Behind Closed Doors: Bond, [not] James Bond

I’d been in University for a whole term and had become an altogether less naive young female, although I still hadn’t lost my virginity. The comfort of being back in my home town was more than welcome and we drank and danced our way around dance floors which seemed so small compared to the bright lights of the city I had now become accustomed too. The familiarity of the night makes it difficult for me to distinguish the details from many other nights I’d had growing up, but I can guarantee we’d have been drunk before we left for town, we’d have been sat chatting around a beer stained pool table behind the DJ, when ‘I bet you look good on the dance floor’ played every word would have been mouthed in perfect sync and the dance floor would have been packed with recognisable faces, from almost two decades of living in a small town, although most would have had little interest in speaking to me.

The gentleman in question only answered to his surname, he had a strong dislike for his first. It wasn’t bad (or much of a secret) but he was Straight Edge so with an opposition to meat, drugs and alcohol but a love for hardcore punk insisting to be called by his surname was not worth batting an eyelid for, especially for children of our age.  For the sake of anonymity we’ll call him Bond.

I’d never had an interest in him before this night, in actual fact I’d been far more interested in one of his good friends, who at the age of 11 told me I looked ‘lovely’ at a school disco. Bond seemed hard work and unfriendly from my perspective, which was based on very little. Maybe the fact he talked to me was enough to prevent me from putting up any obstacles and simply offering my virginity on a slightly desperate platter that night. For as much as I can remember, he looked handsome in the dim light of the club and I swaggered over effortlessly starting conversation with a witty, politically relevant one liner which immediately engaged him into wanting to pursue a night of passion with me.

I was an insecure 18 year old… that almost certainly didn’t happen.

I can, however, remember the kind of heavy petting which I had never allowed before (or have ever since) – he wasn’t just touching my bum but positively groping my vagina albeit through jeans and knickers. I dread how intimate it would have looked. I can only hope any possible on lookers were as ‘in the moment’ as we were and that we blended into the furniture. At least camera phones weren’t popular then!

I’m not sure how it happened but I managed to lead him to my innocent single bed. We snogged and fumbled (skipping 3rd base as I started to sober, the nerves had started to creep in and my head opted not to share the fact my vagina had not yet been introduced to a penis) and at the suggestion of sex Bond was quick to react pulling his contact lenses case from his pocket, shortly followed by a condom. I got the sinking feeling that it wasn’t me he was hitting on but that my vagina had seemed the most accessible. Something I hadn’t considered up until that point and something that perhaps should have deterred me more than it did.

As luck would have it I didn’t lose my virginity that night, the effect of alcohol on Bond’s erection prevented me from having an even more brief tale of ‘popping my cherry’ than I do now.


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