Virgin(61)

Immediately, I knew I was not going to be a swallower.

I grasped around for a tissue to spit into, but all I found was my dress. Jack was barely acknowledging me and seemed to be basking in his own pleasure so I bent down and spat into my clothes. I felt sad as I saw the liquid stick onto my flattering floral dress, but breathed a sigh of relief that at least it had been inside out so I wouldn’t go home with stains all over me.

“That . . . was amazing,” he said as he fell back onto the bed, and I flushed with pure, unadulterated joy and pride. I was good at blow jobs. Fuck you, James Martell. I was good at this. I had a talent, a skill and, oh my God, I had conquered my fear! I was every woman, I was Chaka Khan, and I was euphoric.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” I said flirtatiously and lay down next to him. I wasn’t sure what came next. I’d never given a successful blow job. I hoped he would spend a few minutes telling me how great it was so I could ignore the weird salty taste in my mouth and not feel sad about my dress. He didn’t oblige, but instead, he leaned over and kissed me. I thought of the salty taste being transferred to his mouth and giggled mid-kiss.

“What’s up?” he murmured.

“Oh nothing,” I said quickly, and started kissing him more passionately, pressing my boobs into him again. My fail-safe move wasn’t having the desired effect because he stopped to yawn.

“Fuck, I’m knackered,” he said, and before I knew it, he had closed his eyes and was falling asleep.

I lay there in silence. I wanted a glass of water, but I couldn’t bring myself to put my dirty clothes on or risk seeing any of his flatmates. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but instead I relived the whole night. I grinned stupidly to myself, feeling a liberating sense of happiness as I realized I had finally given a proper blow job, and basically tossed someone off at the same time. I wasn’t a failure. I was normal.


P.S. to “There Will Be Blood” by EK

For all the girls out there who don’t care for period sex—especially if you’re a virgin and don’t fancy adding more blood to an already delicate situation—try not to feel weird about telling the guy you’re bleeding down there. “I have my period” is a very normal thing to say. Getting shy and telling him you have your lady time, you’re “on” or that—wild card—“Venus is visiting” will only confuse him. Yes, I am talking from personal and recent experience here.





 In the morning, I knew I had to take out my tampon or I was going to get toxic shock syndrome and die in my prime. I also knew that I didn’t have another tampon in my bag.

I sat on the loo seat, wondering what I should do. I was wearing one of his jumpers and would normally leap at the chance to feel like a sexy romcom heroine with my legs out, but I was too preoccupied. I had opened every bathroom cabinet, because I knew he had a female flatmate, but the bitch hadn’t left a single sanitary pad floating around.

There was a knock on the door and I froze. “Um, who is it?” I asked.

“It’s Cat. I need to go to work. Will you be long in there?” a girl’s voice called out impatiently.

Ohmigod, it was her—the female flatmate. I ignored the mild irritation creeping up my veins at the fact that she was saying I was taking a long time. I flushed the loo, adjusted the jumper that barely covered my underpants and opened the door. She had short dark hair, a nose piercing, and looked angry.

“Hey . . . sorry,” I said. “Um, I’m a . . . friend of Jack’s and was just wondering if you maybe have a tampon or something I could use?”

She looked at me with fake sympathy and tilted her head to the side. “Aw, sorry, I don’t. I’m a Moon Cup girl,” she said, and pushed past me to get into the bathroom.

I stood there in silence, frozen to the spot. A Moon Cup girl? What the fuck was a Moon Cup? And now she was in the bathroom and hadn’t even given me a chance to shove some tissue into my pants. I walked back upstairs slowly, and when I opened the door, Jack was awake.

“What’s up?” He yawned.

“What’s a Moon Cup?” I asked.

He blinked slowly and sat up. “What the fuck?”

“Exactly!” I said as I sat down next to him, too confused to bother hiding period talk from him. “I asked your flatmate Cat if she had a tampon and she said she’s a ‘Moon Cup girl.’”

“What the hell is that?” he asked.

He really wasn’t the brightest of sparks in the morning. “That’s what I want to know,” I replied. He reached for his phone.

“What are you doing?” I asked.