The First Love.

In reality, my first love was a pink, holey leotard that I used to prance around the house in as a child. I was given it at five, grew out of it by seven, still wore it at eight and verged on camel toe by nine when mum decided to throw it out and I went into mourning.

Much like my tatty leotard, first high school romances generally don’t fit properly. Hence why it’s a romantic rarity for couples to remain together from the age of nineteen to ninety, or why most girls blub at The Notebook (myself not included).

Me and my first boyfriend went to the same school. We found ourselves in the same friendship group. I lost my virginity to him while his mum had popped out for a Chinese. We stuck The Streets on, fumbled around for a bit and soon enough it was time for dad to pick me up. There was no fuss and it probably sounds a lot like your first time. And, probably not too dissimilar to your version, we loved each other a little too much. I, for one, was infatuated. In fact, if I’m honest, I was bat shit crazy. My MySpace was pretty much homage to him, we spent days at a time in bed and a two week holiday away from him felt like a twenty year stint in Holloway.

Never mind how serious your current relationship (or marriage) is now, that ability to love too much is something that cannot be recycled. Much like that teddy you lost as a child, you always hope that they are sitting safely somewhere, undamaged, with someone to love them as much as you did.

But do we ever really let go? Of course we do. However, just like your old toys that are stowed away in the attic, gifts from him are probably dotted around your room. You might not wear that bracelet someone bought you for your christening any more but you still have it, just like those disposable photos you took by the sea on that weekend away together. There’s a naivety that surrounds that first love that you’ll always want to protect. It reminds you of a time where cheating was only committed by the most wretched of humans and marriage didn’t seem so ridiculous. You’re basically reminding yourself that cynicism didn’t always exist.

It would seem that first loves bridge the gap between childhood and adulthood; no matter what age it strikes. It teaches you your capacity to love, exposes you to terrible loss and, of course, what to do with someone else’s furry bits.

So what would you say to your very important person if you could talk to them now?

I’d probably say thanks for teaching me at a young age that not all men are idiots. Oh, and for introducing me to capers.

Still with your first? You might as well write a book it’s so rare.

Wish you were still with yours? You could always put your faith in that cliché about ending up wearing the first thing you tried on…

Or you could just get out there a little more. They might have been the first but that certainly doesn’t mean they’re the one.

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The Wait.

It’s almost as if our generation is as screwed up as everyone says we are.

If a bloke fails to attempt to get into our knickers on the first or second date, we worry that we’re not attractive. Equally, if a girl doesn’t try and unzip your Levi’s early doors, she’s not keen. I’m wondering where along the line we disregarded the third date rule and adopted a far more “ready” approach?

For me, I think university had something to do with it. Had I resided in London to study English for three years, I probably would’ve lived at home. With this in mind, there would have been far fewer opportunities to bring people home after nights out, but also, my Catholic extraction would have been less likely uprooted by alcohol and debauchery. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been that religious. I did however undertake a purely Catholic education, leading me to think of sex as something of a sin until sixth form. Even then I thought I would only ever sleep with my boyfriend of the time, get married and give birth to would-be-angels.

But on arriving in Exeter, after an interesting year out, I realised that not everyone felt the same. People here had sex. WITH PEOPLE THEY DIDN’T KNOW. However bewildered and excited by this however, I still didn’t really partake in this past-time, and managed to hold down a relationship for the best part of three years. But I looked up to these people! I wanted to be more like them. Now, on returning to the homeland, I’m not so sure- it’s almost as if people trust the Mayan predictions, but instead of gathering rations and loved ones, we’re reaching for the Durex. Boots; watch your back.

Despite this, I can’t blame everyone for this outlet. In a time of uncertainty, a lack of permanent jobs for graduates and a hell of a lot of rain, we’re all living in limbo, where feelings rarely, if ever, come to the fore. We’re searching for a different sort of buzz from success. This means that more of us are heading out, doing lots of drugs that will probably cripple us in later life, downing gin and bonking because there’s nothing else to do. It’s almost like we’re bored and living in Hull in 1962.

But what is it actually doing for everyone?

With the increase of people logging into these ghastly dating sites, we’re clearly quite keen to settle down. But how often do you hear of people striking up a relationship with someone these days? Having casual sex is far more “normal”. Imagine for example sleeping with someone for the first time (even if you really like them), sober. I bet the thought of that makes around 70% of you wince. There’s Dutch courage and then there’s that.

What I’m trying to say is, is that waiting is underrated. And there’s something to be said for not being so easy. For example, when a male friend was questioned why he wouldn’t have sex with the girl he was getting with, he replied, “because I actually think I might like her”.

I’m not saying lock up your pants and throw away the key, but if you’re more than simply attracted to a person, then sex can still really mean something. Even in 2012.

So whatever the reason for doing it, I can almost guarantee that waiting will turn up the heat…

But as with most things, I guess only time will tell.

 

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The Position.

I think a lot of people feel as though their favourite sexual position says a lot about their personality. And I couldn’t agree more.

I, for instance, would rather say in public that my favourite position is doggy-style because, as a woman, it makes me feel all seductive and devious. In reality, I love a good missionary. But in certain social situations I’d keep tight lipped about this fact. After all, it’s almost like opting for plain toast over jam or marmalade. Totally uninteresting and lacking in lacklustre. Butter on toast is sex’s equivalent to the cowgirl, if you will.

But while I’ll remain sexually explicit on the outside, I’ll still vye for the ‘mundane’ on the inside. I mean come on, surely to God I’m not alone in thinking “so what?” when people go on and on about the fact that they’ve had sex in some ‘seriously outrageous places’? The fact is, although you might feel a little bit naughty because you’re engaging in al fresco activities, you’ve probably also got grass in hard-to-reach places and sand in your saddle bags. And although the thrill of being caught is promising, the possibility of starring in a tantalising peep show is overshadowed by the reality that some old pervert is whacking off to your antics from behind a wheelie bin. I’m therefore not jealous of your experiences, I’d just recommend checking the internet for some unwanted up-skirt shots from around the back of Infernos.

Another position I’ve grappled with for years now is the standing position. Although ideal when propped up against a wall or able to rest on some sort of ledge, the standing position only works if the guy is able to lift you in the first place. I’m no heavy weight but I do have some mild junk in my trunk and I cannot tell you how disheartening that subtle groan is coming from your man, not because you’re doing something right, but because you’re quite literally too heavy to handle.

The most likely location for standing sex to take place is the shower and the prospect of this fills me with dread. For me, the most powerful showers peel away at my fake tan, I constantly fail to keep my head from being placed under the stream of water turning my sultry waves into a frizz bomb and I wouldn’t really ever want to have sex with no makeup on so I’d go from looking pristine to panda in around thirty seconds. Just about as long as the sex would last before one of us slipped on the soap and was taken to A&E. Trust me, it happened.

Then there’s sex on unsuspecting furnishings that people so love to brag about. “We had sex on the stove last night”. Why on earth would you want to romp on the same place your rump was frying the night before? I feel as though I could make some sort of saucy joke here, but I’ll refrain.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no prude. I like a good marathon as much as the next girl and there’s nothing better than a need-you-now moment, but there is also nothing better than sticking to what you know. And much like finding the perfect dress, you’ll spend hours traipsing around (all hot and bothered) finding the perfect one, only to realise that you found it in the first shop you browsed that morning.

Having said all this, in a game of sexually orientated ‘I have never’, my glass is normally one of the first to be emptied.

Trial and error kids, trial and error.

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The Sisterhood.

Don’t get me wrong. I, like most girls out there, might feel a slight pang of jealousy when my best friend tells me about her new job while I’m still unemployed three months after graduating. I also recognize that “oh-so-single” feeling when a coupled up chum tells you that her boyfriend bought her tickets to see a west end show while you sit at home watching Downton Abbey alone. But no matter how much you envy your gal pal, above anything, first and absolutely foremost, you should feel happy for your friend.

I’ve noticed recently that women seem to come together and show their strength of sex when things are going badly. When it comes to a break up, we’re there with chocolate and DVDs. Bad exam results? We’re there with the gin and tickets to the nearest club night. We spend hours and hours dwelling on the negatives but when it comes to congratulating our friends on something that’s going well in their lives, the notion of sisterhood goes out of the window and we’re either reluctant to congratulate our friends or we just quite simply forget. Although it’s great that we sympathise so well with our girlfriends, we should celebrate our wonderful characters and quirky abilities rather than join as one in times of woe-we deserve it! After all, since the turn of the century, women really have started to rule the roost. Think Lady Gaga, Michelle Obama and J.K Rowling to name but a few. And although we look up to them and seek inspiration from them, women continue to be threatened by other women. I guarantee that in our day to day lives, we’d be far more inclined to ask a man for directions or hope to be served by a male sales advisor than ask the help of a woman, and yes that is part of the rules of attraction but we should stop feeling threatened. Our sister strangers should be the next best thing to friendship.

For me, Beyoncé is the ultimate woman. She has a gorgeous husband with a baby on the way, a successful career and she celebrates all this by backing herself with an all girl band; something that a number of my male friends have expressed their concerns about and call sexist. I see it as more of a celebration than anything. Don’t get me wrong, she is most definitely making a point by using a band of boobs but I’m not sure that she’s on Pankhurst Patrol just yet. I think she, unlike lots of women in this day and age, feels most at ease surrounded by women. And this to me is a beautiful thing.

I wouldn’t have ever called myself a feminist until recently and I would never burn my bras-it would be far too expensive. But what I will do is sing along, very, very loudly to Beyoncé and her oestrogen extravaganza and celebrate how much I love being a woman.

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The Magic Number.

In an age where cross-dressing is the norm and where people think it’s okay to wear denim-on-denim, it’s odd to think that the number of people one has slept with, still holds so much responsibility for defining a person. Normally, I’d be of the opinion that it doesn’t really matter. But as of late, I’ve had a change of heart and think that actually, it does have a lot to answer for.

I’m not condemning men or women for sleeping with lots of different people but I think that, in all honesty, it can change your opinion of how important you are to them in the first few weeks of getting to know each other. If a guy tells you that he’s only slept with a few people, a couple of relationships and a couple of regrettable one night stands, then you think; normal guy. But if he says that he’s slept with over forty women at the age of roughly 22, most of which were ‘awesome one night stands’ then (correct me if I’m wrong girls) alarms bells go off in your mind.

I don’t know whether or not this stems from my Catholic girls school education where if you even kissed a boy you were called a slut, but I really do think people should start choosing who they sleep with, with a little more caution. I have a number of Christian friends who believe that sex should be something kept within marriage and although I would never agree with abstaining, I’m starting to think it’s actually probably a very nice thing to do. I’d hate to know that on my wedding day, my husband had slept with a ridiculous number of random women. Although knowing that I was the one who managed to pin him down for more than one night of fun would probably be rather satisfying.

I’m not saying that people who sleep with lots of different people are ‘dirty’ and I’m certainly not ignorant enough to believe that they’re more likely to carry an STI; it’s really more of an ‘emotional’ thing. I think it’s nicer knowing that you a) know all the names of the people you’ve slept with b) liked them all and c) you would still say hello to them if you saw them in the street instead of running in the opposite direction.

During a sex education class at sixth form, someone was made to stand on stage and have tape stuck to the hairs on his arm. The first time the tape was removed, it was painful, memorable, and the hall erupted in laughter and screams. But as the plaster was repeatedly reapplied and removed, it became boring and meaningless. This was the Catholic School’s answer to a sex allegory. Naughty eh? But despite the whole experience being completely cringe worthy and at the time disregarded, I can’t help but wonder whether they had a point. Does sex become more meaningless the more people you “do it” with..?

A guy asked recently what my magic number was and on telling him, he multiplied it by three and said that he believed that was closer to the truth. Looking flabbergasted, I asked him whether I looked ‘easy’ and he explained that for women you multiply whatever they say by three, and for men you divide it by three. And that’s the real answer. This made me start to think about whether or not people past the age of fifteen lie about their sexual history. Surely not? Despite being favourable of a more modest number, I still think it’s important to be proud of your past and if you feel it necessary to tell porkies, then you’ve got to realise that surely something’s up.

Being completely honest? I think it’s more a personal thing. If someone I really liked told me they’d slept with five billion people, I probably wouldn’t care. And if my best friend admitted to me that she’d actually slept with six hundred, I’d probably rate her…

Besides, on the subject of sex, practise really does make perfect.

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The One Night Only.

When it comes to describing a one night stand, I think ‘glamorous’ is highly innapropriate. Instead of being a night of passion, fireworks and great sex, the one night stand normally culminates in scattered condom wrappers, drunken failed attempts and a very public walk of shame. Sound familiar? I think to most students across the country this will most definitely be etched somewhere in your memory of university.

Perhaps post-education one night stands ooze sophistication? I just find it impossible to imagine…

For instance, there’s the night where you and a very good friend get rather intoxicated on Tia Maria, end up kissing and then think that because ‘you get along so well’ you might as well have sex. Wrong. This is very rarely a good idea. Although it may never be spoken about again and it might not be awkward, you will forever be able to picture them butt naked- and that changes a person! Then there’s the one night with an ex. Although it is normally phenomenal considering you probably know each other’s hot spots, once again don’t bother. It will always mess with your head (unless you are made of steel, in which case, crack on). And then when it comes to having sex with a total random then I would probably say just don’t do it. Not because I’m prudish but because I have heard some serious horror stories. I’m talking nose bleeds, burglar AND fire alarms, mistaken mementos, fainting mid cohort and … well, a “mix up” with twins. And holes.

From this, I have deduced that the one night stand with someone you know holds a much lower risk rate because of the comfortability factor, but much like a one night stand with a total stranger, you have to wonder… is it really worth the bother?

I understand that there must be someone, somewhere, that has had a good one night stand but I’m yet to meet them.  Obviously the story provides a great deal of laughter at the pub the next day but I think sex with a total random can leave you feeling a little empty.

One night wonder or classy and mysterious? I know which one I’d rather be…

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The Gold Rush.

As I celebrated my 22nd birthday on Saturday evening in a lovely pub surrounded by friends, I was informed of a little something that guys at university have thought up at a time when I really thought it couldn’t get any worse. They have coined a new phrase: “The Gold Rush”.

You know the feeling when you’ve sat through your final seminar and you start to see light at the end of the tunnel and think about all the fun that is to ensue post-exams? Me too. However, I have been looking forward to not studying, sunbathing and taking part in all day and all night drinking once again. I guess people had other ideas about their final term at university. Guys across the country have apparently labelled the final forthcoming summer term celebrations as, “The Gold Rush”. They’re basically referring to themselves finally seeking out the girls that they’ve always wanted to (for want of a better word) shag and, well, shagging them.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all up for a little summer loving but I just cannot for the life of me understand why these guys think it will be any easier for them to score with the girl that they haven’t got with because of a little bit of sunshine if they’ve been trying for the last three years? Maybe if you stopped naming having sex with someone, you might be more successful?

I, for one, will be steering clear of anyone who looks like an eager pioneer this summer. And girls, so should you.

Final note: To the guys who “invented” this apparently seasonal affair: It’s available all year round. If you have the chat, that is.

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