A contributor to an online fathers' community that I engage with told of his early trouble with girls (TWG) as a 9YO boy dressing up as Toad of Toad Hall, complete with green tights and make up, in a school play. The girl he fancied didn’t talk to him after that and he avoided her all through secondary school. Things like that are hard to bear and they haunt you into adulthood. My own TWG at primary school pursued me into an all boys’ grammar where I managed to avoid TWG until sixth form.
Then I got into trouble with Emma Briggs. She was a statuesque blonde and there were times in life when I would have crawled across a field of broken glass just to sit next to her, but at school she was a different entity. She climbed, naked and uninvited, into bed with me at a drunken teenage sleepover party. She said nothing but slid her soft tongue into my mouth. It was a wonderful sensation, enhanced by the feel of her womanly breasts pressed against me.
I was terrified.
“What are you doing?”
“I just wanted to get into bed with you.”
“Well, it’s only a single, there’s not enough room for two.”
I woke later to find Emma on her hands and knees, being taken from behind by a lad from the upper sixth. He bulled her with masterful strokes and her elegant rear rose gratefully to receive his attentions as her slender thighs flexed like a thoroughbred with each manly thrust, her fulsome bosom swinging daringly in the half-light. I shall be forever haunted by the memory of her pretty young face tormented with ecstasy as she was rhythmically shoved into the pillow.
TWG also found me at university where I was initially uncomfortable with the sophisticated women. They seemed so grown up and cosmopolitan, most of them having spent a gap year somewhere exotic. I went straight from school to university.
Melanie approached me early in the first term but I felt unthreatened because we were friends. I grew up believing that there were girlfriends you could shag and friends who were girls who you could not shag.
“How are you settling in?” I asked, mainly because I was not.
“Fine,” Melanie looked at me over the rim of her wine glass. “It’s really cool being independent, having friends around whenever you like.”
“I’m moving room, actually. I’m getting a single.”
“In fact,” said Melanie lowering her voice, “I could make good use of your strong body this evening.” She placed her elegant fingers on my thigh and smiled.
I relaxed then because, being a young Northern chap, I assumed that the good lady needed a hand to move her boxes and furniture.
“Should I get a couple of the rugby lads to help?” Melanie hurried off.
My next disaster occurred whilst playing squash. Annie was also from the Home Counties and she was much better at squash but my inability did little to dampen her ardour and she manipulated me around the court, causing me to bump into her.
After a particularly clever shot I flattened her against the sidewall and was too knackered to move. I leant against her cool, smooth skin for a second, panting and dripping sweat on her.
“No problem, Billy. You can press me up against the wall anytime.”
I looked at her uncertainly.
“It’s your serve.”
Eventually, I got the hang of it and joined in enthusiastically but some of those early encounters still haunt me.