Chapter 25 – What Having Sex Was Actually Like

Chapter 25 – What Having Sex Was Actually Like

A Chapter by Oscar Blomqvist
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When my roommate who likes dick asked me what was going on the morning after, I managed to say “It’s just sex, man.” LIKE I KNOW WHAT THE F**K THAT EVEN MEANS.

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I wrote jokes about having sex before I had actually done it. And then I tried to fit them into what actually happened. It didn’t work very well. At first, I thought that I was gonna end this entire story with me jumping from the roof of the school. I was gonna die there. Stories always seem to have some kind of happy ending. It bothers me. I was gonna have my story end with a 12-year-old boy committing suicide, like my grandma would 8 years later. Not happy in the slightest. But then I wouldn’t be able to include so much of what I wanted to include, because a 12-year-old boy whining about how people who like going to clubs are shallow, good-looking idiots makes no sense whatsoever. 


I wanted to write about the horror that is the teenage years. It isn’t for everyone. When I look back at it, I don’t think it was that bad for me either. But if I really think about how I was feeling, I have to admit the whole thing was rather awful. I wasn’t happy at all. But really, who is? You have to be drunk or incredibly ignorant to be happy at 14 and a half. And to remain drunk you’ll become an alcoholic which in itself leads to depression. It’s a magnificent cycle. So instead of ending it with a 12-year-old boy killing himself, I’m gonna end it with a 21-year-old nerd having sex for the first time. It seems appropriate. 


I mean why include all the sexual frustration and then not include the disappointing f*****g? I assume it’s going to be disappointing. It hasn’t actually happened yet, I’m writing this on Christmas Day 2014, 8 days before my 21st birthday, at home at my desk. I’m writing this as an introduction, so I’ll know where to start off when it finally happens. It could be at any time. It might not happen at 21, that’s just me hoping. It might be at 22, or 33, or never. We’ll see. I’ll do my best. Cross your fingers for me, would ya?


Ironically, having written this, it finally happened less than a week later. And no, this is not the end. Sadly, the misery that often induced my writing didn’t end with the disappearance of my virginity. If it only was so easy. I chronicled the experience in real-time for posterity. Either for myself to learn from my mistakes in the future or because somewhere deep inside me I nourished a hope of artistic grandeur, and this seemed like a good subject matter. It was probably a bit of both if I’m honest. 


It finally happened last night. I didn’t even have the time to turn 21. It was with a girl from my class. It was New Year’s Eve in London and she asked if I was single, I said I was, and then she asked if we could kiss at midnight. Surprised but pleased, I answered in the affirmative. It ended up not being as much a kiss as a very serious game of tongue wrestling, with Reuben desperately trying to keep us apart as to not become the third wheel and no longer be the center of attention. It felt rather nice. The kissing, not Reuben trying to break us apart, that was just annoying. 


The tube in London is free from midnight till five in the morning on New Year’s Eve so we said we’d go to Cockfosters simply to be able to say that we had been to Cockfosters. There was no other reason. But we didn’t go to Cockfosters, we went home, mostly because we were all really tired and Alina (the girl from my class) and I wanted to get indecent in a way that you would get arrested for doing in public if you know what I mean (obviously you know what I mean). 


Outside of the corner shop where we were waiting for Reuben, passing the time with some more frenching, someone yelled “Get a room!” How original. Reuben insisted on being awake for some reason so we sat on the couch and alternatively stuck our tongues down each other’s throats and then stopped doing that whenever Reuben entered the room in his Japanese kimono. At one point, Reuben went upstairs to get something and never came back down. As it turns out he had passed out on his bed with his door open. Fun. Alina and I went upstairs. Astonishingly, I wasn’t really nervous. I’m pretty sure this was because I was incredibly drunk. 


I got her shirt off pretty easily but after failing miserably, she had to take her own bra off for me. What a disaster. She started taking off my belt and pulling my jeans down and for the first time in my life I voluntarily took my shirt off in front of another person. I’ve done it loads of times before in countless changing rooms, but that was more out of necessity rather than actually feeling like it. 


All of a sudden she was on the floor sucking me off, which was fantastic, but it was also during this particular moment that I realized to my shock and horror (although it felt perfectly natural considering the circumstances) that I was suffering from quite a severe case of whiskey dick, which for those of you innocent souls who don’t know, is basically erectile dysfunction caused by alcohol. I couldn’t get it up, well I could, it just wouldn’t stay there. I had simply drunk too much. 


This is the time when you might think to yourself: A 20-year-old guy, shouldn’t he be able to get hard in any circumstance, alcohol or not, when he has a naked girl in front of him who is obviously there by her own free will? (Can you believe it????? Because I can’t). Well, let me put it to you like this �" it’s quite a different thing to get nasty for the first time expecting anything to rise, your self-confidence, moral values, or perhaps a penis, after you’ve trudged through ankle-deep mud at Primrose Hill to watch the fireworks with thousands of other drunk people, after having consumed an amount of alcohol that would slay a 200-pound ram (get on my level b*****s) than during simpler circumstances. The circumstances were not simple. 


I solved this small problem by shoving my face into her vulva and two fingers up her you-know-what. C**t, there I said it. I think the flavors of the evening’s beverages were still stuck in my mouth because it didn’t really taste like anything at all. However, we did get to f*****g. I started fiddling with a condom because apparently, I’m a guy who has condoms in his sock drawer, (Weird, right? Lube too! Extraordinary!) but she said she was on the pill and to “cum inside” her. 


Those are always lovely words to hear, be they coming from a pair of earphones (people who watch porn without earphones are maniacs) or from an actual mouth that just seconds ago was wrapped around your dangle. I asked if she had any STDs, she said she didn’t, how I could have been so conscious of sexual health at that moment is beyond me, she decided to line herself up doggy style, which was a nice initiative, and I entered her, my member drooping like a tree in a ski slope, and thrust my way into something that was far from a frenzy and could only be solved by some apologetic cunnilingus.


She did tell me she had only cum from sex once before, which did cheer me up, and suggested that some of her previous partners had struggled or maybe even neglected to try to find the ever so evasive clitoris. I didn’t find it but considering that I was also struggling to find my own consciousness, maybe that wasn’t very surprising. Instead of spending precious time looking for this gem of female genitalia, I just went hard for that general area, like a dog drinking water from a polluted lake. She did offer to blow me some more which I happily accepted, but the game was lost. I told her repeatedly that I had drunk too much to perform admirably and she said that we should do this sometime when we’re sober. I concurred. 


Despite my erection failing me like a b*****d, she told me I was good, which made me think that her previous partners might have been the kind of guys who look at a vagina and see a sign in their heads that says “penis only,” which of course is bullshit. Shove your face in that p***y, you p***y. Once she realized it was not gonna be an all-nighter, she said “let’s cuddle,” so we did. Naked. Which was nice. Although I have to tell you this. Just because you have a b**b in your hand doesn’t mean it’s easier to fall asleep. It’s more or less the opposite. 


And then when you wake up or rather realize that the light is keeping you from ever falling asleep now so you might as well give up, with a banging headache and an inability to decide whether or not you’re gonna throw up, it all feels a lot less like a fairytale than you imagined. Then again, sex is never mentioned in fairytales because if you know how babies are really made before the age of 12, you’ll die apparently, at least according to people still telling their kids about the f*****g stork. I didn’t tell her it was my first time. I don’t think she noticed, which is remarkable.


Two days later…


Apparently, we didn’t actually have sex last time. I was never inside her. I hesitated to agree with this version of events at first, but she won me over by actually doing it, sitting on top of me and her insides dragging my foreskin so far back I thought I was gonna lose it forever. There was a brand-new bottle of lube upstairs, why it never came to mind is mindboggling. It was more a realization of pain rather than pleasure, and a weird wishful feeling of wanting to be Jewish, Catholic, or whatever other religion where they start out life by cutting that s**t off. 


It was January 2015, and the three of us: Me, my housemate who’s only attracted to 16-year-old boys, and sex buddy number one, went for a movie and a drink. I have no idea what it is we’re doing, but it seems like we both agree it’s a sex thing. I failed once again to enter her from behind or from anywhere else for that matter, something I choose to attribute to a mixture of performance anxiety, death grip, and heavily prolonged whiskey dick. 


Maybe I was nervous, although I didn’t feel like I was. Maybe it was something subconscious that chose to express itself through my dick. Maybe I was just too new to sexual activity that wasn’t exclusively all about me and my right hand. I’m not sure. Surprisingly, this is not on the long lists of moments that pop up in the back of my head when my mind hates me and it wants me to spend some time thinking about death. In hindsight, I do not regret what happened in any way, not to me or my dick. 


To be entirely honest, I wasn’t that uncomfortable with it at all. I chose to actually tell her that New Year’s Eve was my first time and she just said “Noooooooo,” because according to her, you shouldn’t lose your V-card to your university friend, super drunk on New Year’s Eve. It has to be special. I asked her what her first time was like. She was 16, her then-boyfriend was 19. It hurt, she didn’t enjoy it at all and she felt like he only did it for himself and paid no attention to her whatsoever. So not very special then. 


There’s no good time to have sex for the first time. It’s just gonna happen, and it’s probably gonna be s**t. Since I was unable to actually find a position where I could do the humping, I let her be the one in charge. And it worked pretty well. After a lot of lying around and vagina groveling, she actually came (or faked it, I have since come to learn that’s what girls do when they want sex to end but they don’t want to say anything. They’re also amazing actors, all of them, it’s incredible). I didn’t finish, but that’s beside the point. I’ve read many a Tumblr post by girls complaining about guys ignoring the clitoris and that at least 70 percent of all girls can’t cum without clitoral stimulation. But here I was, having sex for the first/second time, depending on how you see it, and the girl was cumming from bog-standard penetrative sex. (Again, the knowledge I have since acquired heavily suggests some tomfoolery transpired, I was young and foolish when I wrote this). 


Sure, she was on top and could control her every move to suit her orgasmic needs, spinning her hips, nearly breaking my dick in half as she did so, but still, after all this online clitoris propaganda, you’d think that shoving my face into her valley of gold would be more effective than bouncing up and down on top of me. Apparently not. I read that cowgirl is the position that breaks the most penises, I think I know why.


She asked me if it felt good. I said yes. It didn’t. But it wasn’t her fault, she was doing great. You see, I’m still getting used to being in a vagina rather than my own right hand. It’s a transition, okay? It’s gonna take a while before any of this feels normal. After some time of just holding each other, we started playing with each other, whenever I stuck a finger up there, she stopped jerking me off and breathed heavily straight into my face as we lay there, foreheads touching, an occasional tongue making it into the other’s mouth once in a while, then she sped up again as I started to rub what I assumed was the general clitoral area, has anybody actually found that s**t yet? I don’t think either of us finished, but that wasn’t really the point or the goal. At least it didn’t feel like that. 


I mean if you have got to a point where you explode on someone’s face someone should probably be filming it for it to be legal. At least I managed to get her bra off myself this time. When my roommate who likes dick asked me what was going on the morning after, I managed to say “It’s just sex, man.” LIKE I KNOW WHAT THE F**K THAT EVEN MEANS. I feel like I do, but my lack of previous experience suggests otherwise.


Reuben went home for a few days and Finn was gonna come back to the house the day after, so for a night I had the place for myself so I invited Alina over, and we had sex on the couch after watching the King’s Speech, because if it’s anything that makes a girl wet it’s Colin Firth stammering. It was a bit odd to have sex with classical music coming from the credits on the TV, but from the outside, it probably looked pretty artistic, if you disregard my general clumsiness.


Afterward when we had walked upstairs, leaving our clothes all over the living room floor, we were lying in bed and she asked me why I had never had a girlfriend before and I did the regular spiel about loneliness, lack of desperation, and craving intellectual stimulation rather than sexual. Not that I didn’t crave sex, but obviously there was a discrepancy between the amount of thought on the subject versus its actual importance. There hadn’t been many physical, real-world actions taken on my part. 


She also asked if she was just a girl to have sex with and if I was even attracted to her. Jesus f**k, you’re the one with previous experience in this area for a f*****g reason, look at your tits, if they don’t give you confidence, I don’t know what will. True, I don’t know if I have any romantic feelings for her, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not attracted to her. Come on. Having sex with someone you’re not attracted to makes no sense whatsoever. Then she suggested I didn’t cum because she wasn’t good at giving blowjobs. Here it is again if it didn’t feel good, why would I ask you to do it? I said that to her, she seemed at least partially convinced, maybe because my hand was playing with her downstairs area.


Since I haven’t really figured out the sex part yet, I think I liked the kissing the most. I don’t know why, it doesn’t taste like anything in particular and the texture is very… tonguey. But still, very nice for some reason. And despite not cumming for a few days, during sex or otherwise, I feel no need to jerk off, which is a new sensation, to say the least. It might be the fever and the sore throat that’s been after me for a few days, but it’s not like that has stopped me before. The thing is, had she not asked if we could kiss on New Year’s Eve, this would never have happened because I would never have taken that initiative. 


Sure, I asked on my birthday if she wanted to continue whatever it is that we are doing and then to come over and watch Colin Firth learn to speak for two hours. But I only did that because I knew I was in, had she not asked to kiss me in the mud at Primrose Hill, this would never have even entered my head as a possibility.


She told me on New Year’s Eve, before any of this seemed possible, that she writes short stories, that she needs to express her emotions through words on a page. So maybe, just maybe, both of us are sitting alone in our rooms, writing about the exact same thing, just with vastly different outcomes. I assume the stories would be different because I can’t even imagine what her side of the story would sound like. But I have no problem imagining that it would probably be nothing like what you’ve just read.


I think that your first few sexual experiences might be better if you don’t pretend that you know what you’re doing. If you don't want to reveal your inexperience, maybe just stick your tongue in every orifice you can find, at least one of them usually does some kind of trick.


After I had sex with Alina, Finn asked me how long I lasted. If I told him I didn't cum at all, he'd be all shocked and ask me a thousand questions about it. I said as little as possible and he asked me a thousand questions anyway.

“So did you make her cum?”

Either that or she's got Parkinson's disease. I can’t remember what I said, but it wasn’t that witty, I’m sure.

“How long did you last?”

I'm sorry what? You come from that s**t?! What's wrong with your dangle?? I knew I hadn’t figured out how to do sex yet, so I decided to remain as quiet as possible. And of course, the questions didn’t end any time soon. This was the cause for an interrogation bonanza.

“Are you gonna f**k her again?”

“Now, how the f**k would I know that in advance? She can say no, you know?” I don’t think she would have said no, but I feel the need to always factor in the woman’s own wishes when talking about sexual escapades with men my own age because they never really seem to factor that in at all.


I decided that the whole Alina thing had run its course. It didn't feel entirely right for some reason. We were all out celebrating Reuben's half birthday (Yes, it’s six months before his actual birthday, and yes, it’s as ridiculous as it sounds) which as per usual ended with Reuben getting upset about Rhys, one of the first-year boys. I left when Alina was in the bathroom. You can't really agree with someone that you're just gonna f**k and not get overly emotional about it. It just doesn't work that way. Then again, what the f**k do I know? Millie, who likes to get way too involved in other people's private lives, asked me what I like about her. I ignored her. Had I been honest I would have said tits, a*s, and vag. Jesus f**k, I'm a psychopath. Or maybe I just don’t know her that well. One of the two.


One night, my classmate Ewan and I were sitting in the student union bar, making awful, childish jokes and giggling madly as per usual, when Lily sat down next to us to complain about her private life, brazen as she was. At the time, she had a boyfriend named Trenton, who was not very easy on the eyes, but he was loaded so who cares?

“I’m a good girlfriend, I blow him every morning, but he never eats me out, so I’ve decided to not blow him again until he eats me out.”

“Yeah, I always do that,” I said making it sound like I hadn’t just done it for the first time. That was the first time I voluntarily shared a sexual experience with a fellow human being, and it was rather nice, mostly because she didn’t interrogate me about it, just commiserated. Lily is much more interested in talking about herself than asking about you, which makes it rather safe to share things because there will be no follow-up questions, just follow-up stories.


It’s so tiring when people caveat saying they had sex for the first time when they were 17 with that they were late to the party. Bernie Sanders told Sarah Silverman that he was “embarrassed to say” that he was 20 when he had sex for the first time. Shut up Bernie you magnificent little slutfuck. That’s not embarrassing at all, especially considering the people fighting for civil rights in the 60s got more fists to the face than vaginas to their dicks if you know what I mean. There are 24-year-olds out there who are just getting into the sex business and some think 16 is old, or they say it is just to shield themselves from ridicule from people who have the mental age of a 13-year-old who’s been raised by misogynists. 


Can we please stop assuming everyone has had sex by the age of ten and that if you haven't had sex before you're 13, you're basically never going to have sex ever? There are people entering their 30s who haven't done it and I don't know why, but to tell them they're abnormal isn't gonna make them get to it any quicker. The opposite is much more likely going to happen. I've had to lie about the fact that I didn't bang until I was 20, bordering on 21, to avoid questions like:

“Why?”

“What's wrong with you? Is it your penis?” And if I try to be honest and say that my first 20 years were lonely and miserable, they never accept that as a viable answer since I now look like a person who might actually have friends. It’s like people refuse to believe that things change. 


It’s insanely frustrating to be asked something about yourself, offering a sincere and honest answer, just to be told that it doesn’t fit the “truth” predetermined by whatever jackass asked the question in the first place. When I had sex for the first time, I can remember wanting to experience as much of it as possible because I was thinking that this might never happen again. She actually asked me “Do you like it rough?” I don’t think I answered verbally because if I had, the answer would have been “I don’t know, I’ve never done this before,” and I’m pretty sure I didn’t say that.


That time when Finn said Lily told him that Alina told Lily that I was the best lay she had ever had, Finn also said that Alina had said that she would marry me if it ever came to that. That’s not the first time that’s ever happened. I went down to Swanford on the southern English coast to see Ewan, and his girlfriend said she would marry me when we were in a bar having some beers. Your boyfriend is right there! You idiot! She later asked me for a piggyback ride. I thought she just wanted to see what it’s like to be tall, but they did break up later. Maybe I should have seen that coming. 


But at least two girls have now said they would marry me and I just can’t understand how that will ever make any sense, since I have been massively struggling with the ladies. They must’ve been joking. It’s more frustrating than anything. Apparently, I should be getting laid, but I’m not. Or in a game of Marry, F**k, Kill, I’m the best marry option, not the best f**k option. I guess that has to be considered to be somewhat of a positive thing, even if I’d rather be the f**k option. I don’t really have the abs for that, I’ll admit.


Realizing that you're even the least bit sexually attractive to women is a bit like realizing that it does actually snow in hell. And that snowball who is supposed to have no chance of not melting in hell does actually have a pretty good chance of getting laid... in hell.


I have an intellectual snobbishness when it comes to girls. I can’t f**k them if they’re too stupid. It doesn’t matter how hot they are, if they can’t speak about politics or history in an acceptable way, it’s a no-go, regardless of cleavage or a*s. I’m not sure this is strictly true, but this theory has never been tested as a stupid hot girl has never shown even the slightest interest in me. I’m sure I wouldn’t mind, this is just another of the many tactics I use to feel better about not getting more a*s. It works both ways, some smarts can make up for a lot. 


It doesn’t matter how they act like there was this one first-year girl who grinded on everything that moved in the students union bar, and usually, that would turn me off, but she knew a hell of a lot about the Israel/Palestine conflict, which made treating every inanimate and animate object like a stripper pole okay. 


Apparently, she had lived in Gaza and seen some real s**t. Treating me as a stripper pole, she sat on my lap and asked me to pick a side in the conflict and I just went “.... Palestine...?” She gave me a thumbs up. Oh, thank God, I might actually get laid tonight, I thought. I didn't. She was Norwegian too, I really can’t get away from these people. Her face was weird, but her body was fiiiiine.

“You're so horny right now aren't you,” she said looking into my eyes. I can’t remember what I said, I probably didn’t say anything at all, stunned as I was at her sexual confidence. But I could remember thinking You don't get to decide that, that's my decision.

“If I could, I'd f**k you so hard because you are so hot,” she said. By this point, I was certain she was f*****g with me, and not in a good way. Maybe she meant it, but at that moment, I had no idea how to act. I thought What's stopping you?? Am I stopping you?? Because if I am, I need to know, because then I need to change some stuff. 


I had my hands all over her as she was essentially giving me a lap dance in a student bar full of people. How some girls can enjoy that and then just walk away is beyond me. I don't really know how to deal with lap dances. You do have a really nice butt, but why you are shaking it so much I can't possibly understand. I didn’t think she owed me sex or anything because that would’ve been very meninist of me. And those people are basically the human version of the plague. 


I was so drunk, I actually tried to kiss her without asking first, which happens very rarely since I am huge and I feel like me just launching forward without warning must be like being hit by a freight train, and I never really find myself in situations where it’s obvious a girl would be up for it. So, I ask. Go on, call me a dork why don’t ya. This time, I felt it was obvious she might be up for it since she had given me a lap dance, unpaid, voluntarily, and unrequested. 


She backed away and said she was seeing someone and that she was sorry. Hence the “I’d f**k you if I could.” Five minutes later I came out of the toilets and realized she’d give anyone a lap dance. It all made more sense now. She was using me, not the other way around. Although how she used me, I don’t really know. I enjoyed the lap dance, it was nice. 


I guess we kinda used each other. It’s not like I was pissed off by the outcome. I’d rather have the lap dance and no sex than nothing at all. I take what I can get and I f*****g appreciate it because I don’t get a lot of anything really. Not much later she’d be on my lap again, not dancing this time, but at a house party, having a long monologue about how she was sitting on my lap and how her specific way of sitting on my lap meant she wasn’t hitting on me, merely using me as a chair. I just nodded and tried my best to hide my erection. 


Usually, what I'll do when I like a girl, I'll check out her Instagram page. Recently I got a bit discouraged because the hashtag a girl that I found intriguing used over and over again happened to be #Instagay. She was a lesbian. Bummer. I mean I get it, guys suck, but could you at least be bi for my benefit? Years later, I saw her on that same Instagram making out with some dude. Turns out she was bi. Just not for me. Which is fair enough.


Why should I try to get a girl who's got a boyfriend? It's easier to just be sad.


I think or rather feel like, that my mind is rather sensitive. I have a hard time blocking out loud people on the train, especially if they’re young, male, and retarded, which is often the case. I wrote about a moment when my mind found itself on a hellscape in the spring of 2015: People screaming about the overturning of cards makes me want to scream out my frustrations about how anything so inconsequential can be found so entertaining by creatures with higher average IQ than your regular ape. 


I’ve just sat around a table in a garden for a few hours drinking beers with some guys. They are among the worst hours of my life. The pointless subjects of discussion. Drunk Reuben being “funny” by trying to fix two plastic chairs with some masking tape and a stapler and insisting it was the chair’s fault for breaking, not his for merely sitting in it like an alcoholic on this very sunny Sunday afternoon. And the music. Was. So. S**t. It was shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. 


It was just noises, it was like they were trying to get me to admit the truth about the terror cell I run in Nicaragua. It was sounds used to torture people, and they listened to it voluntarily. The worst part was when they insisted on playing a round of the dumbest card game ever, where you add together a random number of cards to get to a predetermined number. They started to pick these numbers by asking questions like what number do you live at at home? When was your dad born? And of course: How many people have you had sex with? 


Anticipating the number of ignorant questions that would follow either the truth or a refusal to answer the question, a tactic previously implemented, also resulting in an angry rant, I quickly decided to lie to get it out of the way, especially because of the presence of the two strangers, not that Finn and Reuben would be any more understanding. They proved that many times before. I just said four. The question before was how many people have you dated and I could answer that truthfully since it actually is five. 


The fact that I only made out with one of them is irrelevant. Once I said the word “Four,” Finn of course went nuts about the fact that I said a number, saying to his friend Tyler who had asked the question “How did you do that? We’ve been trying to get that out of him for months!” and then turning to me “Who are they!?” Reuben filled in “Alina…” and I just said “and some people at home,” to which Finn answered “Oh, okay” and turned away, no longer interested since he wouldn’t know who they were and would therefore not be able to gossip about it, which made that part of the story useless to him. 


Since he has forced me to talk about this several times before and I haven’t been consistent in my responses, I can’t understand how easy I get away with the lies. It’s incredibly easy to say you had sex with some people “at home” and then they just move on, despite being super interested just a second before. I can’t stand this bullshit anymore. The main reason I want to die nowadays is just other people’s behavior. The reason I lie is pretty simple. If I told the truth, they would bombard me with inane questions like “Why?” and “No way!” which isn’t technically a question but none of this is connected to reason and logic and thus it does not matter. 


It's not that I don't have the answer to the question of why it took me a while to finally bang, I do have an answer, it's that it's not the answer they want. The answer they want is “Oh, I was born without a penis and the doctors replaced it with a stainless steel banana.” Not “I was picked on and ostracized, grew up without friends, a bit sad and miserable and kind of garnered a death wish from the age of twelve and onwards.” 


Nobody wants to hear that, I don't want to hear myself say that, but it is the honest answer to the question. An answer which makes people feel like they should say something comforting, which is the worst thing they could do. The best thing would be to crack a joke because that's how I deal with everything that’s sad and depressing. I don’t really understand why it’s so hard for people to believe me when I give them a shred of truth of what my life used to be. It’s embarrassing, so why would I lie about it? 


Would it be more believable if I went around saying I first had sex when I was twelve to the girl in my class who first got tits? And massive ones at that. And since then I have slept with 763 girls. I guess it would be more believable because that’s how most people lie. My lies are too outrageously dull that they’re not believable, and my truth is too sad to be believed. Isn’t that just f*****g insane? Just like so many times before, I was an old man who couldn’t understand the younglings because I had never been one myself.





© 2021 Oscar Blomqvist


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Added on March 10, 2021
Last Updated on March 10, 2021
Tags: sex, dating, virginity, intercourse, London, girls, first time, uk, young adult, writing, reading, novel


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Oscar Blomqvist
Oscar Blomqvist

Charlottesville, VA



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I wrote a story. I think it's actually rather good, or at least okay. I thought I would post it here. Let me know what you think - [email protected] more..

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