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.