Tell us about your first time

I never knew whether I’d lost my virginity that night or not. I do know that nine months or so later – and ten, and eleven, and eighteen and twenty seven – I worried myself silly about the possibility that the dumpy little schoolgirl with whom I’d misbehaved would appear unannounced at my university residence door with, (impossible thought!) my baby in her arms. For God’s sake, I was only eighteen. And the night on the train, the night of the encounter, had hardly been the stuff of which romance is made.

In fact, as I say, I wasn’t even convinced I’d actually done the deed at all. My intimations of paternity were based entirely on my faith in the vigour and motility of my sperm, which, I imagined, might have gained entry where I hadn’t.

If I hadn’t.

It was all so confusing. Partly because of my inexperience, of course – but also because of the circumstances.

I was on my way back from a student leadership course in a rather remote part of the country. The trip home involved an overnight train ride, with many stops along the way. I was sharing a three-man compartment with two friends – one a close mate whom I’d always suspected could, just maybe might be, gay – and one I could hardly even call a friend, more a nodding acquaintance.

At one of the many stops we made, two girls got on and, at our insistence, joined us in our compartment. They were, I suppose, fifteen or sixteen. One was a cheerleader-type who managed to give her dull green school tunic a sense of real style, even sexiness. There was a bounce to her step and a glint in her eye that was both promising and, to me, just a tad intimidating.

Which is why I wasn’t very surprised when I ended up, on the bottom bunk, with the cheerleader’s dumpy friend. But I wasn’t complaining because I knew at once that this was it! This was the opportunity I’d been yearning for, for years.

The first thing I noticed was her smell. She smelled of powder. Damp powder. She was amenable to my caresses – but not terribly responsive. But, resolutely, I set about exploring her inert person. And learned that women’s clothes are – or were back then, at least – designed not merely to conceal, but to mislead. My silent partner was wrapped in garments, the purpose of which I have not penetrated (operative word!) to this day.

My confusion was really the consequence of my friend’s insistence that we switch off the lights. Murmuring deep disapproval, he’d retreated to the top bunk.

From the middle bunk came giggles and gasps betokening, I felt, swift and mutually satisfying manipulation.

The manipulation happening on the bottom bunk was neither swift nor mutually satisfying. I was struggling to find my way through barriers of polyester and nylon. Past all-enveloping undergarments to which there seemed to be no key or logic, even. But despite these obstacles, or perhaps because of them, my excitement was rising fast. And when at last I managed to thrust myself past – or through – or between (I’m not sure which the most accurate preposition is), I realised I was closer to the goal that had shaped my entire adolescence than I had ever been before.

Well, this is when things really got messy. I wasn’t sure really what the hell was going on.  I achieved a momentary spasm that really didn’t measure up either to the anticipated ecstasy of my first fuck – or, indeed, to the repetitive thrill of schoolboy wanking.

But, hey, if I hadn’t actually got there, I was about as near as makes no difference. And what I did experience in full 3D and Technicolour was what I later learned was too frequently associated with sex: guilt. Because what I did know was that, if I had actually achieved penetrative sex, then there was a real danger of … I brooded on these things while my partner took herself off silently to the bathroom. After she returned we sat, not touching, in the dark, until the train drew to a halt and she and her giggling, satiated friend, exited.

The palms of my hands smelled of cheap damp powder for weeks.