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2. Sometimes it is necessary to give someone crisps so that they’ll grope you

The problem with adult men is that they just don’t touch my tits enough. I’ve never met a straight man who says he doesn’t like tits. And yet as grown men they miss out on a million opportunities to touch them up. I can think of no occasion when I’ve been relaxing with a guy on the sofa that wouldn’t have been immeasurably improved if he’d had one hand idly exploring the inside of my shirt.

Teenage boys were fantastic, for countless different reasons, but the most fantastic thing of all was their obsession—their pure and complete satisfaction—with touching my tits.

I wasn’t particularly popular at school. I was the geeky kid, the one who did well in exams but badly with the boys. The ‘good’ one, for whom detentions were so unthinkable that the one time I did get one my mum reacted as if there’d been a terrible miscarriage of justice:

‘Oh, you poor thing. Is there an appeals process?’

But despite the surface impression of being a good girl who’d pass all her exams with flying colours and have little time for boys in between, I was burning up with lust, with heat, and, above everything else, a desire to have my tits touched by boys.

Many of my girlfriends were the same. To greater or lesser degrees, all of us wanted to find someone with whom we could retire to a quiet alleyway and experiment with a bit of tit-touching. When you’re young, the jolt of electric surprise when a hand brushes a nipple—even through the bra—is as powerful as a passionate fuck might be to someone older.

And yet none of us wanted to be the one who suggested it. No girl could actually say, ‘Hey, guy who is one of our friends but who I don’t technically fancy, would you mind just rubbing my tits for twenty minutes or so until I slick my knickers?’ So we made things happen. Stealthily, subtly, without ever suggesting we might be ‘up for it’, we made things happen.

One summer, my friend Amy and I went on a mission to get our tits touched. We didn’t discuss it but we both knew that was the plan. As reasonably unpopular girls, we understood that no matter how short our skirts or how much make-up we inexpertly applied, we’d never hit the teenaged jackpot of an actual boyfriend. So we settled for the next best thing—we lowered whatever expectations we’d been foolish enough to have and headed straight for the guys who seemed most willing.

At school there was a group of boys rather cruelly known as the ‘untouchables’. These were the guys who would never get slow dances at the discos, the boys who were a bit pervy or nerdy and were generally given a wide berth. The bullied kids always stuck together, so we gravitated towards this group, and would spend countless hours swigging cheap cider with them in parks, swapping the right answers for our homework, and occasionally getting them to touch our tits.

That summer, Amy and I picked a pair of them who were quite good friends, and spent our time engineering situations in which we could get them alone. We didn’t want to shag them, and weren’t even bothered about snogging particularly—an activity which I’d found to be relatively unsexy and to require far too much post-snog facial wiping. So, no shagging, no snogging, as little conversation as we could get away with—all we wanted to do was get their hands on our tits.

Darren had his own bedroom, furnished with a bunk bed left over from the days he’d shared with an older brother, and a cheap TV/VCR in the corner on which he and his friend Rob would watch endless shit B-movies to pass the time until evening. Every morning for a couple of weeks, I’d walk to Amy’s house, knock on her door, and we’d set off to Darren’s.

Plastered with more make-up than was realistically necessary for a day spent sat in a darkened room, we’d knock on Darren’s door and ask him if Rob was around. He usually was.

‘You watching films today?’

‘Uh … yeah.’

‘Can we watch them too?’

‘Umm …’

‘We’ve brought Pringles.’

‘Come in.’

Eagerly, we’d rush into Darren’s room, where a poorly scripted horror film would be playing on the TV and Rob would be reclining on the top bunk of the bed. Even when our visits became routine, he always looked surprised to see us.

By unspoken agreement, Rob was mine, and Darren was Amy’s. I’d swing up into the top bunk, she’d settle into the bottom one, and we’d all sit in silence and pretend to watch the film.

An hour and a half was never quite long enough. It would take half an hour for Rob to get over his nervousness and make a move on me. Long after all of the movie characters had been introduced, and thrown into whichever perilous yet implausible situation the film required, he’d shift slightly towards me and brush against me with his arm. I’d respond eagerly, brushing back against him with slightly more pressure, and angling my chest so that the next move he made would have him pressed against the side of my tits.

‘Are you comfortable?’ he murmured. This was my cue.

‘Not really, can I sit in front of you?’ I replied, so quietly that the rustling coming from the bottom bunk would almost drown out my whispers.

He gulped, nodded, and I slid in front of him, so that his back was pressed against the wall and my back was pressed against him.

With our eyes still firmly on the TV, he’d make tiny, gradual movements to shift his arms so that they were holding me around my stomach. I watched the film, taking in nothing except the feeling of his hands moving ever so slowly towards my tits. The on-screen heroine would scream and flee from the latest danger, and I’d be screaming inside my head, ‘Go on, up a bit.’

I was dripping wet. Feeling the soft, gentle touch of his hands on my top would drive me mad with lust. That kick-in-the-gut feeling of need was eating away at me, and I willed him to go further.

He started breathing more heavily behind me, shaking a bit with the heady excitement that a girl was letting him touch her. She was actually, unless he was very much mistaken, shifting slightly to move her tits closer to his hands. Pushing back against him so that she could feel his jumpy, throbbing erection pressing into the small of her back. He wasn’t watching the film, just seeing the pictures. And as the people on the screen grew more terrified of whatever B-movie monster was chasing them, he was getting ever closer to having both of his hands cupped around the soft, jumper-clad, erotic holy grail—an actual pair of tits.

He wasn’t mistaken. I was doing all of these things. Subtle gestures made way for more direct ones, as I leant back and felt his hard, aching dick pressing into me. My nipples were rock solid and stood out clearly even through a bra and a thin jumper. I wanted him to touch them. I pressed myself against him and shifted to bring them closer to his hands, willing him to feel them, to be determined, to squeeze them nice and hard through the fabric.

Finally, just before the climax of the film, he’d cup his trembling hands around the actual curve of my tits, and I’d shiver with satisfaction, a wave of lust spilling more wetness into my already soaking crotch.

As steadily and silently as I could, I reached my right hand behind me to feel his hardness. I felt, rather than heard, the gulp in his throat as he realised what I was doing, and he squeezed my tits harder, clinging to them as if otherwise I’d move away. And I looked down at him running his hands all over them, as I grabbed at his dick through his trousers.

His cock wasn’t thick, but it was long, and so so hard. It twitched in my hand as I rubbed at it through his thin sports trousers. The fabric was slippery to touch, and I could feel a spreading wetness at the tip as he leaked excitement out through two layers of cotton. He’d grip me harder, using his first two fingers to trap my nipples in his grip. With every touch we’d both get wetter and I’d be willing him to come. I wanted to know what it felt like—to give a guy that feeling.

Eventually, with a sore arm, soaking wet knickers and a desperate need to feel Rob shoot spunk through his trousers, the film credits would start to roll. Everyone sat up straight, moved apart, and pretended we’d done nothing as Darren got up to change the video.

Then the whole process would start again.

I have Rob to thank for a lot of things, but mostly the tit-touching. Having proved to myself that no matter how thick my glasses or how depressingly lanky my hair, some boys would still allow me the pleasure of a mutual grope, I moved on to other boys, to see whether they’d do it too.

To my unending delight and gratitude, they did. Late at night in the park I’d join in games of spin the bottle, hoping whichever boy I landed in the spin would slip a hand up my top while we kissed. Guys at school would give me friendly hugs, and grab my tits in what I was often disappointed to realise was a joke. One boy, who I sat next to in maths classes, would run a vibrating pager over my school shirt, watching as my nipples got hard beneath it. He’d grin and get hard and then turn it on under the table, sliding it under my skirt and gently over the crotch of my knickers. I was amazed, delighted, and desperately horny to find that if I jokingly suggested to boys that they touch my tits or grab my crotch, they would.

Unfortunately, the only one who wouldn’t was the one I wanted most of all.

My First Love was a boy I met in English class. A skinny, witty, Irish boy, who for some reason just didn’t like me at all. I hated him at first too. His wit and his volume were too similar to mine, and I didn’t appreciate the competition. I’d make a joke, then he’d make a louder one and win approval from our giggling classmates. So I’d make a joke at his expense, and get a louder laugh. He’d reciprocate, and escalate, and make me seethe with competitive rage from behind my exercise books. This war continued until he called a truce, and the passion and hatred of our frequent fights developed into a warm reciprocal friendship.

Instead of fighting, now we’d sit next to each other in classes, making quiet, secret jokes to each other. We’d spend hours on the phone at weekends, dissecting what had happened during the week. We’d open up a bit about our habits and lusts, and what our rampaging hormones made us want to do.

Not to each other, you understand—despite my desire for him I knew that he’d never be mine. He was slightly cooler than me—not popular, but cool. And with my high test scores and big glasses and ignorance of popular music, I most definitely wasn’t. I settled for simply being friends, projecting an air of calm platonic happiness, while in secret I fell hopelessly in love with him.

‘Can anyone tell me what the difference is between weight and mass?’

I daydreamed during science classes. It was one of the few lessons in which First Love would sit further away from me and I could watch him from my desk, as he laughed and wrote notes to the guy sat beside him, ignoring the teacher until just the moment when he’d be called upon to answer.

‘Come on, anyone? Mass versus weight, anyone?’

It was during a science class that I realised I loved him. I was watching him writing notes, admiring his long, quick fingers, his thick forearms accentuated by a chunky watch. I looked at his hands and was struck by a powerful image, of him pushing me roughly against the wall in an alleyway on the way to school, using both hands to push at my tits as I hiked up my school skirt.

I felt that deep, throbbing lust and I squirmed on my stool. I could feel myself getting wetter, as I kept my eyes on his hands and wished I could be alone to touch myself. That quick snapshot—the roughness of his grip and the force of him pushing me against the wall—was the first genuine fantasy I’d felt for a real person. I don’t think I imagined us fucking at that point, I just pictured how desperate he’d be to come, how hard he’d rub himself against me, and how his hands would stray from my tits to grab my arse through my knickers and pull me forward against his dick.

I ran straight home from school that day, not speaking to him, or even to my friends. I waited until my sister was safely settled in the lounge, unlikely to return to our shared bedroom, and I wet my fingers, touched my clit and thought of him, him, him.

‘You need to be careful,’ said Dad. ‘I know it might seem like a platonic relationship to you, but boys are different. It’s hard for a boy to stay platonic. He’ll be thinking of you in other ways, so you need to make sure that he knows how you feel.’

Listening to my dad telling me that First Love wanted to fuck me was almost as painful as hearing First Love tell me he didn’t.

Both of us would protest if asked whether anything was going on. ‘Oh no, we’re just friends. It’s not like that.’ But I’d watch him during school, I’d speak to him whenever I could, I’d hang on his every word like each one was a magical secret, and I’d go to bed at night wishing he would touch me. ‘Honestly, we’re just mates. Nothing’s going to happen.’ But God I wanted it to. He was as interested in girls as I was in him, but for some reason I could never give him that feeling. We’d play-fight and we’d hug and sometimes we’d sit so close on the sofa that I was scared he’d hear the throbbing of my cunt, but he never touched me.

Other girls were more interesting to him. My friends. My girlfriends. Amy. He’d snog Amy with slobbering, desperate passion then turn to me, with a semi-hard dick, and let me know all about it. And I’d smile, and congratulate him, my potent, lucky best mate. Well done, man. Good on you. You got some. And then go home to sob silently into my pillow, and relive the times when—in my head—he’d fucked me.

Dad, again: ‘It’s not that boys are only after one thing. It’s just that they’re often thinking about this one thing. They want sex even if you don’t, so you have to be careful not to lead them on.’

I sat through the lecture with gritted teeth and a determined smile. I smiled as hard as I could to stop myself from crying. My dad was telling me how inevitable it was that First Love would try to fuck me, and I was replaying in my head all the times he’d told me, ‘No, I don’t feel that way about you. Let’s just be friends.’

My dad told me that, as a woman, I’d be irresistible to anyone with a penis and a pulse. Men have erections and they need someone to fuck. And of course First Love had erections, and he wanted to fuck too. But no matter how fun I was, how young and horny and wet and eager I was, he still wouldn’t fuck me. As I listened to my dad telling me to push First Love away if he made any advances, I remembered all of the ways in which this boy had rejected me, and I felt an actual physical pain in my chest.

‘What I’m getting at here is that he’ll be thinking these things about you all the time. I want you to be careful. It’s not that I don’t want you to be friends with him, I just don’t want you to break his heart.’

And it broke my fucking heart.

After years of friendship and countless hours of longing, First Love eventually moved away. I still spoke to him every weekend—languid hours spent lying on my bed, one hand comfortably down my knickers, listening to him tell me about his new life, his new school, the girls who were much prettier than me who might or might not be interested. But I could at least forget him for a while during the week and focus on finding that lustful feeling elsewhere.

I made rather awkward friends with a gang of laid-back stoners. Although I wasn’t keen on everyone in this new, scruffy group, it opened up plenty of new opportunities to have my tits touched. I still thought about First Love, and whenever I met a new boy I’d be looking for elements of his character that reflected Him—a quick wit, a dirty smile, lovely big hands or a penchant for chatting about wanking. And he remained the only real-life person who had ever featured in one of my fantasies. He’d left an impression on me that I realised would never go—the first person who’d got me hot and wet and then fucked off without giving me any release.

But my new friends were fun as well. We’d hang out in shy groups after school, arguing over the artistic merits of Kurt Cobain, smoking lopsided joints and feeling better than everyone else.

They introduced me to a lot of new things, some of which (like smoking and super-noodles) I’ll never forgive them for. But they also helped me to lose my virginity.

‘Ow … ow … ow … please sto— oh, you’ve stopped.’

I lost my virginity in a shed. That’s right, I was classy. But I wasn’t that different from others in the group. Without parents willing to host big parties, we spent most of our evenings swigging cheap cider in parks and frotting in darkened alleyways until the tension would build up and we’d find a place to fuck. Any place to fuck. Fussiness about these things was considered bad form. At the time you’d be seen as ‘stuck up’ if you insisted on a place that had walls, let alone an actual bed.

I met number one just before my sixteenth birthday. He was tiny—around five foot five—with soft skin and bright green eyes. He wore torn jeans and smoked roll-ups and spoke with a slight, shy stutter. Best of all, though, he was not fussy. He was horny and willing and desperate to have a girlfriend. He didn’t just want to hang out on the outskirts of parties and kiss the girls who were drunk enough to fancy him; he wanted to be at the centre of it all, one of the couples. The couples didn’t have the same rules as everyone else. They didn’t have to get wasted at the beginning of the evening and then try to pick out the second drunkest person on which to try and experiment. The couples would just drink for pleasure, occasionally excusing themselves from the group to go and fuck in someone’s parents’ bedroom.

The first time we had sex was at his birthday party, the night before my own sixteenth. Friends milled around in his garden exchanging dares and competing to see who could be the most visibly drunk. Number one and I joined in for a while until my desire and his pressing erection made it difficult for us to sustain conversation. We slipped away from the party and into the shed.

It sounds drab, but really it wasn’t that sort of shed. We weren’t dodging spiders and secateurs. It was effectively a converted room—painted walls, carpeted floor, and enough cushions strewn around that eight or nine teenagers could sit in a huddled circle with a reasonable degree of comfort. I’d been in the shed with number one many times before. We’d go there with friends after school and he’d sit awkwardly behind me to hide his pressing erection. When they’d all drifted home for their dinner, we’d snog for endless hours, enjoying the distraction that meant we didn’t have to talk. But this time when we entered it felt more purposeful. We weren’t just going to snog, it was his birthday, after all. Something different, something better was going to happen.

We took the key.

I locked us in from the inside and settled down on a pile of cushions. He double- and triple-checked the door, then lay awkwardly on top of me. We could still hear the party going on outside.

As with all teenage sex, it began with some excessive and enthusiastic snogging—dripping tongues, heads moving frantically from side to side, jaws working against each other. We sank into the familiar rhythm of the kiss, and I pushed myself against him, parting my legs to rub myself on his dick. He frotted back, pushing urgently against me, running his hands up under my clothes. He pulled down my bra and slid his fingers over my aching nipples.

I unzipped his trousers and rubbed him incompetently. He pulled at my tights until they were halfway down my thighs, trapping my legs together uncomfortably, but affording him just about enough clearance to push his fingers into my cunt.

I sighed. I squirmed. I wished he knew how to do this with more purpose. Not just a fumble or a feel or a token gesture, but to actually fuck me with his hands. To make me come. It takes time to learn that there’s more to first, second and third base than just ticking off a box on the way to a home run, and neither of us had quite realised this yet. Although the contents of someone else’s pants is unrelentingly fascinating when you’re that age—and, if I’m completely honest, it still is now, even though I should be concentrating on more adult things like mortgage payments and regrouting the bathroom—the fun of touching them is far outweighed by the fun of rubbing the contents of your own pants against them. Eager though we both were, neither of us could be said to be giving a proper ‘hand job’—at best we both pulled off a ‘mediocre-rub-job’ accompanied by a lot of belt-jangling and catching of zips.

I moaned with one part desire and at least four parts frustration, and he pulled away, reaching for a condom in the pocket of his jeans.

OK, I’m going to lose my virginity now.

This revelation was not particularly nerve-wracking, but it was a surprise. Despite my status as the least experienced person in my group of friends, few people I knew had actually had sex. It seemed unfair that I’d get to be the first one.

‘Are you sure about this?’

He nodded and put the condom on with an ease that showed he’d been practising with the free ones. After only a bit of fumbling with my tights, he slipped inside me, gasped, and I wasn’t a virgin any more.

Apart from the thought that I was no longer a virgin, there were plenty of things to occupy my mind for the five or six seconds between penetration and ejaculation.

Am I bleeding?

Does it get better?

Has he ripped my tights?

What should I be doing?

I can’t wait to tell First Love about this.

Treacherous thoughts. I tried not to think about him, about how I’d wanted it to be him who was doing this. It wasn’t that I needed the moment to be special, but I was sure his hands would be steadier, his cock thicker, his arms even tighter around me. I held my legs as far apart as my tights would allow and tried to push thoughts of First Love right out of my head.

It hurt a bit, he grunted a bit, and then it was finished. I hadn’t come but I had felt his cock nice and deep inside me, scratching an itch I hadn’t realised I could scratch. He’d replaced my virginity with an interesting, different feeling. For the first time ever I felt full, satisfied.

He kissed me and pulled out, careful to hold the condom on tight to avoid telltale spillages. We awkwardly rearranged our clothes, smiled shy smiles and walked hand in hand back to the party. Despite first-time nerves, it had been a roaring success. We’d fucked without embarrassment, tears or noticeable staining on the carpet. No one’s mum had burst in, no one’s friends had shouted ‘Oi! What are you two doing in there?’ and above all neither of us had been too drunk to remember what happened.

He picked up a two litre plastic bottle of cheap cider and offered me the first swig. I took a gulp, passed it back to him and we joined in the chat. Whenever we’d catch each other’s eye we’d smile conspiratorially, delighted that we’d thrown away our virginities together, astounded that we’d done so well, and aching to do it again.

OK, he wasn’t First Love, but he’d do.