Update 2024: there are some problematic concepts in here, such as the idea of virginity, but fuck it I wrote it when I was over a decade younger and more ignorant than I am now. Adding this note when I add the audio – here’s more about the concept of virginity. Otherwise just enjoy this as porn. 

God I loved number 2. Brash, funny, intelligent, and – to my unfading delight – a virgin.

We were frustrated friends. I had a boyfriend, and he’d never had anyone. We’d joke, and play, write filthy notes during English lessons, and brush up against each other on the bus. When we hugged I quivered at the feeling of his thick, satisfying erection pushing against my hips.

I wanted him so badly I utterly ached. We’d sleep at friends’ houses at parties, me lying next to him panting with longing, while he slowly ran his fingers over my nipples. He never tired of the feel of them – the miracle of keeping me on a knife-edge of desire for so long. By the early hours when we finally managed to sleep, my nipples would be red-raw and throbbing with pain.

One night, in bed with a few others asleep beside us, he got brave enough to inch his hand lower. Tentatively, he slipped it down into my knickers. I was slick with frustrated desire – wet as only an 18 year old girl can get. He was trembling with lust, and fear, and guilt. He was so hard I worried I’d hurt him if I squeezed his dick with any kind of vigour.

When his hand reached my cunt and he realised how wet I was he couldn’t keep silent – he moaned.

Just remembering number 2’s surprised, lustful moan is one of my hottest memories.

Taking his virginity

After hearing his stifled cry, I couldn’t leave without doing something. At that point I’d have traded my money, my youth, even my as-yet-unfinished A-levels just to have him in me.

I whispered to him, grabbed his hand. We left our friends sleeping and scurried into an empty bedroom.

We fell onto the bed – me in a panting, aching heap and he in a trembling, terrified one.  I kissed him, I told him I wanted him. I fluttered my eyelashes and begged him to fuck me.

He couldn’t fuck me.

He was so scared that he couldn’t get hard. I sucked him gently, I told him he was hot, I told him I was desperate for it, and eventually I got him just hard enough to roll on a condom and try. I climbed on top of him, slipped him into me, and sat down slowly on his semi-hard cock. But it was clear that it just wasn’t happening.

He’d lost his virginity – just. But he’d mislaid a fair portion of his dignity, too, and it broke my heart to think that instead of remembering me with a gleeful nostalgia, he’d look back on the whole thing with shame.

Taking his virginity far more successfully

A couple of weeks later, at his house, he was relaxed. Not calm, as such – his cock was straining at the fabric of his jeans – but he was much readier to fuck.

“What do I do?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Can I do this?”

“Yes. Please.”

“What if I’m crap?”

“You’re not.”

He rubbed himself frantically against me, touching wherever he thought he was allowed. I pulled up my top, unhooked my bra, guided him. I wanted to show him he wasn’t just allowed – he was needed – I needed him to touch me, to fuck me. I needed him inside me, to quell the aching hurt in my cunt. He didn’t need to make me come, he just needed to be in me, to give me some release.

He panted, and moaned, and struggled to take off his jeans – his hands shook with lust and he moaned with frustration. I helped him get them off, wrapped my legs around him, and held myself up – nice and wide and easy so he could slide himself in.

With his hands each side of my head he pushed his cock into me – deep and rock hard. Hard like I longed for. Hard enough that I felt it stretch me out, open me up – scratch the itch that he’d created during those long nights of furtively stroking my nipples. The itch he’d created with that anguished desperate moan.

As he fucked me he looked surprised, confused and delighted. I was relieved to be rid of the throbbing, aching need to fuck. I grinned, forced myself up – thrust angrily against him so he could feel every movement. As he sped up he let out a strangled cry – “Oh” – so I squeezed him with my cunt and my thighs as I felt him come hard inside me.

It was possibly the best five seconds of my entire fucking life.

We all like this, right? Saliva? It’s nature’s lube. It occurred to me this morning, as I was giving a boy a sayonara blow job before I ran off home, that it’s not just good because it makes things wet – it’s the sound of it, too. And the look and the sensation and – oh, everything. I fucking love spit.

(more…)

As anyone who follows me on Twitter knows, a lot of things make me angry. Selfish commuters, bigoted people, Tories, scented tampons, cider that does not taste like apples and is therefore definitely not cider, etc.

But very recently I experienced a new kind of anger. Someone, who I can only describe as a ‘weapons-grade arsehole’ discovered my blog by searching the phrase “sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button.”

Well. I have since googled this phrase, and discovered that there are a fair few cretins out there who find it hilarious. So now I’m on a mission. I know it’s hard to change someone’s mind on the internet, I believe Charlie Brooker once described internet debate as ‘like hurling shoes at the sky’. But I think there’s a slight possibility that some people just think this phrase is funny, and don’t realise how ignorant and ridiculous it is.

So I wrote this. In the hope that at least one person in the future will search that phrase, come here, and realise that vaginas don’t need a ‘clear history’ button, whether they belong to a slut or not.

sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button

Let us examine why this phrase is utterly odious on a number of different levels.

What is a slut, exactly?

What counts as too many partners? Five? Ten? Twenty? The ‘slut ratio’ when I was a teenager was generally taken to be your age, meaning that you were a slut if you’d fucked more people than you’d had birthdays.

But no doubt this is a cultural thing – there may well be places where it would be considered the height of sluttery for a 20 year old to have fucked three guys. A hundred years ago it would be considered slutty for a woman to have been fucked by anyone other than her husband. What counts as excessive promiscuity is completely subjective, and a ridiculous judgement to make about someone.

Calling someone a ‘slut’ frequently (although not always) smacks of jealousy and resentment, and the word is generally used to make women feel small if they enjoy having sex, or don’t have the squeaky-clean sexual history that archaic-thinking dickheads think they should have. But that shouldn’t matter – what’s happened in the past doesn’t always stamp itself indelibly on someone’s character. Just because someone’s fucked a hundred men before you, that doesn’t mean she’s evil or weak or callous – it just means she likes fucking. And correct me if I’m wrong, but fucking is generally something that we want our partners to enjoy.

I don’t care whether you think I’m a slut

While I give a massive toss about the general attitudes that make women feel like they should ration out their sexual favours as if they’re bestowing precious gifts on the men they deign to sleep with, your individual opinion of my own sex life is of little importance.

It’s really easy, so I’ll keep it short: whether you think I am a slut or not, I don’t give one tenth of an atom of a gram of a portion of a shit. So fuck you.

I wouldn’t push a ‘clear history’ button on my vagina

The phrase “sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button” implies that, if there was a ‘clear history’ button, ‘sluts’ would want to push it. Because they are ashamed. Devastated at their lack of self control. Their inability to refuse an offer of sexual gratification.

Which is, you know, complete and utter bullshit. I’ve slept with a fair few guys – probably not as many as people tend to think based on this blog, but more than I’d gleefully admit to my mother – and I’m glad that I fucked each and every one of them. The hot ones, the not-so-hot ones, the ones who struggled getting it up, the ones who hurt me in a delicious way, the ones I loved, the ones I grew to hate, the ones I cried over and the ones I cried for.

Some of them were awful. Some of them were beautiful. One of them was violent. One of them was gay. One was a virgin so nervous he could barely touch me. All of them did good things to me, and some did very bad things too. But even if there was a magical button that removed any of them from my sexual history, I wouldn’t erase a single second of a single fuck with a single guy I’ve ever had.

I’m not just proud and delighted, I’m grateful. For the fun, for the lessons learnt, for the whip-marks and come-stains and memories I still frequently wank to. I’m grateful to each and every one of them for giving me something to weave into the rich, jizz-soaked tapestry of my lucky, lucky life.

Slut shaming

I’m on a mini-crusade – I need people to know that this shit doesn’t fucking matter. Who a girl has fucked, how many people she’s fucked, how she’s fucked them, etc. Not just because it’s a personal bugbear of mine, but for all the women who are aching with lust, and desperate for cock, and in love with guys and in love with fucking.

For all those women who want to do it but don’t. For the women who’ll leave a first date frustrated and horny, going home alone because they don’t want to ‘give the wrong impression.’ For the teenaged girls who give endless blowjobs but can’t ‘put out’ and get genuine sexual pleasure of their own in case word gets around that they’re easy.

For the guys who don’t care how many people you’ve fucked. For the guys who love a girl with special tricks others have taught her. For the ones who like to watch, and talk, and hear stories of times you’ve been gang-banged in a sex cinema. For all the men and women the world over who love a good fuck, but hate the fucking judgement.

For me. Because I’m slutty and I fucking like it.

At some point in the future I want someone to google that phrase and find this. If you want to, you can help me optimise the fuck out of this blog entry.

If you have a blog and want to link to this, please do it using the phrase

“sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button”

Write your opinions on it, tag them “sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button.” Use subheads and titles including the phrase “sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button”. Send me a link to your entry so I can help you to promote it.

Tweet about it, facebook it, share it with the limited collection of nerds who are in your Google+ circles.  Add a link in forums, blog comments, Flickr sets and Wiki-fucking-pedia. Tell your friends, acquaintances and colleagues. Tell your church group. Tell your postman. Tell your Mum.

Spread the word, kids: I’ve fucked a lot of people, and I couldn’t give a fuck.