Lucy's Bedroom

Take The Lucy's Bedroom Test

It's astonishing how boring it is sitting up half the night listening to a friend with chicken pox be poorly.  I've passed the wee small hours unproductively, writing this quiz.  Take it quickly before someone reports it for containing offensive material! 

No Thicker Than His Thumb

I’m still at Jim’s, with a stiff neck from sleeping on the sofa. He’s really very spotty and miserable so we’ve been sitting up in bed drinking tinned tomato soup out of mugs and watching around five hours of Little Dorrit on the BBC i-player. Jim was resistant to this idea at first, partly because he’s confused all of Dickens with Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins, but he soon becomes engrossed.

After we’ve finished, we fall to discussing the extent to which 18th and 19th century novels are all about money and all the relationships in them are essentially financial. This high-blown conversation soon degenerates into whether it’s true that a Victorian gentleman was permitted by common law to beat his wife with ‘a cane no thicker than his thumb’. I believe this to be a myth; Jim is determined to believe in it “because it’s a splendid idea.”

I splutter soup down my front. “You do not believe that!”

“Oh, not in a wife-beating sort of way, but in a ‘fine bit of rump on that filly, I’d give her a damn good thrashing’ way, then yes, I can’t see any possible objection.”

“Your brain is fevered, you don’t mean it.”

“D thrashes you and I bet he doesn’t use a stick thicker than his thumb, does he?”

“That’s not the point…”

“Yes it is. Until D first tipped you over his knee and gave you a good spanking, did you know you would like it?”

“…No, but…”

“And you have since become an enthusiastic advocate of getting walloped on the bum with a variety of implements.”

“…But you can’t say…”

“Well there you have it. If men were allowed to go around thrashing women without repercussions, more women would realise how much they like it and the sum happiness of the world would be increased.”

“OK, well good luck with that plan.”

Jim’s asleep now, sedated with soup and I’m sitting here thinking about the first time D did give me a spanking. I’d had the odd, encouraging little slap on the bum off other men before him, but nothing like the solid whack of his hand smacking loudly against my buttock. I squeaked and looked back at him over my shoulder, frowning. He laughed. “Don’t frown, Lucy or I’ll have to give you another.” His hand smacked down again on the same spot, leaving it stinging and pink. He smoothed his hand over my other buttock; I turned my head, watching him over my other shoulder. “Do you want it?” he asked, dangerously quiet. I nodded and he smacked me hard, twice, making me gasp and wriggle.

He took a step back to admire his handiwork then slid one finger along my slit, drawing it out wet and sticky and sucking it clean. “I think you’re the sort of girl who needs to be spanked until she cries, what do you think, Lucy, do you think you’re that kind of girl?”

I’d never thought so before but at that moment it was what I wanted most in the whole world. “Do it!” I said, too loud and too eagerly. D laughed again then started slapping me with stinging blows, each one punctuating a word.

“Don’t – think – you – can – tell – me – what – to – do – you – wicked – wicked – girl.”

When the tears finally came, it wasn’t because the spanking hurt – though it did hurt – but they came with a heaving sigh, a feeling of “Oh God, let it stop”, a broken submission.

I wonder if D’s spanked any of the girls he’s played away with? I hope not, I don’t think I’d like that.

Sinking Quickly

I might be prepared to concede that picking up the phone and having a conversation would have been a better way to make my feelings known than publishing them in a sex blog. And yes, I can see the hypocrisy inherent in complaining about a thing I so frequently celebrate in my sex blog. But my point (and I do have one) is that we seem to just get over one major upset when along come another three, two of which are entirely of our own making.

And that’s when the ladies in Greggs the Bakers made me leave. “You can’t go on shouting down your phone in here love; it’s upsetting the other customers.”

So it was without any jam doughnuts that I set off in the direction of Jim’s flat. Jim has chicken pox and I’d been hoping to spend a couple of hours annoying him by alternately plumping his pillows and suggesting it was some other sort of pox he’d picked up from his adventures with the ladies of London Town.

I never got there. I burst into tears on Haverstock Hill – a temper tantrum really – and ended up sitting on a bench outside The Lansdowne, furtively wiping my snotty nose on the corner of my sleeve and scuffing my feet crossly against a table leg. To my great irritation, a man plonked his half-finished pint on the table and sat down at the bench opposite. There’s no need for him to do this, it’s freezing and nobody else is sitting outside, he could have sat anywhere to have his fag. I stare at the ground, furiously.

“Has your cat been run over?”

I scowl at my feet.

“Did everyone forget your birthday?”

I flick a contemptuous glance at him. Go away, man!

“Hmm, not your cat or your birthday. Must be your boyfriend, then.”

I take a deep breath and prepare to launch into, “Look, I know you mean well and you’re trying to help but I really need to be alone…” But I don’t, because I look at him properly and see scruffy blonde hair and crinkly grey eyes with a raised eyebrow when he smiles, and the bit of my brain responsible for opportunistic but ultimately self-destructive shagging takes charge.

Of course he’s an absolute louse. He’s spotted a girlie crying and thought, “She’ll be vulnerable to some cheering up and maybe a little revenge fuck” and he’s homed in on me but I’m too cross to care.

His bedroom has architectural drawings pinned to the wall – he turns out to be an architecture student – and I’m beguiled by these. I would much rather spend the afternoon asking him questions about them than have sex. He doesn’t share this view and drags me away from them. The room is chilly and he strips me from the waist down, so I’m still wearing my jumper as I kneel up on his bed, wriggling as he laps my cunt hastily then climbs up behind me and sinks his cock into it.

Can fucking be boring? This is a little bit. He takes his time, slowly grinding his cock into me, drawing it right out then plunging it back in, gripping my hips and tugging me back, in short little slaps of my bum against his thighs before leaning in hard and grinding away again. He’s not, in short, the least bit interested in me so I rest my cheek against my folded arms and let him get on with it. Finally, with a soft grunt, he cums and pulls out straight away, peeling off his condom and kneeling up by my head, his cock bouncing off my cheek and my chin before he slides it into my mouth. I suck it half-heartedly as it gradually softens and wonder how quickly I can decently say, “Well, I must be going…”

I’m hours late for Jim and I feel guilty because he’s very poorly indeed. He’s not even appeased by my tale of random and unsatisfactory sex. “You cow, you never do that with me.”

“My self-esteem’s low, but not that low yet. Don’t worry though, it’s sinking quickly.”

A Whiff of Grapeshot

Cheese arrived in the post this morning from my friend Scott. This is his new, ‘just in time to sell at Christmas’ Wenslydale with cranberries, and he’s enclosed a snapshot of himself in a white coat and hat pointing at the cheese on a shelf in his dairy. I fucking hate cranberries, they’re in everything you buy between November and February. What’s so celebratory about putting fruit in perfectly good food? I dutifully pick the cranberry bits out of a slice of cheese and share it with the cat but I’m not happy.

With some horror I’ve realised that this will be the last weekend before Christmas that I’m not fully committed to doing things and so far I’ve bought a packet of six Christmas cards and nothing else. I’m just going to have to choose six of the people I know as ‘keepers’ and advertise the rest of them in Loot. I’m not sure what I’m doing this year as D will be working and spending Christmas with his Dad. With my Dad in France and my brother spending his first married Christmas in his new house in Oxford, I’m a spare part. I had assumed that my Dad would be distraught if neither Joe nor I visited him this year, but when I spoke to him he seemed sublimely unconcerned and just told me a long story about Celia, my stepmother, getting severely pecked by geese at a goose fair (I’m not sure why it was such a long story as that’s really all there is to it).

Moving to France has put Dad and Celia back on an even keel. Things have been rocky for the last couple of years while he dallied with the unlovely Fiona before coming to his senses and realising that, nice though it might be to have a willing trollop who’d drop her knickers in her lunch hour, she was a bit common to introduce to any of his friends. Even though she was supposed to be a deadly secret, I had met her four times, the first when she marched up to me in the middle of Oxford Street in a gingery fake fur coat and stripy highlights and said, “You’re the daughter, aren’t you? I recognise you from your pictures and I’m sure we can be great friends.” Heaven knows what she thought was going to happen next – were we supposed to waltz arm in arm into Selfridges and spend the afternoon bonding in the changing rooms?

Talking of infidelity, did you spot David’s post a while back about his colleague Azami? He didn’t mention her again, did he? It’s been the same in real life. I heard a lot about Azami – how clever she was and the funny thing she said and how sweet it was when she…and then it suddenly stopped dead, which in my experience is always how you can tell that your boyfriend has moved on from puppy-like crush to getting his end away.

On the whole I’m fairly sanguine about this – as long as what goes on tour stays on tour - I don’t want to know anything about it. But there is a difference between recreational fucking and forming an attachment, as I demonstrated with my wobble over C. So today’s post can be read as (a) some poorly thought-out nonsense about cheese and people being pecked by geese or (b) a whiff of grapeshot across the bows, depending on who you are.

Money

I got a postcard today from C. It has a picture of a blood-stained toy rabbit on the front and on the back it says, “Congratulations on having a producer incompetent enough to allow your first lines of dialogue to dribble onto the television.” I had thought it would be exciting to hear someone on television actually speaking a line I’d written but in fact, to my ears anyway, my words seemed to leap out, jarringly from the screen, like someone sneaking up on you with an inflated crisp packet and bursting it right by your ear. Metaphorically covered in crisp crumbs, I’d slunk away to bury my head under the pillow. I find myself wondering now what I bought with the money I got paid for writing those lines but I can’t remember.

Yesterday I emailed off a batch of editing I’ve done for the Manchester production company C put me in touch with. This is a script so idiotic that not even the most coked up television executive could possibly think of actually making it. If they do, even though I’m only the equivalent of the office cat, I’m having my name taken off it. Still, they pay better than C did (though I suppose I did take a share of my remuneration package off C in the form of free goes on his cock – his package formed part of my package).

In the afternoon I met up with Angela, who I first met through the sales promotion agency I occasionally work for. Angela has moved on, as is obvious by (a) her choice of the cocktail bar of a West End hotel as a suitable place to meet a scruffy urchin like me (b) she’s wearing a Prada coat and carrying a Marc Jacobs handbag the size of a bus and (c) the fact that she is very obviously working as a call girl. She does confirm this to me in the course of conversation but frankly she didn’t need to, it was obvious as soon as I walked in.

She’s full of the lifestyle benefits of this career move, telling me in great detail about her ‘agent’, a retired call girl to whom she pays commission, her flat, owned by her agent to whom she pays rent, her maid, supplied by her agent to whom she pays wages…To be honest it sounds to me like 19th century coal mine owners who would pay their miners in tokens rather than cash, the tokens being redeemable at the village shops that were all owned by the mine owner. The fact that this is my first thought does prove that my devotion to history is (slightly) deeper than my devotion to designer labels and I take some comfort in that as Angela burbles on.

A bad thought seeps into my mind as she’s talking. Is she ‘recruiting’ me? After all, the economics of this business are clearly weighted towards the ‘agent’ and so it would make sense to ‘sub-let’ or pass some of your clients on to another girl who pays you a commission. I’m just thinking, “No, don’t be silly, she just really wants to tell you this story about dressing up in knee socks and pretending to be fourteen so a licensed conveyancer from Dulwich can pretend to be a friend of Daddy’s who wants to admire how much she’s grown, when she says, “So, are you interested?”

I’m not, and I just stop myself from saying, “No, I think I’ll stick with the history degree” because that sounds snotty. Instead, I smile sweetly and say, “I’ll think about it” in that prim way that means “Certainly not.” Her phone rings and she rummages in her handbag. I peer slyly into it. She’s got a tube of lubricant, a box of condoms, some steel handcuffs, a black rubber dildo, a packet of wet wipes and some breath mints. My bag’s always full to bursting and I’m never quite sure what’s in there but I do a mental inventory. I know I don’t have a dildo but I do have a silk scarf and I’m pretty sure I’ve got everything else too. Hang on a second, Angela, maybe I am ready for that job…

Her client is due and she bustles me away so that she can perch herself expectantly on a bar stool. I stand in the street putting on my mittens and wondering about the people I know. I think about C, as I have been all day, and I really want to ring him but I don’t, because if he suggested meeting up I know I’d screw him.

In the tube station I can’t find my Oyster card and as I open my change purse someone jogs my elbow. Coins tinkle on the floor and roll away but kind people trap them with their feet and stop to help me pick them up. I feel like telling them that I had to waste my time on the stupidest piece of writing in the world to earn them, but it’s OK because I’m only prostituting my intelligence, I’m not a real whore, not yet.

No Flutteriness

I’m back in London now, back to normal. Normal consists of only having one tutorial today so getting dressed to go to that, coming home, getting undressed again and getting back into bed. In the afternoon I was joined by Lynda who is similarly under-occupied on a Monday.

Lynda laughs at me for receiving visitors in bed (“Like Marie Antoinette”) but has a hidden agenda in visiting, which she reveals while rattling a small brown bottle of capsules at me. They’re poppers – amyl nitrate – and she wants to test them in the privacy of my bedroom before, as she puts it, “Becoming incapable in the company of a man with a raging, drug-induced, erection.”

She goes first, sitting cross-legged on the bed in her bra and knickers. I snap the capsule under her nose and she inhales deeply, her eyes wide with surprise and her face flushed as she lays a hand on her breast and whispers, “Oh, it’s racing!” Then she lies back against the pillows, wriggling and eventually snatching at her bra, struggling crossly out of it. She notices me watching this and laughs, “My skin feels hot and prickly.” Then she takes my hand and places it on her breast, “Can you feel it?”

I can, her heart is pounding and I rest my cheek against it, my arms wrapped around her, listening to it thunder. In just a few minutes it’s calmed again and looking up I can see that Lynda no longer looks so flushed. She has one arm behind her head, looking down at me, curiously. “Your turn.”

The crack of the capsule seems really loud and at first I think, “Oh, nothing’s happening” and then it hits me like a rush of dizziness. My heart races and I can feel blood pounding in my ears and the pulse points in my neck and wrists. My face and neck and chest are damp with a sheen of sweat and I peel my t-shirt off, flopping back against the pillows.

Lynda hooks her fingers into the waistband of my knickers and drags them down until they’re stretched across my thighs. She worms her fingers into the folds of my pussy, parting them and kissing the tip of my clit. I moan loudly because that’s exactly what I want, I want to cum.

It’s speedy, shallow, unsatisfying and my clit still feels swollen and uncomfortable afterwards, not relaxed and pulsing. There’s no gradual come-down, no heaviness of the limbs and gradually slowing heartbeat. Instead I feel headachy and cross.

Lynda wants to try again and so I slither down her body, peeling off her knickers and lapping her slowly, rolling my tongue around her clit until my face is wet and she’s making tiny little moany noises and her hips are twitching. Her back arches and she wriggles her bum against the bed as I kiss and suck her clit, fluttering the tip of my tongue against its tip until she snaps the capsule under her own nose and half gasps, half shrieks, her hips bucking as she presses her hand against my brow and pushes me away.

Now she’s tense and cross as well. We lie on the bed crossly, feeling prickly and hot. Eventually we agree that poppers seem to have more to do with male orgasm than female – all explosiveness and no flutteriness. I run a bath and we soak in miserable but companionable silence.

Abusive Sex

If I’d ever been in any doubt about the connection between anger and sex, these last few days would have cured me of it. I’m dizzy with furious, foreplay-free fucking as D reaches out for me, crushing me against walls or flattening me against the bed, a safety-valve for his rage as I open my legs and let him pound my pussy into a pulpy, swollen mess. He snarls; his teeth gritted as he pumps his spunk into me, his eyes dark. I could be anyone in that moment, any bit of skirt he’s picked up, and I shiver, curling my body around his as his cum and my juices dry on my thighs.

It should be terrible. It should be lousy, emotionless, abusive sex. Never mind ‘should be’, it is all of those things. And I fucking love it. I want to reach out and touch him, lay my hand on his skin and feel the heat of his body and say “Do it to me again.”

My throat is sore and I don’t know whether that’s from the cold or from having his dick shoved down it. Antiseptic throat spray numbed the soreness but numbed his cock as well and I spent a long time this morning sitting on the cold bathroom floor, my head clamped between his hands, my fingernails curled into his thighs as he fucked my face until drool dripped from my chin and tears streaked my cheeks. Still he hadn’t cum and in the end he pulled out in frustration, sitting on the edge of the bath while I knelt before him, wanking his cock while I sucked on his balls, rolling them round in my mouth and fluttering my tongue around the rim of his arsehole until finally, with a grunt, he spurted all over my hand, splattering my face with a few drops and spraying the rest on the floor.

He watched me, breathing hard, as I licked and sucked my fingers clean then bent forwards to lap up his spunk from the floor, sucking clean the drops that had landed on his toes.

If You Go Down To The Woods Today

It’s freezing and wet in the woods around D’s parents’ farm. The leaves on the ground are rotting and slimy and I slip and stumble trying to keep up with him. We’re not dressed for this. We’re both wearing suits and I have high heels on. Finally, I get the hem of my skirt caught on a briar and I have to call out to him to stop. He does, but doesn’t come back to help me, lighting a cigarette and watching me from a distance as I unhook myself.

The house is filled with family and friends, drinking and making quiet chat in a way that’s absolutely stifling. So we flee his mother’s funeral wake, the icy air making our cheeks pink and our eyes water. I feel suddenly wide awake in the cold. D is thrumming with repressed fury and a bit drunk on too many whiskeys.

I catch up with him and place a reassuring hand on his arm, smiling up at him, aware that I’m soothing the beast. He leans forward, grinding his cigarette out on a tree trunk as he presses me against it, and then kisses me clumsily, our teeth clashing, his tongue invading my mouth. I taste smoke and whiskey and try to wriggle away.

He grips my upper arms, kissing my cheek and whispering in my ear, “Do you remember, I once promised you a proper whipping in these woods?” I do remember, it was back in August before I almost ran off with someone else and before we knew his mother was finally dying. I look around, anxious that we can be seen but there’s nothing except trees and gathering gloom all around us. So I gaze up into his eyes and nod solemnly.

Tugging his tie off, he whips me round to face a tree trunk, tying my wrists around it until I’m hugging it, my cheek pressed against its damp bark. Bending, he yanks my skirt up over my hips, bunching it around my waist, pulls my knickers down, lifting each ankle as I step out of them and spreading my legs.

Shivering, I watch him slowly root around in the bushes, finally drawing out a long, narrow, whippy length of broome. With head bent and frowning with concentration, he strips it of dead leaves and buds, smoothing its shaft and fraying its tip with his fingernail. He holds it upright and flicks his wrist, watching it shudder and then lifts his arm high, snapping it through the air a couple of times with a loud whoosh.

Stepping close to me, he bends the tip back in an arc then he lets go. I squeak and jump as it snaps against my cheek but before I’m over the shock he’s behind me, thrashing my bum fast and hard. My body stiffens against the tree and I try to arch my back, uselessly struggling to escape the stinging slices of the switch across both buttocks. I squeal with each blow at first but then can’t catch my breath any more and instead just feel my lips tremble and distort as my eyes blur with tears.

As suddenly as he started he stops and I gulp down air, breathing hard and moaning as the red stripes on my arse glow and throb. Whimpering, I bite my lip as he lightly traces the frayed tip of the switch up the backs of my thighs, tapping it gently against my pussy. I rub my forehead against the tree, feeling the bark scratch my skin, ashamed of how wet I am.

A heavy, lazy swipe of the switch across my thighs makes me yelp. But then it’s over and he’s untying me. I tremble as I rub one wrist, tugging his tie off the other. He snatches my hands, pulling the knot of the tie tighter, jerking my arms up above my head, the loose end of his tie tossed over the branch and my other wrist trapped and knotted in place. I scrabble with my feet, losing a shoe and making the branch above me sway and creak, rattling loose leaves.

D bends and picks up the discarded switch again, swishing its tip lightly against the front of my thighs, gradually swishing a little harder until suddenly the switch cuts sharply across them both and I squeal and kick. He stands and watches me recover, steadying myself with a toe on the ground, my body still swaying and twisting.

The frayed tip of the switch is on the mound of my pussy now, brushing it lingeringly. D’s watching my face but I’m trying to avoid his gaze, my head lowered and my cheeks burning. I hate this. I hate feeling so humiliated and I hate the switch and everyone getting drunk back at the house. I hate it that D’s drunk and angry and I hate that my shame makes my cunt throb.

Finally I look up at him. “I want to stop.” He nods and unties me, watching me brush leaves out of my hair and drag my skirt down. I give him back his tie and he shoves it in his pocket. My stockings are ripped and laddered so I peel them off and shove them in his other pocket.

Back at the house we go in the back way and I dash upstairs to repair myself and put on some new stockings. I gaze at my bum, criss-crossed with stripes, in the wardrobe mirror then jump out of my skin as the door opens suddenly. But it’s D, leaning heavily against the edge of the door, looking very tired now.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“I’m not,” I reply and pick a piece of twig off the sleeve of his jacket.

No Word For Angry

David blogging for Lucy

My cold is worse and I’ve had a night of Benylin-induced, hallucinatory dreams. I dreamed about following Lucy down the street at night as she slowly stripped off her clothes, letting each piece slip from her fingers and be carried away in a howling rainstorm until she was running, naked away from me and I was losing sight of her through the blinding sheet rain. I woke with a headache and a raging hard on.

The house is full of my mum’s friends, fussing and tidying up and cooking things to put in the freezer. They’re convinced my dad and I aren’t looking after ourselves because our extra Y chromosome gets in the way. In fact they’re right that we’re not looking after ourselves, but it’s a lifestyle choice; we choose to be untidy and badly fed, to get too little sleep and drink too much because we’re sad and angry. My mum’s got bowel cancer and she’s finished her last course of chemo. From now on it’s palliative care only.

My mum and dad are not my biological parents, they fostered me when I was 10 and subsequently adopted me. And I’ve been thinking a lot lately of the first night in their house. They lived in Chelsea, in a street much grander than anything I’d imagined in Stamford Hill, and we had a perplexing supper where nobody said prayers and I was offered diluted red wine and food I didn’t recognise – how do you work out just by looking at it what a sun-dried tomato is? But most perplexing of all, they had a conversation with me and asked me what I thought about things. That had never happened before. As long as I was silent, my biological father seldom spoke to me at all and in my memory my mother only talked to me to train me to be silent in my father’s presence.

I lay in my new bed that night with the window open and a sweet smell from the window box filling the room and slowly realised I could get out of bed and lean out of the window to pick one of the flowers the scent was coming from and nobody would shout or rage or hit me for doing it. The next morning my mum came in to pull the curtains and found the flower I’d picked on the window ledge. My stomach turned over because I was sure now she’d send me back to the children’s home I’d come from but she just sat on the bed and explained that it was night scented stock and showed me how to press it flat between the pages of a dictionary. I still have the dictionary with the dried flower inside it, in the N section.

I feel an anger that I don’t even have a word for that this beautiful, gentle, funny woman is going to die. I’ve had no contact with my biological parents since I was 10 but I feel like finding them now, dragging them to her hospital bed and saying, “You see? This is a mother. And that man in tears sitting by her bedside is a father”

Because I still feel such contempt for my biological parents I tell myself I didn’t get anything from them but it’s not true. I’ve thrown away the photos that show how much like him I look and I tore up the letter she wrote me five years ago. But I do have things from them. I’m the son of a violent and controlling bully who plays with violence and control as part of sex; and I’m a doctor because on the day he hit my 12 year old sister Rachel for not being quick enough to do the washing up, and smashed her head off a kitchen cupboard and killed her, I wasn’t able to do anything to mend her broken skull.

Not that being a doctor now is any use. I can’t save my mum and I can’t make Lucy happy.

God this is self-indulgent rubbish. Fuck it. Add post.

On The Back Seat

David blogging for Lucy

Lucy’s home now but she’s asked me to mind the blog for a bit longer. I drove to Wales yesterday to pick her up and take her back to London and then had to turn round almost immediately and drive back to Suffolk.

I’m tired today, I’ve got man flu and I wish I was curled up in Lucy’s bed fighting her cat for the duvet. In fact I’m wondering whether there’s a website somewhere you can get in touch with women in your area who want casual man flu relationships – no dating or sex, just a man who comes round and takes to your bed with a bottle of whiskey while you snap impatiently at him to pull himself together because it’s only a cold.

I didn’t enjoy all the driving yesterday. Because I’m tall I can never quite adjust the car seat comfortably enough for long journeys and so I get a nagging lower back pain. I have fond memories of driving in France when Lucy insisted the solution to this problem was frequent sex breaks. It did wonders for the stiffness of my back (and no good at all for the stiffness of my cock) to drive, essentially looking for the next suitable place to stop and shag Lucy in a field or up against a tree, or even just watch her strip off and swim in a river. Of course by the time we got to her father’s house I slept for most of the first two days while the swelling in my balls went down.

I got my first car when I was 17, a beaten up Ford Fiesta, and because country girls need boyfriends with cars to ferry them around, I also got Jenny. Jenny was, in many respects, horrible. She was bitchy, bad tempered, self pitying, controlling, shallow and humourless. But she was also an easy lay for the price of a couple of vodkas, overly impressed by boys with cars and happy to get screwed on the back seat every Saturday night, which is of course all that really matters when you’re 17. I’d like to say that I came to my senses and rejected the values she represented but actually what happened is that I grew increasingly annoyed over the months by her complete unwillingness to do oral, got off with a girl at a party who sucked me off in her parents’ kitchen and dumped Jenny like a shot.

Party girl only stuck with me until her estranged boyfriend was properly jealous enough to threaten me with a knife in a pub car park but it was worth it for my first experience of being allowed to come all over a girl’s face, something I remain keen on to this day.