of phrase. Even if he did inadvertently issue a series spoiler for The Killing. Warning: if you have not yet seen The Killing, do not read the second story.

Also, in the spirit of this blog, here are some lovely and at times very poignant animations on the subject of virginity loss from Swedish film director Jonas Odell.

Stella aged 59

'I’ve only had two loves in my life that meant anything to me and neither of them was for that long. Most of the time I’ve been on my own and I’ve got so used to it, I barely think about it anymore.

With the first one, I don’t think I realised until afterwards what I had lost. I was twenty and I had just arrived in London. I was a single mother but I wanted to do my teacher training and make something of myself.  Steve was a good solid father to my daughter even though he wasn’t her father. He wanted to look after us – and he wanted to marry me. That’s why we split, because I’d never been a ‘Miss’ before. I’d been a ‘Mrs’ since I’d fallen pregnant at sixteen and suddenly found myself with a house full of furniture and a husband. I didn’t want to do that again and I let him go.

The second one was the most exciting thing. We met when I was backpacking and it was all part of the dream. We never actually lived together because we were on opposite sides of the world. It was like a holiday romance that went on for years. I used to lose weight on the plane with excitement just going over to visit him. I loved not thinking about the bigger picture but it just wasn’t sustainable. He’s in his early fifties now. He still hasn’t got his life together and actually, I find him as dull as dishwater. How times change. Steve is the one that I still think about and would go back to if the opportunity arose. I was madly in love with the second one, but I realised a lot of years later that he wasn’t what I needed.

One of my oldest friends got married when she was twenty-one and they’re still happily married.  I remember saying to her once, ‘oh you were lucky when you married Bruce,’ and she corrected me and said ‘No, it wasn’t luck.’ She meant that she’d thought about it. She knew he would be a good husband and father in the long term and he was all of those things. But you don’t usually think like that when you’re young, you go with the heart. 

Someone put me on a website dating thing recently and well!   The people that come up are so unattractive. And then I look and I think well actually, I’m still interested in Steve even though he doesn’t look so great now. I see past all that.  I just see this chap who was nice and kind, and funny.  He’s married to someone else now.

I’d like to find love. When I lie in bed on a Sunday morning having a cup of tea I think, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone next to you, someone to chat to about the day. I’d like to travel again and I’d like someone to do it with. It doesn’t have to be LOVE in capital letters. It’s companionship more than anything as you get older.   You’ve got over that heady lust thing which gets in the way.  Because it changes what you think.  It stops you thinking rationally'.

Steven aged 40

'If I go back on past history, I started off with really good solid girlfriends who were all marriage material.  I lived with a gorgeous girl for several years in my twenties who wanted to settle down but I just hadn’t got the wild chip out of my system. There was always a fear of, oh my god, I’ve not done anything.  And after that I went berserk.  I went from safe and nice to the other extreme and I’ve never settled down since. I definitely do have days when I’d like someone to be around but since you phoned and said about this interview, I’ve realised that about 90% of the time it doesn’t even occur because I’ve always got some interest or project on the go. I think this is just my life card; I’ve never had to consider anyone else and I don’t think I’d be capable of it now.

There are times when I feel lonely; there are times when I wonder if I’ve made the right decision. Christmas is painful on your own but you’re not telling me that people in relationships don’t feel exactly the same thing.  They may lie and tell you that they’re happy but hey, I’m a therapist. I see the back end of people who’ve been in loveless marriages for twenty-five years and they are riddled with stress and disease because they’re constantly unhappy.

Don’t forget as well, this concept of love that we’re exposed to on the media is all fake.  It’s the stuff of Hollywood. It’s an indoctrination that’s been going on forty, fifty years, and pre that time I think relationships were different and probably a lot less pressured.  Now there’s a pressure to have sex five times a week, to have multiple orgasms every time, to never have an off day and it’s just all bollocks.  And that puts me at odds with the vast majority of the population because the vast majority of the population believe that that’s what love’s all about. 

The one thing I do not like about being single, especially coming from a working class area is that you’re always viewed with a little bit of suspicion. Did you watch The Killing on BBC4?  It’s the most fantastic series and it turns out that the killer was the forty-two year old single bloke.  And you think, hmm! Great, thanks for that. Luckily no fucker round here would be seen dead watching BBC4 because it’s on at the same time as X Factor, so I got away with that. But it’s something I feel very uncomfortable about because it comes down to the presumption that if you’ve got any chance of happiness you have to be in a relationship'.

Weirdo Lin

How is it that I let my blogging birthday go by without even noticing? Not only that, but it’s a significant birthday: my fifth. In blogging years, that’s like turning 21 and not realizing it.

I never thought I’d be a blogger, I certainly didn’t plan it, understand it or even see the point in it if I’m honest. I’d been working on my book idea for 18 months when a guy at forward thinking planning consultancy Sense Worldwide suggested I start a blog. I didn’t ‘get’ why this might be a good idea. That people might start interacting with the material, sending me their own stories and perhaps even gain something by reading other people’s stories too.

It took for my first round of submissions i.e. the process by which your book gets sent out to publishers – and rejected - to really sit up and listen. ‘I’ll show you’, I thought. ‘People like this idea and I’ll prove it’. So I started a blog. Can I just mention at this juncture that I’m the person in the office who asks questions like ‘how do I turn this computer on?’ It didn’t bode well. You cannot imagine how much my brain ached and how many questions I fired off to the long-suffering folk at Typepad in pursuit of the answers to my myriad idiotic questions. But I got there. And my patience was rewarded.

I think what really stunned me back in those early days of exploration was the warmth of the World Wide Web and more significantly, the blogging community. It is just like joining a gang of people that you may never actually meet in person, but who do want to hang out with you. People went above and beyond the call of duty to help me out. I’ve often written about Shel Israel, a man who writes a blog about social media. Pretty much no connection to teenage sexuality and virginity loss stories whatsoever but he dug my idea and posted about it. Bingo. Traffic came my way. Lots of people gave me a digital leg up, and at a time when I was sitting at home by myself, attempting a slightly lonely re-write of my book.

Quite apart from anything, blogging added a whole new dimension to my explorations because it allowed me to reach people who weren’t keen to talk to me in real life. Teenagers were impossible to pin down in real time. Writing a blog allowed them to interact with me at their own pace, to tell their stories in their own time and never have to show their face to another human being.

‘I’ll just do it for a year’ I thought. ‘I’ll prove my point and move on’. Five years later, I’m still here. I sometimes think I could run a consultancy thinking up themes for different people’s blogs because I cannot tell you the amount of times in a day that I utter the phrase ‘you could do a great blog about that’…..there isn’t enough time in the world to write all the themed blogs I would like to write. I write one here called Big Guy Small Dog Blog. And I just started another one here.

I can think of many talented, clever and creative people who write far better than I who should be blogging and creating a platform for themselves. And that’s the really beautiful thing about blogging. It’s democratic. Anyone can do it. You don’t have to wait for someone to invite you to have a go. If you’ve got something to say, you can step up to the plate and say it. You don’t need a publisher’s permission, or Amazon, or god, or your parents. You can create an identity for yourself and start talking. People have effected great change through blogging, some people have lost their lives because of it – and spread incredibly important and life changing messages in the process. We really should have an International Blogging Day and celebrate this amazing platform. A platform that allows man, woman, freedom fighter, fashionista, mother, cat lover, whatever your thing or your purpose in life is to share ideas, thoughts and ultimately, ourselves.

I feel a whole bunch of conflicting feelings as I post this. Proud and pleased that I didn’t give up on the Virginity Project, that it has spawned a book and a play. Sad that blogger Rami Al Sayed lost his life in Syria this week whilst the world sat by and let it happen. Relieved that he got to tell us what is really happening in his country. Hope that maybe we’ll sit up and listen. Awe at the modern world and its opportunities, its limitations, its beauty and its ugliness. Lucky, to be alive right now and have the freedom and liberty to do as I please. If you have something to say, and you can say it, do it now. There’s no time like the present.

Meanwhile, here is my very first story from Malaysia, reproduced as written by its author.

‘Hi Ms Kate,

I was not like other friends of the same age. I always think differently from them and this caused me to become a weirdo among my friends. They gave me a nickname: Weirdo-Lin. In my country and our culture, parents never give us any sex education and even in school. We learnt it via movies, porn sites and stories from the elder siblings. I was odd, as usual. I thought at the age of 18 and as teenager, we should know about sex properly, not via other sources but we should experience it. And I tried to find some guys to lost my virginity. It was funny as that time I thought it would be easy to find some random guys to have sex. But I was wrong. 

Time flies, college life ended and I went to Tasmania for my degree. I was like an innocent girl; know nothing about sex and this kind of topic at all. Housemates are quite open-minded, they shared their experiences with me and gave me some so-called ‘lectures’ about the first time, sex positions and so on...

It was my second semester and I met him, Gavin. He is now my boyfriend. I gave him my first time. It was not a romantic night, it was not set up and it was not prepared. We did it just out of sudden. It was pain for me because his penis is large and this frightened me. I have never seen a penis in front of me before in my life. He licked my ears and suck my ear lobes, which was so sensitive. His finger never rest touching and squeezing my breast and sucking my nipple. His fingers then went down to between my legs and go into my vagina. It was so painful. He whispered in my ears to make me relax. I was sweating in chill. He put his penis in and moved it in slowly and wait for few seconds and move it out. He did this because I was really in pain and I was shivering. It was the night that I would never forget.

Now, I enjoy every love I make with him. It is a part of our life now. My housemate asked me how do I feel after I have the experience? Honestly, I don't feel any different. I feel like I have someone in my life to do something we need. And that's all. It does not change my life. I am still the girl that love sex but just with my boyfriend. Nothing's changed.

How could loosing virginity affect my life if I gave it out of my willingness?

I was tidying up the hard drive on my laptop the other day, as one is wont to do at this time of year, when I came across a document I had completely forgotten about. I had titled it ‘the virgin diaries’ and it is a diary that begins right after I first had the idea for my book. Back when this blog wasn’t even a twinkle in my eye.

For some reason, and as you will see, I had got it into my head that I couldn’t tell a single living soul about my book writing plans at work. Because otherwise they would sack me. They wouldn’t, but try telling me that at the time. I was quite possessed by my idea and nothing, but nothing was going to stand in my way. Ironic really that just as I had the idea for my book, my bosses asked me to manage the office move. For anyone who’s ever moved an office full of people from one location in London to another, you will be feeling my pain right now. Somehow though, in between juggling floor plans, handymen and contracts, I managed to source my first interviewees, experience all sorts of self-doubt and drive to Cornwall to interview the brilliant 93-year-old Edna. 

I’d also forgotten what a major challenge it was to step out of my comfort zone and do my own thing for the first time. It’s a brilliant reminder, at a prescient time of the year, that the best things we do are often the biggest leaps of faith. I had never written a book before. I had no idea what I was doing but I felt compelled to try all the same.

The story starts a few weeks after I have first had ‘the big idea’.

30 Sept 2005

My bosses are making noises about moving offices. If we do, I will be project managing the move. You have to laugh.  I am 37 years old and I have just discovered what it is that I want to do with my life and my bosses want me to put it on hold and move office.  Of course that is pure conjecture, they know nothing of my plans to write a book and my job is my job and must be done.  I just don’t want to hold back at this stage. I am on the cusp of committing myself to something in a way I never have done before. I know that deep down; nothing will stop me if I really want to do it.

17 Jan 2006

Crikey, I have got such a bee in my bonnet. Having had to stop work on the book for 6 weeks while I project managed the office move, and now starting up again…I’ve got a fire in me and it’s burning me up!

During the move I found time to sew little seeds here and there. Phone calls, emails, the odd dinner with someone I thought would make a good ‘connector’*, so that when I had finished with the move to St John Street, I would have laid some solid ground work for the next phase. And I have. But people saying they want to take part and actually doing it are two different things. It’s not like I’m asking them to discuss their favourite foods, I’m asking them to share some of the most intimate memories of their lives. So I have to go at their pace. I am an Aries and this pace doesn’t suit me.

I get an overwhelming feeling sometimes – there is so much to do – that I don’t know which way to turn first.  What about all the Muslims I need to talk to, the Jewish people, Buddhists and Sikhs.  There are 1.8 million Muslims living in Great Britain today and I need to speak to at least ten of them.  I find myself standing in the queue at the post office in Farringdon, looking at the girls behind the counters in their headscarves and seriously considering slipping a synopsis of my book along with my cash and asking them to please call me when they have read it.  Would they think I was weird?

*I began sourcing my interviewees via friend’s networks and some of them were incredibly adept (not to mention helpful) at fixing me up with interesting people to talk to. I came to think of these people as ‘connectors’.

24 Jan 2006

Bonus! Just got a call from Nancy’s 19-year-old-babysitter.  She wants to be interviewed for my book and what’s more, so does her boyfriend.  She also has two other friends she can bring along as well.  I have to hold her at arms length for a moment here.  Two is enough I tell her, if there’s four of you it will take too long so come with your boyfriend and lets see how it goes.  I’m really pleased. But nervous.  More so than with the older interviewees and I don’t know why. Young people have been really hard to pin down.

27 Jan 2006

I hit the read symbol on my phone to read the text that has just popped up. It is from Nancy’s sitter. ‘Sorry Kate, I can’t do it, I just don’t feel comfortable with it, sorry to let you down’.  Bummer. Well at least she let me know.

1 Feb 2006

I went out for an ‘appraisal’ lunch with one of my bosses today. It’s just a catch up and we go to the Souvlaki bar in St John Street.  I love it. The smell of chargrilled meat that hits you as you walk in is completely fabulous.

We chatted about work for a bit. On the back of the successful office move they have offered me a new role. And then he catches me off guard with something that he has asked before.  ‘But what is it that you really want to do Kate?’

‘Well I think this new role will be great, a new direction within the company is just what I need’

‘No, what is it that you really, really want to do with your life Kate?’

I am dumbstruck by his perceptiveness and I struggle, not for the first time - but now for a different reason - for a reply.  I begin to wonder if he knows what I am doing outside of work.  I end up fumbling around for some half assed answer about always working within creative industries, getting frustrated and wanting to do something creative myself.

‘Well’, he says, ‘you better hurry up and do it, because you’ll be thirty, (I don’t remind him at this point that I am about to hit 38), you’ll be forty, you’ll be fifty even, and your life will be over’.

Again, I cannot think what to say. It almost kills me not to tell him, that I am working on something, that its taking up pretty much all of my brain space, that I think about little else, that I am, in fact, possessed.

But I can’t.  In that moment my mind winds forward and I wonder if I would be compromising my position further down the line even though – spookily - he assures me that if I were working on something outside of work, he wouldn’t mind, as long as I wasn’t coming to work and ‘falling asleep on my desk’.

Again, I wonder does he know? It wouldn’t be impossible for him to find out.  And I think, it’s a shame, because I know he would love the idea and I want to tell him.

7 Feb 2006

I am having one of those days.  I’ve been off sick from work and I just can’t muster up any enthusiasm about anything. It’s tricky riding the highs and lows sometimes when you’re doing your own thing for the first time.  If I don’t do something of a day to push this project along then nothing happens. It’s as simple as that.  A lot of times that is quite an exhilarating feeling and others, like today, I feel like a heavy leaden weight is in my brain…37 years of total inertia and all of a sudden I have woken up, had the guts to strike out on my own and not give a monkeys what anyone else thinks about it. It’s a big deal for me. 

On the up side, I spoke to a lovely lady called Sherrie.  She is 50; she loves the project and wants to get involved.  I also spoke to 93-year-old Edna, who I am going to Cornwall to interview on Friday. It was a good chat and I feel more confident about it now.

One of the things that I allowed to do my head in most of today is the frightening thought that I can’t write for peanuts.  I want to express myself better but sometimes it just won’t come out. I find myself writing in a way that I think makes me sound more intelligent instead of just letting it flow out more naturally. I spend so much time with my nose in a dictionary these days, hoping that some of the words rub off on me. It’s certainly not for lack of interest.

So, time to lock my inner Hitler away for the night, and hopefully for a bit longer than that.  That was spooky. When I typed Hitler in lower case, my Mac automatically changes him to a capital H Hitler. Crikey, even my Mac knows who Hitler is.

8 Feb 2006

My mum calls me to say that 93-year-old Edna rang her this morning and made murmurings about cancelling our trip and therefore, the interview.  I think she is worried that she is going to have to entertain us.  I am torn between that explanation and the thought that maybe she just has cold feet about opening her heart about her past.  She’s ninety-three years old for chrissakes, it’s amazing that she even agreed to it in the first place.  I tell myself that neither my mother nor myself have really communicated our plans clearly to her and that when she knows she only has to hang out with us for an hour or two each day she’ll feel better about it. The most crucial part of the whole weekend for me is the 30 minutes that she will talk into my Dictaphone about days gone by.  It’s a cornerstone of my project, a bookend, a vital component and I desperately want it.

Its tricky being an impatient type like myself. On the one hand its good because I do everything super fast, on the other its bad because I get cross when things don’t go my way.  It’s all very black and white for me.  I am learning as I get older to try and see the grey as well, or the rainbow shades as my boyfriend would prefer me to say.  To this end I am starting a six-week meditation course after my ski trip.  I am hoping to learn to ride the waves in a calmer manner.

I’m on tenterhooks about the ski trip, tenterhooks of happiness that is. Even though its one of the more strenuous sports you can partake in, I find it relaxing for the simple reason that it gives me a break from myself.  I don’t have time to think about the next 15 paces when I ski. I can but concentrate on the path immediately ahead of me and nothing else.

12 Feb 2006

Home and dry.  I clocked up a solid 8 hours behind the wheel of my Renault 5 today but it’s been worth every butt aching moment.  Edna gave a fabulous interview. She was by far the most succinct interviewee so far.  Not only that but she has an edgy sense of humour and is as sharp as a tack.  With most people I am mentally editing out the parts of the interview that I won’t need but with Edna I found myself thinking ‘how on earth am I going to edit this woman down, its ALL interesting’. 

Edna was married to Henry for sixty years.  That’s almost unfathomable to me.  Though I hardly remember him, I know that he was terrifically popular, kind and handsome. Everybody loved him. He was a bomber pilot in the Second World War. As he left for his nightly trips across the channel into Germany, Edna would count the planes out and then count them back in before the sun rose each morning.  It must have been hideously stressful for her.  He also suffered with nervous related illness for years after the war because, as Edna said, he was a sensitive man and he would return from his nightly trips across the channel into Germany, troubled by the thought that he may be responsible for the lives of women and children, albeit the enemy’s women and children but lives all the same.

*Edna was indeed a cornerstone of my project. Although I did interview an older lady of 101, it was Edna’s story that made the cut. Six years later, as The Virginity Project became a play, I watched Edna’s words come alive again and everybody loved listening to her.

24 Feb 2006

In between bouts of interviewing and my day job, I left for a ski trip in Italy and it appears, a momentary meltdown. I included this excerpt because, as I point out below, skiing is a brilliant metaphor for life. You do it the best when you lean away from the protection of the mountain. When it goes well, it is risk taking at its most elegant.

Skiing, it seems, is a lot like life. It bloody well has its ups and downs. The weather was vile today. The wind howled like a dog and snow swirled in great swathes around our feet as we attempted to attach our skis to our boots whilst remaining upright at the same time.

The snow, however, was perfect. Perfect enough for us to make our second attempt at a black run. Sure, I was apprehensive but our first foray into black run territory two days previous had been triumphant so I was brimming with confidence. Off we went, curling our way down into the unknown.

It is not necessary to look downwards on a steep slope. In fact to do so is stupid. To this end, I concentrated on moving across the slope and repeated the straightforward corner-turning instructions drummed into my head for the past four days. ‘This is OK’, I thought as we negotiated our way around the upper reaches of black run number 6.  ‘I may not be doing this with style and panache but I am doing it’. Down we went. Soft powdery snow, giving my skis something to carve into, something to hold me onto the side of the mountain. 

All of a sudden the snow texture changed.  My ski’s started making a different noise and I realised I was skiing on ice. On a black run. There was now nothing to grip me to what looked like a vertical drop beneath my skis.  I couldn’t remember anything that I had ever been taught about skiing. It was all gone.  My mind was a blank page and as I looked down, I realised that I was now sitting down on the slope, arms, skis and legs bent into an angular mess and pretty much as helpless as a new born calf. I struggled to my feet and dropped straight back down again. My mind made me do it. As I looked across to the edge of the slope, I could not contemplate, even for one second, attempting to stand up, moving to turn a corner, my skis facing downhill, closing the turn and surviving.  It did not seem possible. 

Michele, improbably, had moved from half way down the mountain to my side in a millisecond. ‘Kate, Kate, what is problem? You are good skier. Why? Why? You are not my problem. Henrietta’, he said, pointing rather uncharitably at my ski partner, ‘is my problem. Don’t worry. Michele is here. I will help you’.

I think he could see from my expression that I didn’t believe him so he took my arms and started speaking. To. Me. In. Single. Words.  ‘Flatten. Your. Skis. And. Slide. Down. With. Me’, he said.  Deep down in the dark recesses of my mind I could hear the words and slowly begin to action them. I did exactly as I was told and we slipped slowly down the mountain, the harsh scratch of our skis against the rigid icyness.

Suddenly we met the soft fluffy snow again and he sensibly pushed me upwards and commanded me to continue my journey down.  I hung onto every word he said.  Up, up, shoulder, shoulder, shoulder and back down, prepare, prepare, prepare and turn, shoulder down, hold it, hold it and BEND YOUR KNEES!!  My composure, like the colour in my face, slowly returned to life. The mountain began to look like a mountain again and not the torture chamber it had appeared to be just moments previously and I wondered to myself, what on earth happened there? Where did I go? Oh, here I am.

2 March 2006

One of those nuts days that you can’t believe will ever work out but somehow it does. I was working on our new press books all day, cutting, pasting, arranging, re-arranging, trying to make some visual sense of all the agency press. My boss is taking them to New York on Monday for an important meeting and she’s super stressed about it. Luckily she was out all day so I was left to my own devices, leaving me free to get away at 6pm sharp to get to an interviewee at 7.30 on the other side of London.

At 5.15pm my boss called me. ‘I’ll be back in the office in 15 minutes’. My heart sank. I know what this means.  By the time she has got here and got round to looking at the books it will be gone 6.  True to form, she arrived in a flurry, took a long phone call and then sat down for a catch up with someone. The clock ticked by and I was caught in a terrible dilemma.  If there is one thing I can’t bear, it’s the look on my bosses face when its after 6pm, she wants me to help her with something and I have someplace else to be, like, er, my life.  As predicted, when I told her I needed to leave at 6pm sharp she asked what I had to get to.

In my boss’s mind, it’s a simple request for information. I know she just wants to understand if it is something important.  But my ears hear ‘Kate, I am seriously questioning your commitment to this role, perhaps its time to start looking for a new job’.

Anyway I managed to leg it by 6.20 and made it to Teddington against all odds AND via a route I had never taken before, by 7.30 on the dot.

In a sea of ordinary looking houses, Sherrie’s stood out a mile. Hanging by the front door was a huge fluorescent heart.  I knocked and waited. I was way too tired to be even slightly nervous. Funny how some houses just seem to suck you in. As I stepped in and looked around I saw that Sherrie had created a labyrinth of a home that involved a lot of bare brick, candles, fairy lights, pets, books, music, food, television, all the things I like the most. I must have looked hungry because I was seated at a table eating an enormous bowl of pasta within two minutes of arriving.

Down to business and Sherrie told me a great story.  Like most stories worth telling, it had some fabulous highs and some wretched lows.  Once the tape stopped rolling, we continued talking as I knew we would. Frankly, if she had run me a bath and tucked me up in bed I would have gone along with it. She talked a lot of her and her husbands myriad ‘adopted son’s and daughter’s’*and I could see how they had amassed such a collection of interesting young people. She really loves the company of young people and because of her background, she is painfully aware of how tender and vulnerable young people are, more so, she thinks, today than at any other time in recent history.

*I joined Sherrie’s collection of adoptees that day and we’ve been friends ever since. I did however, test this friendship when I asked her to the stage version of my book and forgot to re-iterate to her that her story was actually in it. There is nothing quite like going to the theatre and seeing your own virginity loss story told as a monologue on stage. Good thing I always change names. Sorry Sherrie and thank you, once again, to all my wonderful, creative and generous interviewees and blog contributors - and of course my ex bosses. In the book or not, this project would not exist without you.

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.

Truth, strange, fiction etc...

For anyone who ever planned on doing something new, something unprecedented (at least in your world), something you have nurtured as a dream and then thought, I can’t…in all likelihood, you probably can. If you had told me, just over six years ago that I would write a book, start a blog, start two blogs, get my book published – after many rejections – and then get that book made into a play, as I sat staring into the middle distance at my rather unfulfilling day job, I would have said you were a fantasist. But I started small and I kept going.

It helped that I was enthusiastic. When I first had the idea to interview people about virginity loss, I felt sure I was onto a winner. It wasn’t really ‘the moment’ I was interested in; it was The Story. Who were the characters involved? How did the plot build? And what inspires us to make such a big change in our lives? I set myself the task of interviewing as many different types of people as I could. Religious people, the older generation, those with physical disabilities, gay, straight, male and female, they were all fair game as far as I was concerned. I could barely get started fast enough. I worked my job during the day and snatched every spare moment I could to interview, cajole and extract the most diverse selection of stories that I could get out of people by night.

A year later, I got my first bite of the cherry when the sister of a friend set me up a meeting with Virago Publishing. She sent some of my stories ahead, they liked them and I was in. I had very little comprehension of just how important Lennie Goodings was as I climbed the stairs to her book filled office but that probably helped. I wasn’t overwhelmed. I took the experience in my stride. She was utterly charming. In the end, it didn’t lead to anything but ironically, it changed everything. The fact that Lennie Goodings was interested enough to look at my collection of stories was enough, in turn, for other people to be interested in me. By Christmas I had myself a bona fide literary agent and my dream was becoming increasingly real.

The next part of the journey was interesting….and harsh at the same time. My agent sent my book out on submission and it was roundly rejected. Looking back, this experience was the making of me. This was the moment when I toughened up and realised that if you really want to do something, be prepared to deal with disappointment. If at first you don’t succeed, cry by all means but for goodness sakes, don’t take it personally. Stand up, brush yourself off and keep moving forward. Every single cliché in the book was true. Rejection is part of the process. Deal with it. I didn’t find this experience easy though. I was like a bruised peach in those days. I’d just broken up with my boyfriend too, the one person who had encouraged me every step of the way. Without him by my side and a stack of rejection letters on the other, I found it difficult to see a way forward. My saving grace was that my book had been rejected nicely. ‘Cheer up’ my agent said. ‘Usually they don’t bother writing back when they don’t want to publish it’. They had all written and said encouraging things.

The days were dark but I had enough savings in the bank to take a few months off so I ditched the day job, got my head down and started a blog. Partly because I wanted to claim ownership over my idea, partly because I wanted to show publishers that my idea had legs but mostly because I realised that my life was weird. Who else goes around asking people to tell them about virginity loss? I wanted to share my odd adventures with the world at large.

Predictably, I was petrified when I began. I could barely press the ‘send’ button, so nervous was I about exposing myself but once again, it was one of the best things I could have done. I was lonely at home with my stack of rejection letters but those early months of blogging were a revelation to me. I was astonished at what a friendly place the blogosphere is. How people you have never met before are quite prepared to give you a digital ‘leg up’ over a metaphorical wall. Shel Israel writes a blog about social media and technology. He doesn’t know me from Adam but he liked my idea and he wrote about it. Bingo! Traffic came my way. I caught on quickly and I kept going, kept pressing the send button despite having limited confidence in my voice. Day by day, as winter turned to spring; people began to engage with the material, and, joy of joys; they began sending in their own stories. In April of that year, I scored a full page of editorial in the Sunday Times News Review. (Which I would link to if it weren’t for that PESKY pay wall).

Fast forward almost four winters and I found myself finally finishing that book. Icon Books had commissioned me…and they wanted the manuscript in 3 months’ time. Yikes. Time and again as I rose in the dark last winter, and it was a literal darkness this time, not metaphorical, I realised that coming to the page each day is an act of faith. You have no idea if something will come out. Deadlines don’t care whether or not you’re feeling inspired but the only way to find out is to try. Sometimes nothing happens. Sometimes it feels really uncomfortable but you have to keep going, however mind crushingly painful it may feel and eventually, something pops out. A spark of an idea comes. Pursue that spark, hunt it down, keep chasing that idea and watch it open like a flower.

The catch is that the human mind is forgetful so sometimes you have to go through this process every day. Sometimes it’s really boring. From time to time last winter I thought to myself, you know what? I really don’t feel like doing this today. Then came the awful realisation that if I didn’t do it, no one else would. It was my book, full of my ideas and if you don’t keep writing, there will be nothing to show for your endeavours. So man up, stick yourself in front of the keyboard and keep moving. Pursuing dreams, pursuing creativity, it’s all the same thing. The trick is that you cannot guarantee a return; you have to believe that you will get one. It’s only then, when you’re prepared to take a leap off a creative cliff and find out what’s on the other side that the exciting stuff begins to happen.

My book came out in May. New York, or more to the point, America, was the next step as far as I was concerned. That hasn’t happened (yet). But in June, I was approached by a theatre producer. ‘I’d like to make your book into a play’ he said. He was a Northerner (always a good sign) and he had some adventurous ideas.  Once again, I took a detour that I hadn’t intended to take and it turned out to be a wonderful thing.

My life is still weird. Last weekend, I found myself at Cheltenham Literary Festival. I had done an event there on Friday night and the entire Cheltenham experience was a joy from start to finish. I spent Saturday morning watching Arlene Phillips pirouette around the Writers Room and the afternoon chatting with the very affable Roger McGough. By Monday I was back behind my desk, starting a new PA contract. I barely know who I am anymore but I’m not complaining. The day job helps my writing life because I work for really clever, interesting people who inspire me to do better. I learn as much as I can from them whilst hopefully making their lives easier in return.

Where to next? I have no idea. I’ve learnt not to make predictions but I do know this: for every single thing that doesn’t happen, something will happen that you couldn’t have foreseen.  You couldn’t make it up. And you don’t have to because it’s going to happen anyway.

In the spirit of today’s post – and all the late bloomers of the world - here is a story that you couldn’t make up. It’s all true.

‘Hi Kate,

I am 30 years old and I lost my virginity last night.

I wanted to share my story as it seemed that as I went past the age of 25, I would never lose it. I was slightly obsessed and very ashamed of my virginity and made endless plans to lose it with an escort or a random one night stand. This never happened and would make me feel worse as I couldn't go through with any plans as they always seemed wrong.

I even consulted an intimacy clinic who agreed to carry out sex therapy with me using a surrogate...who was at least fifty years old. They couldn't understand why I was not keen to have sex with a man old enough to be my father and the whole experience made my self-esteem plummet. It seemed that even the 'experts' couldn't help. 

All the time I was dating. Meeting guys and then finding a flaw with them so I didn't have to get too close. Nobody was quite right for me and I honestly believed that only Mr Perfect would do. I was convinced everybody could tell I was a virgin and had to watch as my much younger sister got a serious boyfriend and moved in with him. I felt stuck. Not quite an adult, yet in some ways a woman old before my time - a Maiden Aunt.

I had gone to University at 21, as I had been a carer for my mother during part of my teen years, and when she later died I spent my early twenties grieving and trying to get my head around how different my life was to my peers. When I was still a virgin on the final day of University in 2005, I gave up all hope.

A couple of years ago I sought help one last time and went into therapy with a local psychotherapist. I went for eighteen months and the change in my life and mental processes was astonishing. She helped me to feel normal and to see that my family experiences had shaped my life so far and how I could remove this block. I started to meet more men who were attracted to me and I became more open to relationships.

Two months ago I met a guy who is the same age as me and although there were several times that I wanted to end things because of some 'flaw',  I recognised what I was doing and kept seeing him. He didn't pressure me and we gradually got closer.

Last night, aided by a couple of bottles of wine, I had sex for the first time. It was in parts awkward, painful, extremely pleasurable and a massive relief! He couldn't enter me all that successfully but said it was because he was nervous. Eventually he started to use his fingers and we got there. All I could think was ' Finally'! Today I have felt sore, I bled a little but thinking about the experience turns me on, rather than off. I can already see how pleasurable sex is going to be. My boyfriend has suggested that we go away for a couple of nights in a few weeks and I feel really close to him. Hopefully things will get better and better.

I regret not having sex sooner as I can see how much I have missed out on, but I realise that this was the right time for me.

I wanted to share my story to show that change is possible with the right help.’ 

It seems fitting today, on the day that we lose Steve Jobs, a man who bought excitement to the word ‘technology’, that I tell you what makes me so excited about tonight. As discussed in a previous post, I dont generally 'do' the theatre. The reason for tonights journey onto unchartered territory is that my book, ‘The First Time’ is being turned into a play. What really gets me going about this production, is that Chris Mellor, the producer, is utilizing technology to create a unique theatrical experience. In theory, it should go something like this...

The audience will be taken 'backstage' via camera during the show to learn more about the background to each of the charactors in my book. In between the actors monologues, the audience will also be invited to tweet in their stories, thoughts and reactions to #camden theatres. This material will be fed back into the show by the narrator. For the very brave, there will be the virginity chair, a place where audience members can come and tell their stories live. Next Thursday 'The Twespians' - tweeting thespians of course, what else, - will be joining the action.

I say, in theory, at the moment, Chris is pacing up and down the floor, no doubt wondering whether he has made a terrible mistake. What if it all goes horribly wrong? What if no one turns up? And if they do, will they bother tweeting about it? In the end, it doesn't really matter. The show is designed to deal with any eventuality but the point is that technology means that we can present a new and exciting show every single night, depending on how the audience reacts to the material.

The whole shebang is being streamed on the internet so don't feel left out if you don't live in The Smoke. You can stream the show live from the Camden Theatres website and tweet your reaction referencing the tag #camdentheatres. So...its almost lights down here in the inky blackness of the Tristan Bates Theatre. Chris is still pacing, the actors are warming up, sound is being checked and the social media expert is well, being a social media expert. Break a leg guys.