Does it count twice if you lose your virginity to two different women on the same day?
This is the tale of how I lost my virginity, it happened a long time ago, long before the world of the Internet, mobile phones and the X-box.
I set off with Simon, an old school friend and his family, on a last minute skiing holiday in the week before returning to school one Christmas. His father had been called away on urgent business and I had been volunteered to step in at the last minute, to keep Simon company and make up the numbers.
I jumped at the chance to miss an extra week of school. I had known Simon since nursery school, although at that time we went to different schools. He didn't go back until later and so wouldn't miss anything.
His father had done well and could afford to send him to private school. I had gone off to the local comprehensive at the age of eleven.
Simon had turned out posh, although he only lived a few doors away he was in a different league. We had seen each other less and less as we grew older and as the near twenty four hour coach trip loomed, I wondered if I was in over my head.
Wet set off to meet the coach on a cool and grey Saturday morning. My mum had packed me off with a hastily packed suitcase, a few francs and the temporary passport we had queued for at the post office the day before.
There were eight of us in the travel party, all stood in a line with cases at our feet as the luxury coach approached. Apart from me and Simon, there was his mum, his sister Wendy and four of her friends making up the group. Wendy and her friends were a few years older than us and in their last year of university, a women only college in Yorkshire, some thirty miles from our home town.
All of them were experts, each of them having done this trip for a few years, and then there was me - a complete novice.
Simon and I chatted throughout the long journey. We both soon realised that we had little in common and we would have to work at things to keep it going. The girls were aloof, it seemed that talking to me was well beneath them. Simon's mum kept up the conversation, she had kind eyes and was as nice as I had remembered from the time Simon and I were best pals.
At last we arrived at the resort, high in the French Alps around Sunday lunch time. I was tired out and as stiff as a board.
The resort was a mixture of the quaint and the modern, typically alpine and luckily for me all the nursery slopes were only a short walk from the centre - no need for me to queue for the cable car and ski lifts.
There was not as much snow as I thought there would be, brown bare patches dotted the slopes around the village and the tarmac on the roads had a thick white powder of salt rather than snow. Thick and shiny pockets of ice persisted in shaded pavements and doorways.
The sky was dark and angry and we were told a heavy snowfall was expected.
After a late lunch we sorted out our ski gear and passes, it took longer than expected and by the time I had been kitted out it was snowing heavily and getting dark.
Whilst we waited I tried to lark about but the snow was no good for snow balls, but perfect for skiing, or so Simon told me. The girls turned their noses up at me trying to slide about on a plastic bag -- it just wasn't chic!
We were met outside the ski shop by our chalet maid, Pascal. She had sought us out as the weather had closed in. She was small and slightly built, almost boyish. She was around my height, had short fair hair cut into a bob half way down her elegant neck. A small and tasteful pair of silver earrings glinted and advertised the outline of her soft ear lobes. She only spoke a smattering of English and had a thick French accent.
She ushered us back to the lodge a short walk away, at the edge of the village, each of us shuffling through the worsening blizzard towing our heavy bags and ski gear.
The lodge was nice, had three stories, was pine clad and very alpine. Simon and I were in the small attic room opposite the room shared by his mother and sister. The main floor had a spacious kitchen with a large table, a spacious and cosy lounge, complete with log fire, and the two bedrooms where the rest of the girls were sleeping.
There was no television but it had a radio cassette player and a telephone, the latter for use in emergencies only. There were a few board games and books but the girls expected to be out doing après ski each evening.
Downstairs in the basement were Pascal's quarters, the laundry room, a small office and a sauna, complete with a shower room and changing area.
The bedroom was warm and cosy, just enough room as the roof pitched for two beds with a small bedside table separating them. The lodge was warm, the log fire in the main lounge was welcoming and each of the rooms each had a radiator fed from the boiler in the basement.
We ate a hearty meal, Pascal was a very good cook and knew her way around a kitchen despite her tender age. I took her to be around twenty, three or so years younger than Simon's sister and her friends. She cleaned and kept the lodge neat, warm and comfortable. She was not big on conversation but was on organisation. Our meal was ready by seven on the dot, the washing up rota was posted and dishes were expected to be done by nine, Pascal's clocking off time.
At least the girls seemed to be as aloof with Pascal as they did with me. At the meal Simon's mum again lead the conversation, trying to put everyone at ease.
All of us were tired from the journey and one by one we drifted off to bed much before ten.
Monday, the first full day, I awoke cool but comfortable in the small room. The light outside was clear and bright, more snow had fallen and the village looked like the picture on a biscuit tin lid as I peered through the sloping skylight. There was a high cloud base and the weather was expected to be grey and cool with frequent snow fall for the next few days.
Luckily we had a small bathroom upstairs so we didn't have to wait in the queue with the girls on the main floor before breakfast. Pascal had again done herself proud, laying on a real feast, cereal, bread, toast, porridge, croissants, juice, fruit and copious amounts of strong hot coffee and tea.
Simon and I walked the short distance into the village centre. I left him in the queue for the chair lift and went off in search of my instructor ready for my first lesson. He was very handsome -- tall, blonde, muscular and looking very cool in ski gear and sun glasses -- all the women in the six strong group were literally falling over themselves to get to him. Me and the only other chap, a bloke around fifty, couldn't compete and so stuck at the back of the line.
I was a short and spindly eighteen year old. I was under developed for my age except for one part. My nickname was Wad, my parents believed, as did Simon, that it was a shortened part of my surname, but my school friends knew different. My manhood was, to say the least, much more developed than the rest of me, being some seven inches long, thick with a couple of generously sized balls hung beneath. For me it continued to be the source of considerable embarrassment in the changing rooms.
Like any other teenage boy my cock had a mind of its own, I would get a stiffy at the drop of a hat and I had discovered masturbation. Boy had I, like any red blooded teenager I could have wanked for England, taking any and every opportunity to slap the monkey. The only thing was that I had a bit of a hair trigger -- two or three pulls on my meat and I would come. Quite an advantage at that age, it meant that I could have a go virtually any time and anywhere, but at least I had the ability to stay hard for what seemed like hours at a time, both before and after.
After a frustrating morning session and spending most of my time on my backside, I Met Simon for lunch at a café in the small town. I had been booked for intensive five day training, with two sessions per day. I would either die or be an expert come Friday. Simon was full of excitement, he had also turned into a bit of a brag, going on about "black runs" and "off piste". I didn't know what either were but tried to sound suitably impressed.
His mum was skiing with Wendy and the crowd, Simon had arranged to meet with her for the afternoon and set off for the cable car.
I arrived at the café for our four o'clock meeting, but Simon didn't show. I bought a very expensive cup of hot chocolate and nursed my bruises. I waited and waited, half past came and went. At around five o'clock it was pitch black and had been for a while, Pascal arrived looking very flustered, Simon had had a bad fall.
I followed her back to the lodge, Wendy was there looking worried. Simon's mum had gone to the hospital with him. Apparently Simon had been taken off the mountain by helicopter and had probably broken his hip and collar bone.
After a short and tense wait the phone went and Pascal passed the receiver to Wendy. The conversation was short and to the point. Simon was going home, he needed an operation to pin his pelvis and was being flown out that night.
Dinner was a sombre affair, no-one said all that much. Wendy went into mothering mode -- bossing me about and laying down the law. She drew up a rota so that each day one of the girls would chaperone me and meet me for lunch. She would be my guide on Saturday when my lessons had finished. Apart from that I wasn't going to be allowed outside of the lodge. Pascal was ordered in no uncertain terms to take care of me in the evenings until the girls arrived back at the lodge. There was to be no drinking and I had to stay out of their way.
I was tired and angry that Simon had deserted me and now I was not looking forward to the rest of the week. It hit home when Pascal handed Simon and his mum's suitcases to the taxi driver sent to collect them.
The girls sat dolefully reading quietly and swapping skiing tips. I showered and went to bed, tired and sore.
I woke up on Tuesday morning and stared up at the ceiling, it was illuminated by the white light reflected through the skylight. I washed and changed and was last down to breakfast. As soon as I came in the room the conversation stopped dead.
Pascal tried her best to be cheerful, realising that I was on my own and a bit vulnerable. Her breakfast cheered me up immensely, she had made me a boiled egg especially and she tried to engage me in conversation.
