My boyfriend Will asked me once if I wanted to “do it”, which was nice of him, but I declined. I knew where babies came from – I was sixteen and hanging with a rock star for God’s sake – but as for the ins and outs of “it” and the very real truth, as I was later to discover, that “it” can be wonderful, I didn’t have a clue. I’d flicked through the A to Z of Sex at the all girls’ school I’d unfortunately been awarded a scholarship to, yet the only information I gleaned from it was that an orgasm was “an involuntary reaction – a bit like sneezing.” Consequently, every time somebody blessed me, I wondered if it was because I’d had a big O. So, unfortunately for willing Will, both my flesh and spirit were too weak for any “doing” of “it”.
The first guy who did eventually manage to persuade me to “do it” was a guy my two brothers chose to nickname “Pongo”. I never did find out why they bestowed the name Pongo on him because he didn’t smell; if anything, they should have called him “Quicko”. He possessed a remarkable double-edged sword: incapable of wielding it and waving it around for longer than a few seconds, yet more than ready and willing to spring back into action and thrust it at me again and again. Sometimes we’d end up playing seven or eight games of Excalibur a night. Not that I’m comparing myself to a stone.
He also opened my eyes, ears and every other part of my anatomy to sex and just how adventurous and exciting it could be. And when I say “ears”, I do actually mean it, because he used to love coming in them. The first time he did it was on Valentine’s Day, almost deafening me in the process and not because of his groan of pleasure. I couldn’t hear him for one. What a romantic present to give to a seventeen-year-old sexual novice such as I: “Roses are red, violets are blue, I love your ears, and this is for you.” Er, pardon? So that was one of many of Pongo’s “things”. I never did ask him what he got out of it, but, to this day, I can’t use those cotton wool buds on blue plastic sticks without chuckling.
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