Early Memories Pt 2

1) Bee Stings.

The moment those little bee stings form on a girl’s chest she knows. She knows puberty is knocking on the door. Every day, and regularly during every day, she checks them. Look (carefully) at any teenage girl walking down the street and sooner or later she’ll cast her eyes downwards at her tits. 

Some girls develop so rapidly, they develop huge tits complete with stretch marks. Others, like me stop almost as soon as they started. No, actually, that’s not really fair. Mine are small, yes, but they did grow for a while. I really sympathised with the girls who grew large boobs. PE was painful for them…even with a so-called ‘sports bra’. Most PE teachers exult in causing pain, but if you want a Masterclass in pain, you need to go see a wizened old nun. The two ‘auld bitches’ who ran the PE department, we were sure, inflicted unnecessary pain on us. A ‘good lesson’ to them was when a couple of us were in tears, had rope burns, or had vomited. 

But they also insisted we showered afterwards. Of course the water was never more than tepid, and that made our nipples hard. Some girls were in and out of the showers like lightning, while you could watch others soaping themselves carefully and repeatedly…boobs…between their legs, which led to us jeering. (A boy once told me that when boys pee and shake it afterwards, they considered (more than three shakes is a wank!”.

Sonia. Sonia was, poor lass, far from an attractive girl. Neither her face nor her body would win any beauty competitions, but she made having a shower into a one-girl porn film. Whether she was masturbating we weren’t sure, but it was tantalising watching her slowly move from her tits to her crotch and the way she would thrust her pelvis forward, her eyes tightly closed and keep at it until one of the nuns would bark at her to come out. 

Personally, I think she was wanking off in a little world of her own…

….good for her! 

2) listen Carefully. 

My parents obviously didn’t abstain from six until I was 13, but it was at that age when the penny dropped and I realised the sounds I was hearing were the sounds of sex….and not only ‘sex’, varied sex. 

I knew I loathed porn. Plastic, cheap, unfulfilling and uninteresting. But the real deal? I scoped out where I could listen best which turned out to be in my closet by the vent that led into their room. I tried to see, but the view through that little aluminium grill was limited to say the least. But I could hear….and what I heard surprised me. 

There wasn’t just ‘sex’. Well. There was (obviously) but there were different positions, different actions, and more interesting to me, different scenarios! My parents role-played! 

Sometimes mum would pretend to be younger….underage, even. She did a pretty convincing schoolgirl.,sometimes dad would take on a different persona too….and sometimes, he would pretend to be an uncle or even one of mum’s brothers! As I became more astute at listening, and when I was, oh, maybe 16 or so, I realised Alison and I were part of their discussions. 

Curiosity mainly, wondering if we had started an active sexy life yet..of any kind. Sometimes this talk would get them going. I remember one conversation about me. I look less physically developed than Alison. Dad wondered aloud if I had had a boyfriend yet? Mum was (quite accurately at the time) sure I hadn’t, but added “She masturbates though. Her panties are covered most mornings,  Imagine her, lying there playing with herself.” So it developed into my panties, or Alison’s being in the room with them. 

Perverted? Yes, I suppose so, but again, I had the frisance of power. Me! My body! I could cause things to happen. 

One night, I heard mum quite clearly says”Hurt me.” Hurt me? The sounds of heavy-duty fucking were the only accompaniment, but mum kept saying it, in ever-more excited and breathless tone of voice. ‘hurt me…..keep hurting me….ohh fuuuuuuuuck.” 

It was the vulgarity I loved so much. My mum, with her Oxford Phd, and dad with something similar from Cambridge, both privately educated and perfectly spoken using language of the gutter. What a thrill. 

“Suck my cunt.” “Suck my dick.” “Fuck me up the arse.” “You dirty fucking slut.” “Force me, you cunt.” Sometimes vulgarities flowed freely, while other times, their lovemaking was so unspeakably tender it used to make me cry. 

3) A girl and her panties. 

There comes a time when a girl notices the extra discharge into her panties. More accurately, there comes a time when she notices it, and realises what it is and associates it with sexual development. From there, it seems to go one of two ways, and they’re polar opposites. 

Some girls find it abhorrent and reach for the panty-liners, preferring to have their labia mildly irritated than any of this..this mess on their undies. Others, (like me) felt it was all rather grown up, and genuinely liked the scent and the feeling of it. 

You see, that scent is there for a reason. Why, for example, need vaginal discharge smell of anything? Why would nature go to the trouble of making it not only a fragrance, but one that men adore? And there is the key….our scent is designed to be an attractant. 

Back when we were little more than relatively hairless apes, devoid of clothes, or even later than that, our scent signalled our ‘readiness’, our ‘availability’ for mating. All mammals do this. 

(Sigh) but then there are girls like me. We are the ‘weirdos’ who actually like the feeling of wet panties against us, and who adore our own sexual scent. More girls than you might imagine push a finger inside themselves and them taste it. And just like semen, where every guy tastes different, so it is with girls. There’s a common thread, but also a variance. I have only once encountered a girl whose vaginal scent was too much for me, but I suspect that had as much to do with my nasal hypersensitivity as anything else. You see, to me, scents appear layered. It’s almost like my nose and brain split the whole into its component part, and it does so instantly. 

The first time I slowly, oh, so slowly worked myself up between another girl’s legs and inhaled, it was like crossing a bridge. There was the ‘innocent girl’ scent, but also a sexually ready scent too. By the time my eyes closed and my tongue touched her labia, she was heavily wet and both her scent and taste were divine. 

Oddly enough, although it was a sexual thing (of course it was) it was also a spiritual thing for me…a right of passage. I was affirming what I already knew in my heart, that I was bisexual, and that this, for me was my sexual destiny as I saw it. 

In fact, I’ll tell you a secret. I wanted to be 100% lesbian. Oh, how I wanted that! The truth, however, is that I’m not. I’m bi-sexual, and in the words of the song, I am what I am. 

Sex with girls is a very different experience to sex with guys. Both have their uniqueness, both have their thrills and both have a place in my life.