I lost my Virginity when l was 22, and that ain’t no word of a lie.

Why, you might think to yourself, would someone lie about such a thing? Who knows? It’s certainly not the kind of story a normal person would choose to retell, especially in such a public forum. But for whatever reason l am, and l was.

Now before you frantically scroll down to the comments box to call me a loser just relax, take a breath and read. I’m neither promoting promiscuous sexual behaviour or criticising anyone’s decision to abstain from the odd bit of slap ‘n tickle (what I wouldn’t give to throw down with one of those deliciously Jew fro’d Jonas bros). I’m just here for a bit of show ‘n tell; story time from the big book of me. This chapter is about the early frigid years of my young adult life.

You’ve all had that conversation, usually with a group of drunken friends while lounging around either before or after a night out. How old were you? Who was it with? What was it like?

Whenever queried on my magic number my reply tends to provoke a whole range of awkward responses. My official line is that it was all my choice. I had opted for a life of purity, waiting patiently like a princess in her tower for Mr Right to come along and sweep me off my feet and into his bed. The reality however, was that I was a real ugly kid who couldn’t give it away, gave up trying and then left it all too late to try and saddle back up.

Now I’m not saying I was a 9 on the John Merrick scale of facial disfigurements or anything and I’m sure some of the lads I grew up with did dig my desperate, geeky vibe, but after knocking around with me for a few weeks they tended to throw in the towel and make a run for it, leaving me all the more angst ridden, insecure and socially retarded. By the way readers, loosing your virginity doesn’t really change anything about you; I still possess those three sterling qualities in spades.

So there I was, half way though my adolescent life and still a proud V card carrier. But to start with I did try, and I remember these first attempts all too clearly. The dating, flirting, frolicking and minor foreplay use to build up the high hopes of this blossoming young woman. I was keen. The problem here was that they weren’t, and this lack of reciprocation made my efforts feel all the more humiliating. I spent painful hours in cinemas with my mates being force fed American cheese fests like American Pie, Superbad and Juno, huddled up in the foetal position watching them all LOL and ROFL at the comical virginal characters. Them laughing along knowingly, smugly assured by their plentiful sexual conquests, me tittering nervously trying not to be caught out.

Skip forward 5 clumsy years and out of the blue I wake up one morning with a decent set of knockers, long glossy hair and skin that’s no longer peppered with constellations of custard coloured dots. I was by no means transformed into a pin up over night, but I was a long way away from the pig I used to be before I hit twenty.

After my metamorphosis boys started to pay me attention, and in a delicious twist of irony, I quickly discovered that l hated it. It was like winning the lottery in Zimbabwe - so close but yet so far. But never one to be deterred l continued to try and move beyond this penis shaped fork in the road, and over the next few months I slapped on the war paint, squeeze myself into inappropriate ‘clubbing’ costumes and attempted to beaver my way into boys beds - usually under the worse pretenses possible. I was trying my best, but 9 times out of 10 I found that I just didn’t know want to do at the most crucial moments. I turned into an unintentional cock tease and I really didn’t want to be. In fact, I didn’t really understand what the fuck ‘cock tease’ even meant. I’d just squirm about a bit, shed all my clothes and then change my mind. This didn’t tend to go down too well and the responses I got from the fellas were less than favourable.

And so my reputation grew. Now not only was l a cock teasing, frigid, dyke (not sure how that even made to into the mix but it did) to those who knew me, but I was also a cock teasing, frigid, dyke to those who didn’t. So in the end I just gave up, shut up shop and galloped off into the sunset to find the bright lights and anonymity of the big city - LDN. Once there I quickly managed to reinvent myself, creating a seemingly confident socialite alias persona for the new me, before eventually popping my cherry with a lad I’d dated for a while after moving. Cashback.

And there you have it. I found true love, tied down said cherry popper as my boyf (he even went as far as having my initials tattooed on his foot) and lived happily ever after - for a while at least. Eventually I moved out and he got with some other gal, but that’s fine. I see them about quite a bit and they’ve both shaved the entire circumference of their heads, which is revenge enough I think you’ll agree. I reckon he must pass the tattoo off as a tribute to that bleach haired white rapper who hates his mum.

But all’s well that ends well, and any anxious girl readers out there can maybe take something from my tale. It will happen so don’t stress out too much, and after it does you probably won’t feel that different anyway. As for me, my furry muff and I are fine as ever - better acquainted, more educated and a lot friendlier than we used to be. Next time you see us why not rubber up, slither over and say hey?

Illustration: Rob Whoriskey