Girl on the Net

This is a new thing, and I hope you like it as much as I do. For a while on my guest blog page I’ve had an open call for people to pitch me a series of blog posts dealing with a particular topic. This is the first in a series that does exactly that.

I often get asked whether being a virgin past the average age (whatever the hell it means, or the average age even is) is a turn-off, or something to hide. And given that so many of my ‘first times’ are long behind me, I feel like I’m not the right person to tackle what this is like for people today, or give the kind of first-hand account that I’d like to. So I’m handing over to someone who can. Mary is (or was) a 24 year old virgin, and she’s here to tell you about her journey. Her writing is funny, hot, and she’s brilliantly tackling some of the weird assumptions and taboos we have around ‘virginity’ and sexual experience. This is the first post of three…

Touched for the very first time

I am a 24-year-old virgin. Or at least, I was up until 6 weeks ago.

A and I met through Tinder. Yes, I know I need to work on a better story than that, but this is an anonymous blog, so I don’t need to give you the spiel of how our eyes met across a crowded room, time seemed to slow down and then he swept me off my feet, pulled me onto the horse he was riding and then we galloped off into the sunset. Anyway, I’m allergic to horses – nobody would believe me. We actually spent an entire day chatting away via text, then agreed to go for drinks the very next day. For some reason (I think it’s my painful honesty), I felt the need to tell him, before we met, that I was a virgin, via the medium of some really shitty metaphors. I know for a fact that shoes and blister plasters were involved. When he didn’t block me, and still wanted to meet up, I actually realised that being a 24-year-old virgin wasn’t that big a deal. Everyone’s different, it doesn’t matter if you’ve slept with 50 people or none by the time you’re 18, or 24, or 40. You are no less of a person than anybody else, and it is absolutely nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed of.

On our first date, I basically told him everything about me that I felt could be an issue, or a problem and when he still didn’t run, I knew he was a keeper.

In fact, he kissed me two thirds of the way through the evening, which left me kind of dumbstruck, as I couldn’t believe that someone like him wanted to put his mouth onto someone like me. (Full disclosure, I had my first proper kiss at 22 in a bus stop with a boy wearing a plum velvet jacket. It was not good.) But he did, and so began my journey into completely new and uncharted territory.

Our second date was mostly spent in a pub, discussing what sort of sexual things we were into, or wanted to try out, or in his case, had tried out and maybe was willing to try again. We actually spent so long chatting that we talked ourselves sober but very, very horny, from me being rather tipsy… and very, very horny. That weekend, we bought a multi-coloured notebook each and duly split the previous meeting’s discussion into a Green list (Definitely) Yellow (I’d like to try it, and I’ll probably enjoy it) Orange (I’ll probably try this, but don’t expect me to like it) and Red (None of this ever, thank you please).

A has since described me as “the kinkiest/most experienced virgin ever.” Just because I hadn’t actually done things didn’t mean my brain and body weren’t constantly mulling over things I wanted to try out or see. It was. I was absolutely aching for it, truth be told.

A and I got fairly handsy in public during our second week of dating. Look. It was about 11pm, it was dark and we deliberately went to a slightly secluded part of town, because goddamnit, I am a classy woman and people around here know me.

As soon as we’d sat down, his mouth brushed mine and his hand went straight to my breast. He must have known I was fairly keen for something to happen, because I placed my hands on his shoulders, pushed him back and said “Hold on. Let me just take this thing off”, proceeding to do that most magical of all tricks – slipping my bra off without touching my shirt. As soon as that was safely stashed away, (because heaven forbid I should leave my bra on show for the world to see), A’s mouth dipped to catch my nipple between his lips and I was wetter than Mawsynram.

At this point, my brain was having an absolute meltdown – “Ohmygodohmygodohmygodholyshitthereisamoutharoundmynipplethisisfuckingamazing.” There was only so much of that I could take before my hand instinctively ran across his crotch to gently squeeze his rapidly hardening cock through his jeans. I remember laughing at this point, asking “are you flexing your penis against my hand?” He was, and proceeded to do it several more times, whilst I got over the novelty and hilarity of the situation.

Suddenly I felt his fingers on my knees, my thighs, and then them brushing against the soaking wet fabric of my underwear.

“Holy shit, you DO get wet, don’t you?”
“I mean, I did warn you…”
“No, no, it’s really hot.”
“And wet. Hahaha.”

Never pass up the opportunity for a hilarious joke, everybody.

With that, the cotton was pushed aside and his thumb was on my swollen clit and two fingers were gently being slid into my cunt. Fingers I had been desperate to have touching me for a week and a half. If my brain was having trouble processing the situation before, it was now going into absolute overdrive.

An offhand comment I’d made earlier in the evening led to him running a hand up my chest, and he placed his hand ever so gently at the base of my neck, applying the tiniest bit of pressure, but eliciting the loudest quiet moan I could muster safe in the knowledge that we were still outside and our city isn’t the quietest of places, even on a weeknight.

As I tried to muffle my pleasure using his shoulder as a pillow, I tried tugging at the zip on his jeans, knowing that I wanted to feel him hot and hard in the palm of my hand more than anything. Nothing is more difficult than trying to do this when you’ve never done it before, and whilst you’re slightly wobbly from being fingered. “Oh god, please take your cock out.” I begged ever so politely. And he did. Finally, my hand was wrapped around A’s throbbing cock, and there was already precum collecting on the very tip, something he told me rarely happens (despite what porn and erotica has told me).

That night was the very first time I touched a real penis. Here’s something that nobody ever told me – the skin on a penis is incredibly soft, to the point where I was legitimately surprised. Turns out it’s really tricky trying to give a hand job to your boyfriend when he’s still got his jeans on – the angles are all wrong, and you can’t quite focus on exactly what you’re doing. All I knew was that stroking the shaft was good, precum was excellent and this boy liked me enough to still be sliding his fingers in and out of my cunt, so I must have been doing something right.

…And then a cyclist whizzed past. WHO CYCLES THAT LATE AT NIGHT? WHO‽ He probably didn’t see anything, but I was slightly distracted with a hand down the front of my pants to think otherwise. Nothing killed the mood faster. I laughed. He laughed. The sexy spell was broken, and then I put my hand onto a slug and nearly cried.

We said from the very start that we didn’t want to rush things in this relationship, and A was great about letting me set the pace, when it came to touching, teasing and taking the next step. But knowing you’ve got someone that loves you and wants to do really filthy things to/with you tends to push any thoughts of waiting out of your head. I say that, because there’s no such thing as going “too quickly” or “too slowly” when it comes to trying sex in relationships – it’s completely up to what you feel comfortable doing, and when you feel comfortable doing it. Eight weeks ago, I’d not touched a penis. Three weeks later, I was in a Travelodge, blindfolded and tied to a bed with restraints, as A slid a dildo in and out of my soaking wet cunt…

This is the first in a 3-part series. Part 2 will go live next week.