Names have been changed to protect the guilty. The innocent can count on God.
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My first serious long-term relationship was when I was a student. I'll call him Mike. He introduced me to smoking weed and quite a few other vices along the way. He was also responsible for one of the sluttiest, sleaziest things I have ever done. Well, partly responsible - most if it was down to me. Let me explain.
One Easter break we caught a cheap flight to Amsterdam for a long weekend, spent the nights in a tiny tent in a backpackers' campsite and the days mostly getting wrecked in coffee shops.
On our second evening we'd wandered into the red light district. At the time I thought it was purely accidental, although with hindsight I guess Mike might have known exactly what he was doing. Either way, I didn't mind. Like millions of rude British tourists before us, we wandered the narrow streets between the canals, gaping in astonishment at the girls sitting in the window, never quite naked but never far off it. We were high as kites, giggling like k**s. I was teasing Mike, insisting that he tell me which of the girls he would most like to fuck. He turned the tables on me by saying "if we pay one of those girls, it will be for a threesome, so you better decide." I laughed it off but every window we passed after that made me think ever more indecent thoughts about those girls.
That was never going to happen, or all our bravado neither of us would have had the courage to see it through, but we were getting hornier and hornier the more we joked about it. Mike asked me if I'd ever been inside a sex shop, and the honest answer was no. Back then I wasn't even quite sure what is sold in shops like that. As we were passing a large shop down a side-alley, Mike took my hand and said: "Come on, let's have a look."
Inside, I stopped still and stared around like a babe in a sweetshop. In the cases along the walls were fetish clothes and toys, latex dresses and masks, whips, manacles and harnesses. There were schoolgirl uniforms and maid costumes, mannequins wearing peephole bras and skimpy g-strings. There were vibrators, dildoes and buttplugs of all shapes and sizes and some contraptions which - even today - I'm baffled about what they were.
But mostly I was awestruck by the porn. There were racks and racks and racks of magazines and DVDs. You should understand this was the late 90s, the days before broadband, I'd only ever seen the internet at college. I'd once seen a grainy old VHS porn film in German and a few Playboy style magazines that my girlfriends had stolen from their older brothers to giggle about at sleepovers. I was vaguely aware that hardcore porn existed, but I had barely seen any of it.
Now I was staring at covers - just the covers - of these mags and DVDs showing guys and girls fucking in every possible combination, every possible way. There were girls swallowing dicks that were bigger than I ever thought dicks could get. There were girls being fucked in the cunt and the ass and the mouth, all at once. There was loads of gay porn which I had never seen in my life before and I knew instantly I loved it, these beautiful boys sucking on smooth hard cocks, men posing with erections, gazing into the camera with a look in their eyes that said they were begging to be fucked. My heartbeat was racing, it was all so overwhelming. Mike picked out a magazine and flicked through it while I panted beside him.
At some point I began to realise I was the only woman in the shop. I hadn't paid much attention to the customers when I came in, there were too many distractions, but there were around half a dozen men in the shop and most of them seemed to be at least glancing at me surreptitiously, while one or two were unashamedly staring at me, checking out my body. I wasn't wearing anything sexy, just a pair of tight jeans and a vest-style t-shirt, but I began to feel like I was being undressed in their minds. I confess the thought just made me more turned-on.
As we wandered up and down the aisles, browsing through magazines, reading the backs of DVD cases, occasionally giggling at an exceptionally huge cock, pausing to admire a particularly perfect pair of tits or make ewwww faces at the wee and p*o speciality titles. Then at the back of the store, disappearing around the corner, was a section of the shop with sign saying 'VIDEO BOOTHS.' Beneath it there were about half a dozen stalls, looking a bit like a row of cubicles in the ladies.
I can't remember if we even discussed it. I think it was a telepathic decision, or perhaps he just decided for us and I didn't even pause to question it, but the next thing I knew Mike had fed a handful of Euros into a slot, opened a door into a booth and led me inside.
As we closed and latched the door behind us a TV monitor halfway up the wall sprang into life. There were no niceties, titles or introductions, it just leapt immediately into an explicit orgy scene. I looked around, the booth was about the size of a disabled toilet and I noticed the white plasterboard walls were pretty thin, with a few holes here and there.
