My last year at school passed rewardingly. I was a school prefect which means I had respect. I was well-regarded, played sport at a high level and secured good exam results. Everything was rosy. Well not everything. The school decided to pretend to move with the times and let girls join the sixth form. I watched my best friends move in for the kill. They all had dark hair, beautiful skin and were charismatic, witty and were fuelled by late-teenage testosterone. At the very peak of adolescent, masculine irresistibility. Burgeoning confidence, imminent manhood. Right time, right place.
I had acne and blonde hair. Wrong time, wrong place. They got the girls. I watched with untold envy.
The only compensation was that my illicit appointments with beautiful, shapely, scantily-clad girls continued apace. In the school toilets. My ability to pilfer suitable reading material from local newsagents assumed epidemic proportions. Shame it wasn’t an Olympic sport. There was one private toilet on the upper balcony just outside my dormitory which had ceiling tiles. By carefully sliding one particular tile sideways it revealed a very secret hiding place. Ideal for secreting a library of pleasingly educational literature. Or so I thought. Mysteriously over time it became apparent that I had a partner in crime because the collection seemed to be boosted every now and again by publications that weren’t familiar. My reference material didn’t diminish, but grew and also began to bear evidence of infiltration. Different finger prints. A different type of wear and tear. Important pages stuck together as if by glue. I knew my habits. These were not mine. I never discovered the identity of my fellow conspirator. Or I would have thanked him for providing a magazine that was to shape my life irreparably.
Initially I was thrilled and delighted by the glorious pages of Mayfair, a down-market tabloid version of Penthouse. I will never forget the exhilaration of leafing through a brand new copy for the first time. Turning the pages to reveal another girl whose perfection caused more than my heart to flutter. The glorious female shape, the contours, the crevices, legs open, breasts forward, fingers thoughtfully in mouths, hair in buns, the make-up, the painted nails, the jewellery, the lingerie, the stockings – always the stockings. Nikki, 22, a hairdresser from Nottingham, looked at me longingly, persuasively, coquettishly, seductively….. ‘Come on then if you’re man enough…..it’s all yours’. The trouble was that while I was showing definite signs of being man enough, it was never all mine. Julia, 24, from Essex, was a top glamour model who desperately wants to be a photographer and whose interests ‘naturally include sex’. Naturally.
Wendy, 21, on the other hand was a beautician from Berkshire who spent so much of her time making other people look attractive that she had ‘never thought of herself as model material’. Apparently the photographer had spotted her in tight jodhpurs riding in Windsor Park. As well as riding Wendy ‘loves long walks, country pubs and romantic novels’…..Definitely marriage material. Although, then the priority was imagining what it would be like to slide between Wendy’s very tight arse cheeks which she was very definitely offering to me (and only me) and insert my straining teenage cock between her very well proportioned lips and thrust hard until an eruption. I never debated the number of thrusts required, clearly with my over-excitable, naïve, immature and inept physiology one would have been too many…..
If the photos weren’t enough the section called ‘Quest’ certainly was. The recounting of real life experiences by sexually active adults who described various lascivious scenarios was particularly compelling. It flourished my imagination and made me realise that sex had more to offer than merely going to bed to procreate. Many of the described situations didn’t involve a bed. Many were illicit acts forged out of urgent lust and desire where mutual pleasuring was an urgent and mandatory requirement. Often involving a range of sexual pleasuring involving many acts beyond what one might call ‘normal’. This fascinated me and I began to realise that sex offered an array of glittering jewellery, the choice of which depended entirely upon the type of invitation.
But what really fascinated me most in my clandestine library was the discovery of a new type of magazine. A publication which comprised adverts by singles and couples seeking various types of liaisons. Women seeking men. Men seeking women. Couples seeking men. Couples seeking women. Couples seeking couples. I didn’t dwell on the selection process. I merely relished the spirit of possibility. It appeared as if no preamble was required, no awkward adolescent small talk, no strings, no rejection. I was way too young to become involved in such furtive complexity, but it had sown a seed that was later to become transformative.