On a more boring note, I’ve attached my latest short story if you want to read it. And, if you do want some feedback on your piece, I’ve attached a copy of it with my shitty comments that you should definitely ignore . . . Hope you’re enjoying your newfound columnist fame. xx
I squealed out loud. He had actually bothered to read my column and attach constructive criticism—he wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t like me. And he had sent me his writing too, so he clearly cared about my opinions. I grinned and collapsed onto my bed happily. He wasn’t just a dry-hump-’em and leave-’em kind of guy. This was actually happening—I was dating a guy who liked my writing and wanted to see me this weekend. Oh shit, that meant I only had three days before I lost my V-plates.
Ellie’s To-Do List:
Tweeze out the stray hairs that have grown back on vagina since the big wax.
Watch porn to figure out how to give the perfect BJ—and also a hand job. But is that too soft for pornos to focus on?
Figure out if pornos do hand job clips.
Apply for more internships. (The first twenty might still reply, Ellie. Stay hopeful.)
Do dissertation instead of just taking relevant books out of the library.
Mentally prepare for losing V-card on Saturday.
Have some quality “me time” with my brand-new bullet . . .
Bullet and I spent an hour together and I came three times in a row. I was officially a serial climaxer. It had taken me a few minutes to figure out how it worked, but the whole thing basically just vibrated when you pressed the button, and you rubbed it over the clitoris. I realized that the best thing for me was to start off by rubbing it gently, with the thick side of it, then go faster and just use the tip. I brushed the tip over the clit really quickly and then the familiar feeling of releasing the built-up tension unleashed over me and I literally quivered with joy.
It was amazing. There was only one tiny, very mini little incident when I got a bit bored and tried to mix things up a bit.
I decided to slip the bullet straight into my vagina for some penetration action. It felt nice, and definitely different, until I pushed it in as far as it would go and it slipped in behind the contracting/valve bit where tampons go. Only, unlike a tampon, the bullet didn’t have a string hanging off it to pull it back to safety. Which meant it was vibrating deep inside me, and I COULDN’T GET IT OUT! I panicked until I had a brain wave to squat on the floor, and it slipped out of me. I had never felt relief like that before.
The whole experience was so overwhelming that I put the bullet away in a drawer and spent the next few days focusing on slave narratives. I still hadn’t moved away from my Surrey home and was spending each day reading articles in online journals and poring over my American Literature anthology. I figured if I got a start on my dissertation, the ball of guilt in my gut would slowly ebb away, and I could spend the weekend with Jack. I was planning on moving back to my little room in central London on Friday and losing my virginity at some point during the weekend. I’d marked my date with Jack on my calendar by drawing a mini V across the Saturday and Sunday boxes.
The only distractions to my dissertation were the constant visits into my bedroom from my mother. She was asking me daily about Paul—if I’d heard any more from him, when I was next seeing him, etc. I could hardly tell her he’d kissed her only daughter just to double check that he wanted to bone men.
Actually, he had been messaging me, but not in the context my mum thought. He sent me pictures of his latest animations, and I sent him mine and Emma’s latest vlogs. He was surprisingly easy to talk to and we had made plans to hang out. My most recent snog was on his way to becoming my first gay best friend.
Touched for the Very First Time
I’m sure it was all good for Madonna being touched like a virgin for the first time, but what about when you’re a virgin touching yourself for the first time? Because most girls out there were touching their vaginas way before they ever let a boy down there—or even knew that what they were doing had a name.
Which it does. Masturbation. Mmmm. The word alone makes us close our eyes in a warm blur of memory while our clits start throbbing in anticipation. It is the most precious gift Mama Nature gave us and something every woman should explore.
Not that Greek Orthodox mums see it like that. And EK should know because she grew up being told “touching yourself down there is bad.” Result? She inevitably got a complex and felt waves of guilt every time her hand naturally rubbed itself against her prepubescent vagina from the age of seven onwards. Okay, probably from the age of five if she’s being totally honest.