Foreword
Never in my wildest dreams did I intend to pen a "kiss and tell". Except here I am, actually doing it and guess what?
I'm as horny as hell!
Skipping descriptions of my somewhat soggy panties I'll introduce myself as Hazel X. And don't waste too much time looking me up in the phone directory. I'm using "X" as a pseudonym, based partly on a person of mystery, mostly on the lovely Xaviera Hollander, who readers of a certain age might recall.
(Clue: she wrote "The Happy Hooker", a novel that launched a thousand lavish movies . . . or at least three very sexy ones, anyway.)
What more can I reveal about myself? I'm fast approaching thirty but feel like a teenage girl . . . which is a constant state of affairs with me, hee-hee!
I mean who doesn't like the feel of a teenage girl!!
Physically I can't complain about God's gifts. I am a shade over six feet tall, slightly broad-shouldered with a nice chest, a pencil of a waistline and shapely hips. Try as I might I can't find an ounce of fat on my body and you can take this as gospel: I definitely do not starve myself trying stay slim. I am one of those lucky souls who can eat and drink whatever I like without having to fear the consequences.
Beer, curry, fish and chips, growlers . . . the old West Yorkshire faves are grist to my mill, sometimes one after another on the same day. They make us hardy up here. I can even eat bowls of Lancashire hotpot, even if I do draw the line at tripe.
Tripe, I ask you! I'd rather eat Cockney stinking eel pie!!
Face-wise I could suggest minor improvements (who honestly couldn't improve herself?) but again, I can't really complain. I have been compared to Demi Moore, hopefully more because of our eyes than our relative ages. But hey, can't you think of a billion worse-looking ladies to be compared with?
Younger or not, much taller or not, I'd accept that comparison every time.
Trust me; men are constantly after me, which is sort of ironic. As readers will so soon discover, men play only a small part in my life. That much said (and here's my first spoiler alert) I have had sex with men. And, as I revisit my halcyon days in the Upper Sixth, I am going to mention certain male/female sex acts. But I'm going to skim over all the gritty details as much as possible. In fact I am only going to mention them to put my true awakening into context.
Awakening, eh? Sounds impressive, doesn't it?
So let's jump back in time. Let's go back to late 2008, shortly after my coming of age.
I'd say happy days indeed, but my happy days were yet to come.
Good gracious . . . weren't they just!
Chapter One
In the UK "coming of age" means reaching eighteen years, entitling one to vote, purchase alcohol and tobacco and so on. This is of course well after reaching the "age of consent" at sixteen. Somehow . . . don't ask me how . . . I managed to get to eighteen as a virgin. At my school that made me somewhat unique. Gymslip mums aged fifteen or less weren't entirely unheard of.
At my school gymslip mums were ten a penny.
With the benefit of hindsight I can see I was unsure of my sexuality. I was raised in a small town in the outskirts of Yorkshire's largest city. There was a great metropolis just a bus ride away but I wasn't in a particularly tolerant area. In other words my contact with gay people was exceptionally limited and my inner feelings were hard to understand.
Deep or what!
For the avoidance of doubt, although the Internet wasn't quite then what it is now, I had watched a lot of porn on my Lenovo laptop, mostly guy/girl stuff, but not exclusively.
At the time I reckoned I was mildly bi-curious. My personal sexual experience was restricted to use of my trusty right hand and a handful of snogging encounters with male schoolmates, at the increasingly frequent school parties, discos and youth clubs.
Yes, I kept telling myself, girl-on-girl looks fun and the actresses all seem to immensely enjoy doing it. But they're actresses and not part of the real world.
Believe you me, I was very convincing. Eventually, sure I was bound for a lifetime of "straight sex" and nothing more, I decided to further relations with Brian.
Who is Brian? I hear you ask. He was in the Upper Sixth with me, good-looking and a regular partner in some of those snogging encounters I just mentioned.
Our first time was at yet another eighteenth birthday party, this one in a Village Memorial Hall. Drawn together as per usual I boldly asked him if he wanted to go outside, across the nearby football pitch in the direction of "trees and privacy". I also asked if he had a condom and blushing brightly, he nodded.
Now it's time to skimp on details. Let's just say I enjoyed the feel of having him moving on me, in me. I was also thrilled by the steady, complaint motion of our bodies and the occasion as a whole.
Such firsts are memorable occasions. That goes without saying. Yet pleasant or not, I didn't cum.
As a brief digression I would advise that masturbation had always brought me the ultimate delight. I'd not been limited to fingers, either. Alice, my best friend Amy's older sister, had given us each a rather large dildo, "souvenirs" she'd brought home with her from university.
What I'm trying to say is I wasn't exactly intacta. And that I was well-used to bringing myself off with a penis-like device. But even so, Brian couldn't get me up there . . . or anywhere remotely near.
*****
Over the next month or so I became quite a slut, dragging Brian out of parties another twice, enjoying the physical closeness without ever once peaking. Then, with me and he not being officially an "item", desperate to explore, I gave myself to a different male schoolmate.
Rod was a year older. He'd flunked his A-levels the previous summer and been allowed to repeat his Upper Sixth year. My logic was "older means wiser" but no, his attentions were pleasant but nowhere near pleasant enough.
Different technique to Brian, same unsatisfactory result!
Maybe a week (or maybe it was only a couple of nights) later I rounded on James, who had a certain reputation amongst the girls. And guess what? He was different again, enjoyable in his own way, but still sadly lacking.
So, I'd had five separate sessions and zero orgasms. And I am not for one moment blaming the guys for being on a hair-trigger or anything like that. Inexperienced as I was, I knew I'd been paid a decent level of attention.
It had worked for the guys, too. After paying me all that decent attention, between them they had filled no less than five rubbers.
And they had moaned and groaned for England as they did so. I'd obviously done for them all of the things they hadn't quite done for me.
Confession time: at this point I did wonder if it was me who was lacking. I put that to the test via a very early night and simply lashings of solo action. The results were, well . . . interesting.
