A Passion for Sex - The True Story of Sex & Me

By Suzie Mann

The honest, revealing and explicit true life story of a woman with a genuine passion for sex, covering her enthusiasm for men, love of threesomes, enjoyment of group sex, experience of sex contacts, participation in swinging parties, involvement with dogging, interest in sadomasochism, and exploration of the fetish scene.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781326072513

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A Passion for Sex - The True Story of Sex & Me

A PASSION FOR SEX

The True Story of Sex & Me

By

Suzie Mann

Copyright © 2008, Suzie Mann

First published in Great Britain by Suzie Mann

Not to be reproduced in whole or in part, in any medium, without written permission.  All rights reserved.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be stored in a retrieval system, lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it was published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

www.suziemann.com

ISBN: 978-1-326-07251-3

WARNING

By its nature, this book focuses on adult themes and includes sexually explicit material.

It is suitable for

ADULTS ONLY

This above all

This above all: to thine own self be true.

William Shakespeare

AUTHOR'S NOTE

on Names

I have given a great deal of thought to the issue of whether or not to change the names of the various men I have written about in this book.  My preference would be not to, and my thinking on this is as follows.

If any one of the people I've mentioned should happen to ever read this, they would without doubt recognise themselves anyway from the description of what happened, even if I had changed their names in the text to something else.  The fact that they've featured in someone else's sex life, and that that person has written about it, should hopefully not be an issue to them in itself.  The main point, and obviously my key concern, is not to cause any real person the slightest amount of harm or hassle by in any way identifying them.  Aside from anything else, I don't want to make any enemies!

I have therefore taken pains to keep people anonymous.  I haven't given exact locations or ages or dates, I haven't described in great detail anyone's appearance – their tattoos, their clothes, their jobs.  I have only used first names (obviously I would never have mentioned surnames – of which I wouldn't know that many anyway!) and I had originally planned to change all these to something different.  But surely just using a first name retains anonymity, because people can simply deny that it refers to them.  There must be thousands of Pauls, and Daves, and Alans.  Even if some third party, for example someone's friend or partner, was to read this book and say – well, what? 'Hey, I know a young guy called Paul who lives in London.'  'That sounds like something my Alan might have said.'  All Paul or Alan would have to do if confronted would be to say, 'No, sorry, I don't know what you're talking about, it's nothing to do with me'.  ('How could you think I'd done something like THAT!?') Logically, it’s inconceivable that anyone could be identified just from their first name.

So I have a huge urge to stick to real first names, because everything in this book is supposed to be true, and since it's my own personal account of my own life, I'd rather use real names, otherwise I'd get myself confused.  For all I know, they weren't real names anyway!  People do tend to use pseudonyms in the context of sexual exploration.  Maybe I'll change Paul to Mick, and find that Paul really was called Mick!  Maybe if Alan didn't want his girlfriend to find out what he was up to, he should have made sure he didn't give anyone even his real first name – arguably, it was his responsibility.

But – on the other hand.  Why not just change them all anyway, just to be on the safe side?  Just in case someone does recognise themselves and is worried someone else might.  Just in case the real name does trigger a memory with someone connected and makes them think, 'Oh I know who that is'.  Just to avoid someone ringing me up and saying, 'How dare you write about me like that – and use my real name!'

So in the end, in the interests of anonymity, what I've decided to do is…

Not tell you whether I've changed them or not!

Chapter 1

SEX & ME

Sex is the most important thing in my life.

A bit shallow and selfish, I know.  It ought to be something more laudable, like improving myself through education, helping other people, or making the world a better place.

But I feel emotionally wrapped up in it, and as if my extended sex life, and my sexual history, defines me.

I've been a bit preoccupied with the pleasures of the flesh over the last few years in particular, and I think maybe it's been a phase, and I'm coming to the end of it.  I now have the urge to write about it, to record my experiences, in a definitive work.

I feel like I want to think through it all in detail, and summarise it all, this one time, then maybe (possibly!) put it behind me, or certainly put some elements of it behind me.

If I was 'somebody' – if I was famous, a celebrity, or even vaguely connected with anyone in the public eye – an account like this might be gold-dust.  But since I'm a nobody, I suppose it may not be of interest to anyone whatsoever; just some nonentity's personal account of their private life – such scribblings are probably ten a penny.

On the other hand, though, maybe it does stand up as a genuine record of one random person's real experience of sex in the modern world.  I guess it has a validity, and hopefully some interest, in its own right, because, even setting aside any titillating aspect, it's an illustration of how various social influences and emotional needs can affect someone's – a woman's – behaviour.

And, anyway, people are always curious about other people's sex lives, aren't they?

Well, never mind – whether or not anyone ever reads this book, I don't care.

That's really not the point; I just have to write it anyway.  It's for me.

I've hesitated for some while, because part of me is reluctant to spend loads of time being so deeply reflective and self-absorbed.  Do I really want to dwell on my own experiences and feelings in such great detail, over all the time it will take to write them down?  And do I really want to make them public, by even thinking about publishing this?  Would it be a good idea, and what good would it ultimately do me?

Maybe it's a mid-life-crisis thing – it's just a 'must-do', a summing up before moving on.  I can't stop myself – I can feel it all flowing out of me.

I've done lots of sex-related writing before – current total five hundred thousand words!  That's all mainly fiction and fantasy, though, and whilst some of it is based on my own real experiences, and portrays some of my attitudes, the difference is that everything in THIS book is going to be one hundred percent TRUE.

I want to record how it all started – my early experiences, and how I discovered things, and learned about my own feelings and responses.Everyone has their own personal – sexual – history.  I doubt mine is the most remarkable in the world, but maybe it is somewhat extreme, and I just think it's time I set it down on paper.

I'm going to write about how and when I lost my virginity, and who my first lover was.  I want to say something about orgasms – a very frank and private thing to write about, I know, but acceptable these days, I'm sure.

I'll comment on my early lovers, and my use of contact magazines, and later the internet, to find men for myself.

I have a particular penchant for threesomes, and I plan to describe some of the most significant ones.  I'll start with the straight ones, and go on to the bisexual ones.  That will lead me on to talking about how I became used to being with several men at a time, eventually to become a serious gang bang enthusiast.

I think I've got something to say about my experience of the swinging scene – various parties and clubs around London.

I have frequented a number of unisex saunas, and also porn cinemas, and indulged in some pretty outrageous sexual activity in such places.

I was also introduced, some years ago, to the dogging scene – sex outdoors in public places, like country car parks.  This led to both good and bad experiences, and became something that rather dominated my life for a while, and mixed me up a bit.

I have actually written a whole other book called 'Dogging', which was based on a lot of my experiences and perceptions, but that was sort of fictional – not coherent enough to be described as a novel really, but more an assemblage of stories and accounts based around the world of dogging.

But in this book, I'm just going to write the true story of my involvement – how I came across it, and all the things that happened to me personally.

Then there's my interest in SM (sadomasochism, or sub-dom) and bondage, and my experimentation with being submissive.  I have several experiences to recount where I have played with dominant men, and can also talk about my discovery of fetish clubs.

As well as things I've actually done and experimented with, there's the fantasy side of SM.  I started writing quite heavy SM stories at an early age, and I want to comment on my own fantasies and my own writing.

Since this is the true story of my sex life, I can't miss out my brief experiment in prostitution!  For a short while I tried charging for sex, and a full account of how that came about, and how it went, is included in this text.

So much for sex – where does love fit in?  I intend to conclude by writing a bit about the more romantic side of my life, and my experiences of the somewhat different emotions of sexual obsession and genuine love.

I've often said that, although the world is generally much more liberal and accepting of diverse sexuality and sexual practices than it seemed to be just ten or twenty years ago, there are still some ways in which you can't 'come out'.

It seems like if you are gay, it is now totally and utterly acceptable to say so.  There are loads of gay celebrities and TV personalities.  There are gay weddings.  There is equal opportunity in employment, and political correctness.  Whatever your sexual persuasion – in other words if you are gay, or bisexual, or maybe transsexual – these things have become acceptable.

Newspaper and magazine advice columns are extremely liberal these days.  It's not uncommon to see all sorts of sexual practices mentioned.  But I do think in a way there is one final taboo.  (Okay, that's a cliché – not the FINAL taboo – but a sort of sticking point or barrier that still doesn't get crossed.)

What I'm getting at is the idea that, everything is okay, anything goes – but ONLY in the context of a loving one-to-one relationship!

To be gay is no problem, as long as you're in a committed long term relationship.

You can 'come out' about preferring members of the same sex.  But you still can't really 'come out' about things like swinging, deliberate promiscuity, threesomes, and SM.

Anal sex within a loving relationship is fine.  Breaking up with one boyfriend in order to be in a relationship with the next is no problem.

But can you go into work and openly talk about the sex party you were at the previous night?

Could you say, I'm in an open relationship and we both fuck who we want, or I live in a threesome with two bisexual men, or I'm deliberately promiscuous as a way of life, and see no reason why I shouldn't fuck as many men as possible, or Yes, I go dogging and fuck strangers all the time?

Could you say, I live an SM lifestyle – I'm frequently tied up and whipped for pleasure, or What did I do last night? Oh, I went down to a porn cinema with two men I know (or even don't know) and got rather sticky, or I'm a part time prostitute, actually?

I don't think so.  And yet these things happen, people do live these sorts of lives.

I don't want to make a point, I don't want to foist my attitudes on anyone else, I don't want to put myself in any category, I don't at all want to go public with my private life.

But nevertheless, in a sense I think maybe this book is my 'coming out'.

So where does the story start?  Somewhere in my genetics, I suppose – thousands, or millions, of years ago, when some female proto-primate thrust its haunches up to the world, welcoming as much cock as possible to be sure of propagating the species.  Chimps do it, you know – thrust their arses in the air and take all comers.  They are casually promiscuous, though obviously also highly social and able to form strong bonds between each other.  Well, we share 98% of our genes with chimps don't we?  I know we've also evolved the strong pair bond, and the love thing, in order to keep couples together long enough to bring up slowly maturing, complex, baby humans – and on top of that, layers of cultural and religious conditioning that advocate that you don't give out quite so freely – but I wonder if that innate impulse to say 'yes' easily is in fact there in all women, even if only some of them – like me – acknowledge and act on it.

But no, seriously, I need to tell the beginning of my own sexual story.  I really don't want to dwell too much on my youthful experiences, because they weren't that remarkable.  It's probably only my sex life now which is perhaps a little extreme and therefore of possible interest to someone.  But since it looks like this is going to be a bit of a sexual autobiography, I ought to cover 'the early years'.

Just briefly, then, I'll tell you about the first fuck.  But before that, I think I'll start with the first kiss, as I guess it marks the beginning of my sexual awakening.

Looking back at my childhood, I just want to say one thing, though. 

A while ago, when there was a bit of a furore in the papers about some celebrity being caught dogging (oh, he was so remorseful and ashamed of himself – but only because he got caught, of course!  If he hadn't been shopped, he'd still be out there doing it, and no doubt not feeling particularly ashamed at all!) I noticed a footnote comment from some tabloid agony aunt.  The sort of people involved in this kind of sordid activity, she stated, are usually from broken homes, and are the victims of child abuse and violence.

This really infuriated me.  I wanted to write in and say, show me the scientific paper that proves or suggests any such thing!  I can bet you no-one's done a detailed study of doggers and their motivations, and even if they had, who knows what it might or might not have shown.

I thought her comment was so gratuitously judgmental and prejudiced, that it took my breath away.  Okay, maybe I couldn't prove anything either, but somehow I really don't think that the cross section of society that chooses to act out sexual fantasies or explore unconventional sexual practices is composed mainly of sad losers who have been mistreated as children!

For the record, therefore, I was not a victim of child abuse.  I come from a mainstream, conventional family, father and mother present, siblings coexisting happily.  I wasn't deprived, I wasn't unloved, I wasn't mistreated.  If my upbringing had any influence at all on my future sex life, it was maybe indirectly, in that it was not particularly liberal or broadminded, but rather sheltered, the sort of old fashioned household where nothing sexual was ever mentioned, and so maybe once my hormones kicked in, I rather overreacted and rebelled against those constraints.

I was fourteen years old when I got my first kiss from a boy.

I think it's early emotional and pre-sexual experiences – or reactions, rather – that teach people and define what sexual orientation they are, and I'm certain that I was never anything other that straight.  No passionate yearnings for female friends – I remember being much more aware of male childhood friends, and maybe the occasional male relative.  I think I'm straight female through and through.

I have a very vague memory of sitting at a dining table at school when I was very young – maybe six or seven – and being one girl with three male companions.  Maybe it was an early echo of what was to come.  I also had a few platonic male friends along the way, and also had a perception of older men, particularly, having an awareness of me.  There were certain male teachers who I had crushes on in my teens, and, looking back, maybe the fact that they would come and sit with me at lunchtime wasn't so innocent on their part.

It's not that I was the sort of particularly pretty or attractive young girl that boys were interested in, in a conventional way.  I just think that somehow that 'availability gene' shone through, and maybe some people subconsciously recognised it and responded to it.

The first kiss was on an absolutely magic day, which was very significant to me at that time, and which I dwelt on with fondness and regret for some years.

I was with my whole extended family at a big, summer, outdoor fête – an event we all went to every year, and was a bit of a tradition and something I always looked forward to.  It was picnics on the grass by the cars, and looking round stalls selling cakes and records and trinkets, and going for walks round the extensive grounds, and bumping into distant relatives with some excitement, greeting them effusively and dragging them back to where the rest of the family had gathered.

I guess I was at that age when you seek to be away from the family and exploring things on your own, so I went alone to what must have been the youth disco, being held in the main school hall – an otherwise non-descript room which I was familiar with from assemblies and break-time drinks.

It's one of the few times in my early life that I can really look back on and think, yes, it was that sort of dream, golden moment that you'll always remember.  When you were young and fresh and life was exciting and you were happy.

Though it was a sunny afternoon, the windows had been covered with blinds or shades to make it darker and more atmospheric.  The room was packed full of young people, and the music was loud – old fashioned disco music, God knows what exactly, but the familiar music of my youth – late 70s pop.  And maybe the most important factor was that it was hot – sweltering, sweaty hot – a rare, hot summer day in the British countryside… and a whole load of exciting young boys, transforming the atmosphere of what had always previously been just the dull old assembly hall… and me, pure straight female, bundle of hormones and genetics, all ready to grow up and get her first kiss.

I remember what I was wearing – a sort of silky, flowery dress in shades of brown and gold – and I remember dancing at that disco, and having a skinny boy with longish black hair ask me to dance.  It was the first time I'd ever been asked to dance.  I didn't say no.  He kissed me on the dance floor.

So much for him, who was truthfully the first, but it was actually a different one that became the significant one.  He was nicer – taller, older, more attractive, blond.  I remember that his name was Jim, and he was 21, or said he was, and that he came from a village nearby – the name of that village still has magical connotations when I hear it today. 

Jim asked me to dance as well, and it was that wonderful, glorious moment of excitement, of just saying yes to everything, enjoying the moment, being aware of it.  I remember looking over and seeing another girl who went to the same school as me also being kissed by some boy, and it seemed weird, that all these unlikely, studious young girls were suddenly snogging and being transformed – exhibiting traits their childhood friends hadn't been aware of before.

So we danced and kissed in the hot, dark, temporary disco, and I remember him and his friends singing along to a particular song – 'hi ho silver lining'.

And then me and him went outside together, just the two of us, round the other side of the building, where we found an empty bench by the side of the playground, and where we sat in the hot summer sun.

And it wasn't just the day of my first kiss, it was the day of my first hand holding!  The wonderful excitement of being pulled along by a man's hand; the simple, unfamiliar intimacy of having your hand in his wonderful big, masculine, warm one.  Not a parental hand – a boyfriend's hand!  A transitional moment into adulthood.

Kissing on that bench was my big teenage swoon moment.  I was awakened!

For literally years afterwards I would go and sit on that bench on my own, and swoon, and remember.  It was the place of daydreams and longing, because it was just one fleeting memory, one magic moment.

I would love to meet Jim now – who knows who or where he is.  I wonder if he had any idea what an impression he made on me, how much I dreamed about him.  I doubt it was as significant to him – I probably wasn't his first kiss.  But I wonder if he remembers fondly that day at the summer fête, kissing a fresh young girl on a bench in the sun.

What happened was that we wandered away from the playground, up the main pathway towards all the main stalls and attractions.  I wonder what we were doing, maybe going to the beer tent together or something.  I know I was holding his hand, I know I was feeling very excited and happy.  And then, horror of horrors, I saw my mother.  I was caught out, holding a stranger's hand, and of course promptly disapproved of.

I'll always remember parting with him hurriedly, quickly making an arrangement – 'I'll see you up by the ice-cream van in five minutes'.  And then of course, complain as I might, beg as I might, she insisted I stayed with her, and we left the place, and I had never been so disappointed or frustrated or unhappy, to have been forced to stand him up, my gorgeous blond Jim – my first ever potential boyfriend!  To think of him standing by the ice-cream van waiting for me (if he did!), but I never turned up, I was still a child who had been dragged away from his influence by my protective mother.

Of course, looking at it from her perspective, I'm sure she was right.  He was 21, I was 14 and very innocent.  He might have given me a phone number, I might have contrived to meet with him.  I might have lost my virginity at 14 and got pregnant – oh such dreadful things might have happened, that no doubt she was rightly protecting me from.

But oh how I mourned and cried over that lost opportunity.  How often I sat on that bench and thought of him, and wondered how on earth I could try to reach him – a lad called Jim from that village nearby.

I must have lived for the day, a year later, when the same fête came round again.  I'm sure that for several years, I had nothing on my mind every time we went there but the possibility of seeing him again.

But I never did.  And what's more, that disco was somehow never repeated.  Maybe there was something similar once or twice, but it was always a disappointment, and then I think they stopped doing it.  (Probably intentionally – maybe someone had noticed the effect the presence of loud music and boys was having on the innocent young ladies of the establishment!)

I longed to have that moment back – the heat, the music, the kiss – but it was never to be repeated.  The golden day of my first kiss was gone.

Looking through some old papers recently, I actually found a diary entry from the date of that first kiss – I was amazed that I had a record of the actual date! What I had written was very brief and to the point.

Met a boy at school fête called Jim.  21 years old.  Blond.  Builder.  Very nice but I lost touch with him.  Kissed me twice with mouth open.  Also kissed by boy called Dave.

Short entry, but significant event – sort of the start of a lifetime's infatuation with men and sex, as well as a lifetime habit of writing all about virtually every encounter afterwards!

So I was fourteen when I first got kissed, and eighteen when I eventually lost my virginity.

I can't have been that sheltered and constrained, cos in those few years I did a fair bit more kissing, and at some point progressed to actively trying to lose my virginity.

I guess I was allowed out to discos and parties in the evenings – not staying out too late of course, and maybe not at fourteen.  But probably at sixteen, because I do remember, whilst still living in my home town, going out regularly to this particular big disco venue – of course they were called discos in those days and not clubs.  I had a female friend called Heather I used to go with occasionally, and I know I was always frustrated that my father would come and pick me up at about eleven or twelve – whatever time it was, it was too early.  I was very aware that the interesting things happened later – the slow dancing and the possibility of getting snogged!

I remember me and Heather met and hung out with a couple of guys for a while.  I think mine was called Phil, and it was the first and last time I'd ever been on the back of a motorbike (I'm sure my mother didn't know!)  We went to a funfair with them once – maybe that's where we met.

I know that I used to count kisses in the way that I now count fucks, and I'm certain that my kiss count – which of course became obsolete as soon as the more major deed had at last been done – was up to at least thirty.  Not sure how I managed it, really.  It wasn't at school, because there wasn't any of that sort of interaction there, and because I was a 'swot' – ie remotely intelligent and well behaved in a mixed and unpleasantly rowdy comprehensive – I just wasn't seen as that sort of girl.

I guess it was out dancing – I really can't remember that many teenage kisses now, but I'm sure I wouldn't have deluded myself about the figure.  It was definitely thirty or more.

Nowadays I'm sure teenage girls are sexually active younger, so maybe if it had been a few decades later, I would have been up to all sorts as well.  As it is, I think eighteen was relatively late to start.  But, as I've said, I wasn't from the sort of household where such things would have been openly allowed or accepted, so I wouldn't have had much opportunity in terms of where to do it.  And – what I guess makes me feel a bit sad now – I don't think I ever had a 'real' boyfriend.  Not a serious, good friend who I could have introduced to my parents, and who I might have experimented with a bit more legitimately.

So it was loose, fleeting kisses – setting the scene for a lifetime of loose, fleeting fucks.

(Incidentally, I've always thought that, especially if you've been brought up in quite a sheltered environment, the pop music of the day can be so significant – perhaps particularly to girls, because it seems to be the only place that female sexuality and passion is expressed and recounted.

In a world where sex and orgasm are never discussed, where else do you learn that it's possible for a woman to have sexual feelings and needs?  Even if you didn't really understand all the adult references and implications, the words of certain pop songs by female artists gave you hints about what the world had to offer.

For example:  It's in his kiss.  I love to love.  Stay with me till dawn.  I need a lover with a slow hand…an easy touch.

But particularly:  Do that to me one more time – once is never enough with a man like you.

That lyric especially taught you that there was something a man could do to you, that you'd like, and that you'd want him to do it again and again!  (I have often thought of it, when I'm in a post-orgasmic swoon!))

(Of course these days, songs by female artists are so much more explicit; eg When I think about you, I touch myself.  I wonder what the pre-teens make of that?!)

There was a boy called Don – the son of some family friends – who was in a way my boyfriend at this time.  I had always had a crush on him, as a child, and we sort of hung out together.  We would retire to my bedroom together – innocently of course – when his parents visited mine.  We would go out to the pub very frequently, and sit and drink and talk.  I think we kissed, I know I was keen on him, but somehow he was very quiet and shy, and rather boring in a way, and I never felt like it was really anything. 

I think our parents might have thought we would get together, but we always knew we wouldn't.  There was one sad moment – probably not in my teens, but in later years when I visited my hometown again – when we made a sort of pact with each other, that if we both hadn't got married by the age of, I think 30, we would marry each other.  I don't think this was serious, and I doubt we would have gone through with it, as we didn't really have much in common.  But it was a real event in my life – a strange and sad promise between two young people lacking in confidence.

I know that he did find happiness with someone in the end and had two lovely children he really cared for, so I was always pleased for him and thought of him fondly.

But sorry, I have to recount my major anecdote involving him, which was one of the times I nearly lost my virginity – and was subsequently so pleased that it hadn't happened!

He was a car person, and he used to take me out for drinks in his car – an old Cortina I think – something relatively big and impressive at the time, for me anyway.

We drove to a particular spot near the woods by my home – of course I know exactly where it is, and have often walked or driven past and thought to myself, 'That's where I nearly lost my virginity with Don'.

I don't know how old I was, probably 16 or 17.  We sat in the back seat and snogged.  We sort of agreed to do it.

And then we sort of mutually agreed it wasn't right and we wouldn't.

I don't know if it was his lack of confidence or experience.

I don't remember being disappointed.

I don't remember being aroused.

I don't remember seeing his cock – I'm pretty sure I never did.

We weren't ready.  I'm sure it would have been a poor experience for both of us.

The reason I'm always glad it didn't happen then, was nothing to do with my not liking Don – poor, sweet boy.

It was because when I did lose my virginity, I bled like anything (for about three days!), and I always think what a dreadful mess I would have made on the back seat of his car, and all over my clothes!  Don't think I would have been able to hide it from my mother!

This is an example of the sort of thing that they DON'T teach in sex education!  Would have been useful to know in advance.  How many young girls fantasise about the perfect first sexual moment with their boyfriends, then get a nasty surprise when they leave a tell tale puddle of blood all over their parent's sofa or front room carpet?!  (Unless people don't have that problem now, because everyone starts using tampons early – I was never too clear about this.  I never used tampons until afterwards.)

There's one more early kiss that stands out as a glowing moment of awaking.  On holiday in a foreign country – it's a hot afternoon and I'm wearing a white dress.  I find myself lying on the grass with someone in a field, way out in some remote country spot that I could never hope to find again.

We lie side by side in the hot sun and he kisses me.  I'm swept away, mind and body thrilling to the wonder of it.  This time I am definitely aroused.

He says something I'll never forget, lovely words in a foreign tongue that mean something like: You smell wonderful, my girl!

And there was another early adventure on that trip.  There was a party and I went outside with some young local lad.  We walked down this path through a cemetery in utter, pitch blackness.  We clung to each other, unable to see a thing, and I was scared and laughing at the same time.

We walked along the side of this lake in the darkness and he kissed me up against a tree and started fumbling in my clothing.  I was too innocent for this, and must have run away – I started walking back towards the lights of the town on my own, and after a while (hmm, maybe he'd had to sort himself out), he came running after me and apologised.

Come to think about it, that's another 'nearly lost my virginity' moment that could have been a disaster!

Anyway, after the incident with Don, I think there was then a phase where I was a bit unhealthily keen to lose my virginity – well, much like most other teenage virgins, I guess.  The moment I remember is standing on a particular bus stop on the way home from school, having got off at this park and I think having wandered round it in the vague hope of being chatted up by someone.  I know that I once saw a flasher in that park – someone waving a big fat willy at me from behind the public toilets – but I don't know whether it was on that day.

I remember standing on that bus stop and catching the eyes of men in passing cars, and actually feeling frustrated and desperate to get laid.  Dangerous pastime – silly girl!

And so we move on to the story of Brian, the man I went on the pill for.

I met him at a wonderful party, in someone's home.  Two of the lab technicians from school – they were a couple – were there, and I know they were looking at me with a sort of surprise and disapproval, like, 'What's that unlikely young sixth-former doing at a party like this with us grown ups?'

Brian was tall and slim and dark and had a short neat beard.  He must have been significantly older than me, but not that old, maybe late 20s.

We danced and kissed all night, and for ages afterwards I would dance with the kitchen door at home, pretending it was him, swooning with the wonderful memory of it.

When I left the party, I got a kiss goodbye on the lips from his friend as well as from him.  Wow, an early introduction to the kissing of friends – extended intimacy.

And then it came, totally unexpectedly – a phonecall at home.  Either from him, or from my friend Heather, I think, saying Brian had been in touch and wanted to see me again!

That was one of the few times in my life when I actually remember being too excited to eat – the call must have come just before a meal, and I could think of nothing but the wonder of it!

My parents must have allowed it, after all I was 17.  I know that he picked me up and took me out for a meal – a proper date.  It was my first meal out with a man – it was to a Berni Inn in the town centre, that isn't there any more.  Oh, I must have been so innocent, so naïve.  But he must have liked me.

I then really don't remember how often we saw each other, but there must have been a period, perhaps of a few weeks, when he was around.

What happened was that there was a particular day which we had planned, when he took me by car to his flat which was in Peterborough, some miles away.  It was either a school day or a day when I was supposed to be at my Saturday job – I know I skived something, and didn't tell anyone; it was all a big secret.

I remember how he cooked for me, Spaghetti Bolognese.  I remember how we lay on his bed and snogged – and there we are again, a moment when I could have lost my virginity but didn't.

Looking back on it now, I think I was very lucky that he was a nice guy and didn't force anything.  He must surely, surely have expected sex from me.  He'd taken me out, he'd got me to agree to going to his flat.  He must have been desperate for it then, and desperately disappointed, and yet I only remember him being the perfect gentleman, and that I must somehow have hesitated, and not been sure, and he'd let it go, and we'd done nothing (I'm sure I never saw that cock either!).

But you see I was an ultra-responsible young lady, and I think it was the contraception thing that held me back.  There was no doubt now that I was ready, but I've only ever been of the opinion that it's totally down to me to take care of these things – I don't remember having any great knowledge of condoms or anything.

I'm sure I never told him that's what I was planning to do – I can't have done – but basically, I went on my own to a family planning clinic and asked to be put on the pill.  I got it, and started taking it, but I always remember the particular nurse or doctor who was going to take a swab or smear test, but, when she learned to her surprise that I was a virgin, decided not to.  Again, I'm grateful to her for not doing that, because it would've meant my virginity being taken by a surgical instrument rather than a cock!  But I'll never forget her shock at learning I was a