The psychedelic experience of mushrooms was a game-changer. I woke up the following morning feeling that life had altered. I suppose psychedelic experiences do that to everyone to greater or lesser degrees.

Now that punk was mainstream, and everyone was riding that bandwagon, I  opted out of it. Overnight.

I’d not shaved my armpits for a couple of years, a decision that seemed punk at the time but ‘unfeminine’. That was the idea, of course. I did, however, shave my legs all through my punk phase. I grew out my mohican and went back to long hair I had at school.

My mother was pleased ‘to have me back’. The period of grieving for my Dad was over and with it most of my wild (punk outrage) excesses.

I’m sure my mother had an inkling that I was no longer the virgin child she’d known prior, but I’m equally certain she had no idea quite how much cock I’d sucked and fucked in that insane two year period.

I re-embraced my feminine.

Punk felt like old hat anyway, like it was dead. Time to reinvent.

And so I did.


I was immediately moving in different circles, more ‘normal’ circles. Yes, I understand that so far there’s been nothing peculiarly ‘libertine’ about my life, other than having quite a bit of sex with a large number of men, and that doesn’t mark me out from a fair percentage of today’s women.

The average number of sex partners people in the UK have had is around 10.

Women in my age group have had around 7.

By the time I’ve reinvented myself away from the whole easy-sex punk thing my number would have been somewhere in the upper 40s.

In that regard, I’m more ‘libertine’ (or promiscuous, or a slut, notice how these labels are never applied to men?) than most. And yes, a lot of it was just casual sex for its own sake.

I was never one who gauged by the number of partners anyway. Let’s assume I had 50 partners by the age 20, all of them being one night stands (I never fucked the same cock twice in those years)….I’ve had sex 50 times, right? Multiply that by 6 inches per time, and I’ve had 25 foot of cock.

So if I’d found a boyfriend aged 17, gone out twice a week with him, and we’d fucked every Wednesday and Saturday night, I’d have had 156 foot of cock in me.

Who’s the slut? Who’s the promiscuous one taking cock as often as she can?

The difference is that I’ve already experienced different types of cock by age 20, cut, uncut, huge, small, chubby, and had a yardstick by which to gauge preference in future. Of course it’s not all about the cock. The fella attached to it plays a key role in the level of satisfaction involved. A lot of my sex until now was a guy offloading his jizz and either rolling over and going to sleep or getting dressed and scramming. And scramming in the morning anyway.

I didn’t want a relationship with any of them. I just wanted a cock in me to give me as much satisfaction as they were getting. And this learning curve, where I’d worked this out by age 20, put me ahead of the other women out there.

Guys would come and chat me up once I got into a more conventional dating/socialising scene. The punks didn’t do that. ‘Let’s fuck’ would have been considered romance/foreplay in the punk days. And if he was half way cute, or I was horny, we’d fuck. I knew there was no relationship intent (although many punks did pair off into conventional relationships).

For all their bravado, though, many were sexually inexperienced. I’m pretty sure I took the virginity of at least double figures of teenage guys back then, judging from how quickly they shot their load (or sometimes by confession).

Of all the guys I’ve blown, I’m pretty sure 20 and more would have been the figure of those getting a proper blowjob for the first time, and amazed that I’d gulp and swallow, or willingly accept a hot load on my face, my tits or wherever. I’m sure I spoiled it for a lot of girls out there because fellas expected my ability to guzzle cum down as the norm, when we know that’s not the case for most women.

Anyway, by age 20 I’d have fucked around 45 guys. And certainly blown (and swallowed) a larger number. Of course there was a bit of a crossover, some guys got a fuck and a blowjob out of me, but sometimes a blowjob was what both of us wanted, rather than a fuck. Put it this way. By age 20 I’d had around 100 cocks in my hand. Their destination -fanny or mouth- after that was a matter of negotiation. But easily 100 cocks in my hand. And of all of those, finishing a guy off with a hand job was a rarity. It seemed like a waste of cum to me.


Sometime in the autumn of 1977 I was introduced to magic mushrooms.

I’d been at a gig where I got talking to two guys. One was cute, the other not so much, but they were nice. For hippies!

Back in the punk era, we’d divided ourselves into punks and ‘hippies’ (anyone who wasn’t a punk).

I knew no fear back then, never felt like I was in danger with anyone, so I agreed to go to some woods nearby, Bevendean Down, with them where they asked if I’d ever tried mushrooms. You know, I could have been raped or murdered, gang-banged, anything, but as I say, I had no fear.

I hadn’t tried shrooms, but was willing to give it a try. I was willing to give anything a try in those days, something I’d carry with me in the future too.

When the mushrooms began to take effect I was somewhere I’d never been before. It was simultaneously terrifying and wonderful.

It was a warm autumn evening, high on a hill, and the stars began talking to me.

The less cute guy was more into me than the other one, and while he wasn’t a punk, or particularly good looking, I decided that he and I needed to get naked to watch these talking stars.

We ended up having sex while his friend watched. On mushrooms, everything felt like a first time. A first kiss, a first penetration. Amazingly intense sex.

I decided I liked mushrooms. Not as much as I liked sex, but the mushroom experience that night altered my life as much as losing my Dad did. That night altered everything.



In 1977 the UK was in the grip of punk rock, and the Queen’s Silver Jubilee coincided, as I recall, with the Sex Pistols’ ‘God Save the Queen’ near the top of the charts.

It was a cheap and cheerful do-it-yourself kind of teenage ethos. Fanzines, records, clothes made from cast offs, it all melded together beautifully. Heady times!

But now what started as a roots thing in London and the south east of England had broken out all over the UK and everyone seemed to be a punk.

I was in the centre of it from the start, a year earlier, and was living a kind of ‘outlaw’ life in that regard, ahead of the curve.

There was a serious amount of squalor involved. Punks were living in squats, or seriously dirty housing in low-rent parts of town, so the sex would reflect that. Getting some sort of infection seemed to be par for the course, given that we were often dirty, the houses and clothes were dirty, and the sex was dirty.

The sex was also easy. Every night out pretty much ended up having sex with someone or, at the very least, giving a guy a blowjob. I’ve had cock in my mouth in alleyways behind clubs, been fucked while leaned over a dumpster, woken up in strange houses with guys whose names I didn’t know, unsure of what I’d done, but knowing I’d had sex. In the year between losing my virginity until ‘God Save the Queen’ topped the charts I’d probably had sex with around 30 guys whose names I don’t recall or never knew!

It was, as I say, pretty sordid.

Despite that, I loved sex. I know that it’s supposed to be the guy who instigates it all and gets the most pleasure from it, but it ended up that I would take the lead if I was horny. I’d simply tell a guy I wanted his cock in me. In my fanny or mouth. Sometimes both, and sometimes not in the obvious order of things. Sometimes, I’d let a guy fuck me, then blow him afterwards, tasting his cum and my fanny juices on my tongue.

The men, their cocks and the acts of sex all blended into one. And it wasn’t particularly exciting sex either. It was just me scratching an itch I needed to scratch every week.

Did I say scratch?

Yeah, during that period I was back and forwards from the doctor numerous times with another round of scabies and a couple of outbreaks of pubic lice (crabs). It was all so sexually free and innocent though. Pre-AIDS, we never considered the implications of condom-free sex as resulting in anything more than an easily solved course of antibiotics.

Exclusively, it was a blowjob or vaginal sex. An entire menu of other things to explore never occurred to us. It was getting laid as often as possible, without emotional strings attached.

But all ‘vanilla’ sex, as people say these days.


1976 (part 2)

I would regularly be off my face with various stimulants every weekend. Mostly at gigs, but if no bands were playing I’d end up in the park with new friends I’d made, drinking beer, cider, and not knowing when to stop.

As punk developed the entire glue culture developed with it, so we were taking bags of glue to the park, or to some deserted bit of town, an industrial estate for example, where we would get out of our heads on glue and get into some silly situations. Sex didn’t really seem to be at the forefront of our lives. Getting wrecked took precedence.

Glue gave way to speed, and I developed a rather nasty speed habit for a while. When the season was right, magic mushrooms appeared on the scene. Grass was an ever-present.

While all of this was going on, I’d gone to the doctors and got myself onto the contraceptive pill. On the way home I called into a tattoo parlour (still underage for tattoos, but rules weren’t as strictly enforced back then, got a tattoo in my pubic area, and then as an afterthought got my nipples pierced before heading home.

A month later, when the pill had taken effect, I made a conscious decision to lose my virginity. For most people, male and female it just happens as a progression through a relationship, or a silly drunken moment.

I’d picked out the fella I wanted to lose it with. He was a biker, tattooed, lived in a sordid basement flat that smelled of weed and damp. I decided my virginity was worth a bit of good grass, at least. We went back to his, smoked a bit, while already drunk, and decided it would be a good idea to show off my new pubic tattoo and pierced nipples. So I stripped naked to show them off.

It had the desired effect. Johnny got naked, and was erect by the time he stood before me, with the biggest cock I’d ever seen in my limited experience before then. And now, 40 years later, it remains one of the biggest I’ve ever seen.

We started making out, he played with my pussy, he went down on me, I sucked his cock and stroked him, before finally he slid easily into my wet pussy. I was ready. I had no fear. It didn’t hurt.

He didn’t last long until he came and my overriding thought was ‘oh, so that’s what sex is about’. I didn’t cum.

We sat, naked, in this sordid flat, smoking and drinking some more. Eventually, he got his cock in his hand again. I thought he was getting erect for the purpose of giving me another length, but instead, he crouched me down in front of him and continued to play with himself until he launched another load of cum directly onto my face. It was dripping off my eyelids and nose, dribbling into my mouth and I was licking it off and liking the taste.

Eventually, I rolled over, now too stoned to move, and with his jizz still on my face, and fell asleep.

Virginity lost. First sex and first ‘facial’ -the firsts of many for both- in one evening (although, remember, I’d been swallowing loads of Jimmy’s long before then). While the good memories of the evening prevail, the downside is that the flat was so sordid I contracted scabies. Either from the sex or the general squalor of the surroundings.

When I left the following morning I felt I’d had a good night, and good first sex, and undertaken on my terms. I also felt that it felt good. I had enjoyed it and I wanted more of it…and soon.


1976 (part 1)

1976. Two major things happened in my life. One, my father died unexpectedly, suddenly, from a massive heart attack. I was sitting in class when the principal came in, spoke to the teacher, called my name and asked me to go to his office where my mother was, in tears.

I loved my Dad. He was my rock, my go-to. As much out of respect for him and his values I didn’t just squeeze down on Jimmy’s erect cock to lose my virginity a couple of months earlier.

The rest of the day went in a blur. The following two weeks, until we buried my Dad, went in a blur too. Looking back, the rest of 1976 went in a blur of grief and anger.

I was 17. THAT formative age.

Perhaps it was a pivotal moment in my life. Who knows how it might have been different had he not died.

But I was off the rails from that moment. School grades plummeted. I didn’t know it then, but do now. That sent me off into a downwards spiral. My world felt utterly changed.

When the Sex Pistols burst onto the UK music scene, I was ripe to grab their ideas, their music, their ethos. It was a soundtrack to my grief at the idea of losing my beloved father.

From quiet, suburban, university material studious girl, I was now a punk overnight, utterly changed from the wouldn’t-say-boo girl I’d been to the one I became in weeks.

Glasses swapped for contact lenses (or semi-blindness). The soft bob of university material swapped for a mohican. The shy, unbecoming wife-material smart girl swapped for a nihilist on a road to self-destruction. A nose piercing I’d put a safety pin through.

It was a marked turnaround personally within months of ‘Anarchy in the UK’ being released and me reinventing myself.


It was all my way of coping with the grieving process, I think. My mother was appalled, of course, as were many mothers and fathers up and down the length of Britain.

I would hang out at a local punk club, now unrecognisable from the girl I’d been six months earlier, drinking (underage), smoking (cigarettes and grass when the latter was available).

One evening the roadie for the band, whom I now knew well, invited me to a rather sordid changing room when the band were playing, having chatted me up a bit at the pool table.

I was drunk.

The next I knew he’d flopped his cock out of his jeans and invited me to wank him off.

No romance. No kissing. No small talk. Just ‘pull me off, love’. Being drunk, I obliged him and he quickly shot his load over my ripped leggings. I took them off as he handed me another beer, all the while hoarsely laughing as he continued to wander around with his now rapidly softening cock still hanging out.

Next thing I knew his hand was up my skirt, and at that point he did pause. As usual, I was knickerless, but in my punk outfit the leggings was all that was worn under the skirt.

‘Fuck! No knickers, you dirty bitch!’ he grinned. ‘I bet that box has seen some cock action in its time’.

I wasn’t about to tell him I was still a virgin, although now well versed in the art of sucking Jimmy’s cock.

‘And what a fucking hairy box you have’.

Romance wasn’t dead in the punk era. He fingered me for a bit, but by that stage he was a bit too drunk for anything, not that I necessarily wanted anything because I still didn’t have access to contraception. And I’d bet he didn’t either. He’d have gone in bareback and left me to take a chance on not getting pregnant. Still, I was now desperate to learn what a cock felt inside me. Desperate to lose my virginity.

Learning and loving oral

Jimmy never did get the chance to take my virginity. Something I’d willingly have surrendered to him. Both class geeks, on the wrong side of the ‘cool’ tracks. I’d have loved to have had the secret of fucking someone’s brains out  while the ‘cool’ girls at school, all full of lies and their own bullshit, were maybe at second base with their now real, not imagined as it had been for most of the previous school year, boyfriends.

Sure, one or two had fucked guys, given blow jobs, been licked out, but fewer than would have admitted. The rest was lies and the smell of BS. In my own quiet way, I felt, even though still a virgin, I was certainly level with the rest of them and in some ways ahead of them.

I would have fucked Jimmy, allowed him to take my virginity, but his reluctance, from embarrassment mainly, to buy condoms meant it didn’t happen. In those days, you didn’t buy condoms in a pub toilet or a petrol station. It was the chemists or nowhere. And Jimmy, sweet and lovely fella he was, was too embarrassed.

Oh, we certainly got into a groove of ticking things off the sexual a la carte menu.

We masturbated one another to orgasm on a regular basis through the autumn and winter of 75 into 76. We were indulging in regular 69, and -one biggie- he’d even cum in my mouth. I swallowed.

How that happened was that I was sucking his cock as I did quite regularly, but either I didn’t hear him say he was about to cum, or it arrived quicker than he imagined. He was usually good at telling me and I’d take his cock out of my mouth and finish him off manually. Once or twice it got close, I ended up with cum in my eyes and hair.

This time, though, he just blew his load. I was shocked, wasn’t sure what to do for a moment, savoured the taste and decided to swallow. I’ve swallowed ever since. A mouth full of cum to be gulped down is wonderful.

And then, just after Xmas 75, he was gone. His father, a surgeon, relocated and within the space of about two weeks he simply disappeared from my life 😦

I still regret not losing my virginity to him.

And I still think about him regularly. Sometimes, I wish I’d taken the chance to just go for it, lose my virginity, let him cum inside me and hope I didn’t get pregnant. Yea, I say that from 45 years distance. That wasn’t my 16 year old mindset. Quite rightly too. Imagine determining your entire future on popping your cherry to discover you were to become a mother!

If only he’d have bought condoms, I know in my heart of hearts that he’d have been my first!

And it would have been a wonderful experience too, as we’d bonded over Shakespeare and mutual laughs, friends turned to lovers.

It’s still a regret to me.

Never mind. In the space of a few short months he’d deposited maybe a gallon of cum on my face, my body and, most importantly, in my mouth for me to know I loved being cum on and, in terms of oral, in.

I loved the smell and taste of his cum. I couldn’t get enough. Sometimes I’d have his cock in my mouth minutes after he called. I’d suck him dry. But, hey, teenage boys, what can you do? An hour later he’d have recovered enough to shoot a load down my throat again.

Exam night

Our post-exam celebrations continued. I began unbuttoning Jimmy’s shirt and next thing I knew I was tenderly stroking his hard nipples. 
He returned the favour by beginning to undress me and before I knew it he was totally naked on my bed, I was down to my knickers, and I was having my nipples played with. The initial blush of removing my bra for someone else to see my breasts vanished and I was wrapped up in the moment. The first cock I’d ever witnessed in the flesh presented itself to me fully erect and, memory suggests, something I could actually see throbbing. Eventually, Jimmy coaxed me out of my knickers. It was one of those things that was developing at amazing speed, and I mounted him to kiss him, not to fuck him. The tip of his cock was poised right at the entrance to a wet, willing pussy. One thrust, down on my part, up in his, and he’d have been in me to the hilt.
Despite the Champagne and hormones, I was keenly aware neither of us had birth control in place, and so I moved away to present my hairy pussy for his examination, first by hand, then by tongue. I willingly allowed both to enter my wet slit.
I’m pretty certain I did come at his touch and tongue, and I reciprocated by starting to lick the tip of his cock. Little Miss Innocent still didn’t know the difference between a circumcised and uncircumcised penis -Jimmy was cut- and I rolled my tongue around the head of his cock  for a while before popping its head into my mouth.

I’ve no idea how I knew, but I knew something was about to happen. I removed my mouth and Jimmy shot his load all over the carpet. Fortunately, it all seeped and dried in.

And that pretty much ended my first sexual experience. We dressed in silence and then continued our evening as so many other previous evenings had done. Chatting, listening to records, laughing.

Although we both knew we’d crossed a line we’d both been waiting to cross for maybe a couple of years, not necessarily with one another, but cross it one way or another.

Jimmy went home. I went to bed with my teddy bear and, by now so well versed in the art of masturbation that I was able to make myself cum, twice.

Schooldays (Part 2)

Meet Jimmy. Jimmy was a classmate, and the only guy who ever stood up to the bullies on my behalf. Possibly because Jimmy was as much of a nerd as I was and knew what it felt like. The thing is that while I was a shrinking violet, Jimmy had become a boxer, mostly at his Dad’s insistence, his Dad probably realising that a bookish, intelligent, glasses wearing nerd was going to be bullied.

And Jimmy was rather good at it, competing at county level in various competitions and winning a few medals along the way.

Despite his intellectual brilliance, who would ace exams in things like chemistry and physics, he had a blind spot where English literature was concerned. Jimmy couldn’t ‘feel’ books or poems on an emotional level, and so his English Lit marks bobbled between passes and fails.

His mother knew my mother, and they lived a street away from our house, so his Mum asked my Mum if I’d help him out trying to get him through the GCE exams all of us in England do at 16.

I agreed. Partly because I felt I owed him for standing up to the bullies on my behalf once or twice. So Jimmy would come over on a Friday night while I coached him through the likes of Shakespeare.

He looked as if his Mum dressed him (I mean, in terms of buying his clothes for him). But he was nice. I liked him.

We developed a better friendship as a result of him coming over, often in the same, horrible, floral shirt each week, to the point where I thought it might be the only non-uniform shirt he owned.

A word before we go on. This was the 1970s, a time when personal grooming was less of a thing than it is now. As I remember it, a few women, a minority anyway, still didn’t shave their armpits and you’d catch a glimpse of armpit hair on a summer’s day when mothers or grannies would be at a bus stop or shopping. A rarity, yes, but not impossible to view. As for pubic hair, 99.9% of the population was rocking a bush. And as it was the 70s, rocking a 1970s styled bush. Wild and unkempt. I know I was. Little Miss Naive, not being sporty, or having to undertake things like communal gym showers, simply hadn’t cottoned onto the fact that women shaved their armpits routinely now (although I had cottoned onto the fact that ladies shaved their legs!). I don’t think trimming my bush would have been a concept I’d have considered around that time. But as I say, I was young and naive.

Jimmy and I kept up our Friday evening friendship once school had ended for the year, and because neither of us had nothing much else to do. So we hung out.

With school over we would at least exit the house and go into town just to people watch. Maybe eat fish and chips along the seafront and sit and talk about life in general. Hopes, aspirations, school subject choices as we headed towards our ‘A’ levels in the autumn.

One evening, while wearing a summer dress, as the weather finally turned summery, he caught a glimpse of my armpits.

Oh, wow! Even my only good friend Jimmy finds me gross!

He, the only boy in a family of four sisters, gently explained that it was well out of fashion to be like that. I was shocked, I think. But as I already had a razor for my legs, I dashed into the bathroom, still a little bit stunned, and got rid of the underarm fuzz. It wouldn’t reappear for decades, more of which later.

We were now seeing each other maybe 3-4 times a week. Six weeks summer holiday is a long period of nothing to do, particularly without many hobbies or many friends. It made sense to hang out together.

For me, masturbation was still a big thrill (actually, even now, it still is) and with my parents out at work while I was off school for the holidays I’d begin the day with a little bit of fiddling with myself, maybe do it again in the shower later that morning.

And when Jimmy and I had seen each other, I was increasingly aware he was in my thoughts as I did so. I tried to put those thoughts away. Think of whatever pop star I was hung up on at that moment. But thoughts would come back to Jimmy.

We’d now go further afield, and spend more time in each other’s company. We’d grab a train to a neighbouring town, eat ice creams and just have such a lot of laughs.

There would be awkwardness, too. Jimmy probably didn’t want to spoil our friendship by making a move on me, he was such a sweet, shy guy. And I didn’t want that either, to lose him as a friend. There would be moments when we’d talk about something or other and the conversation would get flirty and sexy, and then we’d split off and become awkwardly distant with one another for a few moments.

My fondness for low-key exhibitionism meant that even on days out with Jimmy I was going pantyless. I liked the air around my fanny (that’s the UK definition of the word, although the US definition works too, lol) and the air around my lady parts meant that the odd outbreak of thrush had stopped.

Our exam results, probably the most important of our lives, they do tend to shape a person’s future forever, in the main, in the UK, loomed.

Results day!

August 1975. I nervously opened the envelope. All passes, and good passes at that! I would be going back to college for ‘A’ levels. My parents were thrilled for me, even though they, and my teachers, had predicted such scores. Who else could I tell? Jimmy! And I wanted to know if he’d got the results he wanted too.

I ran around to his house clutching my results note.

He opened the door, grinning broadly. He’d passed all of his exams too! Woo-hoo! We were both going back to school with excellent exam scores!

We were jumping around, screaming loudly when -I don’t know who instigated it- we began kissing. My first kiss and almost certainly Jimmy’s too. It was a bit awkward in terms of us simultaneously not knowing what we were doing and instinctively getting it right.

Then our mouths parted and we fell back into that awkwardness between us.

We changed the subject. ‘Um…I suppose we should celebrate this evening’.

In a rare moment of candour, I suggested that Jimmy didn’t need me anymore. He’d be dropping English Literature to concentrate on scientific subjects.

‘No…you couldn’t be more wrong’, he replied, before we did lay that aspect of the conversation to rest as well.

Actually, despite our respective parents being old fashioned and, in the context of now, quite strict (our Mums knew one another through the local church, where both sang in the choir) a bottle of champagne was purchased.

As usual, on a Friday, my parents went out to the local golf club for dinner and, even though they weren’t big drinkers, would socialise afterwards, usually arriving home near midnight in a taxi.

The usual routine during term time had been that Jimmy rolled around to mine around 7, we’d study Shakespeare to get him through his exam (which he did pass, incidentally)

Champagne, eh? For two people who’d rarely tasted alcohol in their lives before?

By 830pm we were both a bit fiddly for the first time in our lives, and by 845pm we had our mouths locked on one another. The alcohol had lowered inhibitions and the awkwardness of that morning’s kiss was gone. We knew what to do and we both wanted it.

More to the point, I was really enjoying it! I couldn’t get enough! We’d break for air, and then immediately lock lips once more. And with each kiss I could feel myself getting wetter between my legs.

OK, I’m already 16 and for many teens today  kissing, sex and pregnancy has been and gone. It was a different time back in the 70s.

Much more innocent. I was getting horny just kissing Jimmy (although I guess that has been a side effect of kissing for millennia).

And in that moment, as Jimmy and I pressed against one another, I could feel his cock pressing against my groin. We were both still dressed. But we were young, full of hormones, caught up in the excitement of exams and champagne.


Schooldays (Part 1)

I was that nerd. You remember, the one you always picked on at school? Glasses, not sporty, bookish, hair unkempt however which way I tried to keep it, ripe for bullying. The last one in class to need a bra. The last in class whose periods arrived. The only one in class who’d never been kissed.

That was me. I was that nerd.

On the upside, school was easy. I breezed through exams without trying. I had the exams a year earlier than my classmates and I was destined to go to one of Britain’s top universities.

Hi, I’m Linda, and this blog is essentially a memoir. More specifically a sexual memoir because, oh yes, I eventually did, later than others, discover men. And I’ve been addicted to them ever since.

This has led me to some dark places as well as some wonderful experiences, and I thought I’d write it all down as I arrive at the age of 60 later this year (2019).

I’ve toyed with the idea of publishing this on an outlet like Amazon, and I may well still do so.

I was born in Brighton, on the English south coast, in 1959 and with one or two periods away from the town, I’ve always lived there. I should explain Brighton a bit for people not from the UK. It’s got this funky, alternative vibe. A vibrant gay scene, the place where Britain’s first naturist beach became official. A town full of antique shops, bookshops, record shops, all operating independently of chain stores.

It was an uneventful, middle-class upbringing as an only child, except that nerds didn’t quite fit in Brighton at the time, and school was hell.

This isn’t an autobiography, so I’m not about to bore you with lengthy tales of bullying and sometimes physical violence against me on the bus on the way to or from school. Eventually, at age 14, I asked for a bicycle to avoid the bus.

And while I wasn’t one of the cool ones, by any stretch of the imagination, I could listen to those who were cool, with their tales of smoking, drinking and increasing number of low-key sexual adventures. The girl who’d unzipped a classmate and stroked his cock in class. The girl who’d actually seen a couple of them in the flesh! Those sort of low level bragging tales.

I had no idea about masturbation, as anything other than a concept, until I was turning 16. I’d heard other girls talk about it, of course, but had never felt the need to do it myself. There were no circumstances in which I felt the need to arouse myself.

The memories have faded, but one night I was doing my homework, and the book I was reading for English Literature, almost certainly DH Lawrence’s ‘Lady Chatterley’s lover’.

And in reading one particular passage, I got it! I understood! And in that moment I was aroused and, well, wet.

I didn’t fully understand the process. Pre-internet it was a case of having to visit a library, not type into Google. But I instinctively knew that I needed to touch myself down there, or use something phallic (although I wouldn’t have voiced it in that way at age 16) to arouse me further. So I did.

Poor teddy! A few minutes later and a release of something (I’m talking tension here, not a full on orgasm) I knew I liked it.

And teddy , who’d sat unloved on a shelf in my bedroom for a couple of years, had now found a place back in my bed.

Any excuse.

And at any time.

Yes, I was excusing myself from class to masturbate in the school toilets.

My sexuality was awakening to a degree. And part of that manifested itself in low-key exhibitionism.

Did I really need to draw the curtains when undressing?

OK, my bedroom window overlooked the back garden, beyond which lay the back gardens of the next street, and the chances were that no one ever saw my undressing at night. However, it gave me a thrill to think someone could possibly see me. From taking my school house off to stand there in my bra, and then moving away from the window, I began to leave the curtains open and take my bra off as well.

I now seemed to be developing a double life. The class nerd in school, and the young woman now fixated on elements of sexuality beyond it.

Eventually, one hot summer’s morning, I took the bike ride to school while knickerless. Just to know I had no panties on was a thrill in itself, although the school skirt was probably long enough to ensure no one saw much of anything.

My route took me along Brighton’s sea front, and I know that one morning an unexpected gust of wind, while stopped at traffic lights, had my skirt lifted in its entirety. As I reflexively wrestled it back down I glanced over at the traffic stopped in the opposite direction, and the look on the truck driver’s face made it clear he’s seen my youthful, hairy pussy in its entirety, if only for a second or two.

It didn’t embarrass me. On the contrary, I found myself excited by the fact he’d seen my pussy.

And so going knickerless to school, for that summer term anyway, became normal. I’d begin hitching my skirt up a little in the hope that some of my male classmates or a male teacher might catch a glimpse of pussy. What could they say? I couldn’t really be challenged by anyone. A teacher wasn’t going to ask. My classmates thought I was the nerd. Little Miss Prim wouldn’t do something like going knickerless. Would she?