I can feel her fingers running through my hair as we exchange hot, blurry kisses; I pull the curves of her body into mine. Long private minutes pass by; it’s not the best kiss ever, but for a friend of a friend things between us have been immediately easy. She’s really attractive, and there’s been a spark in the conversation. We’re stumbly with drink, clumsy tongues in each other’s mouths, but there’s nothing clumsy about the feel of her hips beneath the thin dress fabric. I slip kisses from her lips onto her neck, and she lets out a sigh which recovers into laughter, as she pulls away. The dull thud of the bass, the buzz of talk, and the amused faces of my friends watching from the bar come rushing back messily. I’m aware of a tug on my hand as she leads me away from the dancefloor towards the cloakroom. Cue even more amused faces from my friends as I leave, doing my best impression of a straight walk.
I can feel her fingers running through my hair as we exchange hot, blurry kisses; I pull the curves of her body into mine. Long private minutes pass by; it’s not the best kiss ever, but for a friend of a friend things between us have been immediately easy. She’s really attractive, and there’s been a spark in the conversation. We’re stumbly with drink, clumsy tongues in each other’s mouths, but there’s nothing clumsy about the feel of her hips beneath the thin dress fabric.
I slip kisses from her lips onto her neck, and she lets out a sigh which recovers into laughter, as she pulls away. The dull thud of the bass, the buzz of talk, and the amused faces of my friends watching from the bar come rushing back messily. I’m aware of a tug on my hand as she leads me away from the dancefloor towards the cloakroom. Cue even more amused faces from my friends as I leave, doing my best impression of a straight walk.
In the queue for coats I’m starting to feel the effects but I manage to drive my disorientation aside when she reaches her arm out behind and slowly starts to touch me through my jeans. Drunkenly playful, she opens her mouth slightly and arches her neck, and as her tongue touches against her teeth she presses her back against me and subtly pushes her hand down inside my jeans.
At this point, I start spinning, but can’t tell if it’s the drink or the girl. We reach the counter and I fall against it as she asks for her coat. They’re discussing some issue, but all else becomes irrelevant as I realise it’s the drink. Definitely the drink. Crisis: the drink is now an immediately pressing issue. In a moment of panic, I snatch her bag from the counter as she argues and run into a corner.
I can’t tell what’s more horrific, my emergency ability to projectile-aim, or the fact that no-one seems to have noticed. Closing the bag, I thrust it into the hands of a club worker coming past and tell them that the girl at the counter just dropped it.
I’m a horrible human being.
This is strike one, and it’s not a good start. It’s Trinity term; I’m a first-year lawyer; I’m also a virgin. I’m not embarrassed about it, and I don’t feel I have anything to prove, but I’m nineteen and never been… well, fucked. Is that too much to ask? So that’s what this diary is all about. If you’re in my situation then maybe you’ll go along for the (semi-proverbial) ride with me, and if not, it’ll be a great spectator sport.
There you have it: eight weeks to lose the v-card. Eight strikes and I’m out. Let the games begin. No handbags necessary.
