One of my earliest encounters with, like, a real proper woman and that, happened after a fairly large amount of booze had been consumed. This was partly a good thing, as I really, really liked her and didn't want to run the risk of blowing the full-time whistle shortly after kick-off, but it was also a bad thing as my Stella-numbness had robbed me of the ability to feel anything at all.
Now, when you're young and inexperienced you are tempted to believe that your prowess in this department will be measured purely on your longevity. This, obviously, is nonsense. Minicab drivers don't get rewarded for taking their clients on a fruitless 8 hour drive, they get paid for taking them where they want to go in a reasonable amount of time, preferably without banging on about Tottenham's transfer policy as they do it. The same applies to sex, but I didn't know this.
I clattered this poor girl like a man who was unsure if he'd ever get another go. It was every position, every style for quite some time. I was really impressed with myself. This, I presumed, was sex. It might have taken longer than a game of Trivial Pursuit, but surely that it made it better. All the while, I was blissfully unaware of the friction building up, of the matted hair on tender skin, of the relentless punishment that poor, poor Little Slipperduke was taking.
The next morning, I pulled my clothes on and set off back for home. What a night, I thought to myself. It appears that I have truly come of age. I walked in through the front door, had a quiet cup of tea before any of my housemates woke up and then realised that I needed a wee.
My flatmates awoke shortly afterwards to hear what must have sounded like a skinned pig being dropped in a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. In my drunken fervour, I had ground the base of my shaft down until it was red raw. Rogue hairs, not all of which were mine, had been trapped in the early stages of the healing process, unwittingly sealed into the skin and then torn asunder as I pulled myself out to wee.
In my shock at the white-hot pain, I'd whipped my hand away, sending a gentle stream of steaming urine up into the air and back down into my scorched loins where it stung like acid. And that's really when the howling started.
As a post-script, I never got to have sex with that girl again, though I did see her in a lecture later that day, lowering herself gingerly into her seat and wincing slightly as she touched down. I've never felt so guilty.
Sex. If it lasts longer than an episode of The Simpsons, you're doing it wrong.
