Of course, no woman is an island – even if they do spend time hiding up a cherry tree given half a chance. My sister was a constant companion and co-conspirator at home, while at school – a mixed primary school until I was eleven and then an all girls’ school after that – I had a mixed circle of friends, many of whom I’m still close to. While I wasn’t one of the popular group – I tended to veer towards the geeks, of music, drama, technology – I got on with everybody, using humour to smooth over any problems when they did occur. I was, by the time I’d settled into secondary life, very much a mid-range student. It took a while to find my feet as I’d gone from being one of the cleverest of my primary school class to mid-class at most subjects in secondary, which suddenly meant things weren’t coming so easily and took effort. It was a culture shock in lots of ways, but probably not a bad thing in that it burst any precociousness that might have seeped in from having the kind of supportive home life where everyone thought I was some kind of genius because I liked reading. I wasn’t the prettiest or the brightest in the class, although I soon realized this worked in my favour because it seemed to me that the smartest and prettiest girls were the people who attracted the most bitchiness. Instead, I was conscientious and worked hard, a by-product of an inherent need to please. Despite occasional worries at letting either my teachers or parents down, I, for the most part, really enjoyed school. I know, it’s sickening.
Somewhat ironically, I was a bit of a late bloomer on the romance front. I had my first kiss when I was twelve or thirteen with a boy I knew through one of my friends and, if I’m honest, I wasn’t that impressed by it. There was no thunderclap, no roll of romantic music, and a feeling of anticlimax – no pun intended – afterwards. I think one of us actually said, ‘Well then.’ Suffice to say no one’s world was set alight.
That said, I read Just Seventeen and Minx magazine and I knew the mechanics of sex, although I had no interest in trying it at that point. I had however learned that when I couldn’t sleep, rubbing my hand between my legs would bring a pleasure that made me doze off and when my mind wandered as I brought about this kind of pleasure it did always return to similar topics.
I’ve always been into myths and legends, and growing up, Robin Hood was a favourite. I watched the films, the TV show – we’ll overlook the most recent incarnations before I start gnashing my teeth – and read all the books I could lay my hands on, fictional and historical. But through every medium I had a difficult time with Maid Marian. I hated that she was continually getting into peril for stupid reasons and then having to be rescued. That she didn’t fight, wasn’t even given the relative dignity of being a bona fide sidekick and seemed to spend most of her time patching up the wounds of the Merry Men and looking pensively into the middle distance as they disappeared off for adventure.
Despite that, my favourite parts of those stories involved her in the very peril I scorned her for. When she had been captured – as the inevitable bait in a trap to catch Robin Hood, seemingly her major purpose in life – her defiance of Guy of Gisborne and the Sheriff of Nottingham captured my imagination. She would be held in some dank dungeony place, with the pictures often showing her tied or in chains. Powerless. But she would be unbowed, dignified in her indignity, and somehow that struck a chord with me, made my heart race. You know how when you were a kid and something you read or watched caught your imagination so deeply that you were transported into it, it was you in that moment, living it, feeling it? (Actually, I say ‘when you were a kid’, but I still feel that now when I read or watch something amazing, it just happens less often). Well, all the scenes I replayed in my mind with me in the lead role were the scenes of Maid Marian, even if she was a bit rubbish and I tended to gloss over the dull stuff after Robin saved her and she had to go back to the camp and resume tending the fire. Those were the stories I used to think about lying in bed at night.
Well, at least until I discovered porn.
When I was about fourteen there was a brouhaha about a magazine that gave away an erotic book aimed at women with their issue one month. I didn’t have the internet in my room and, frankly, while I knew if you wanted erotic inspiration that was the place to go, I had no interest in pictures of boobs because I had my own and didn’t think they were that epic. This book though, this was different. Lots of talk of moral decay and the like meant that I spent most of the month desperate to get hold of a copy, in part because I’d started to suspect I was dirtier than my school friends, or at least dirtier than they dared to admit aloud. Even aside from getting to see exactly how scandalous this stuff was, it could, I reasoned to myself, act as a kind of smut barometer.
Except there was a problem.
My next door neighbour worked in the only newsagent big enough to sell the magazine in our small town, and not only would she not let me buy it as she knew I was a long way under eighteen, but she’d also be bound to tell my mum, which would leave me open to one of those conversations so hideous you want to pull off your own ears just to make it stop. Definitely a no go. So one afternoon I took a different bus home, one that took me to the nearest big town, and bought the magazine there, hands clammy, still wearing my school uniform, terrified at any moment that the disinterested woman behind the counter would realize I was underage and shamelessly buying what the Daily Mail had described as utter filth and demand I give it back before I ended up inadvertently corrupted forever. She didn’t. I stuffed it in my rucksack and, my heart still pounding, walked the two miles home to explain to my Mum that I was late because of hockey practice.
Looking back at that book, which I can’t bear to chuck away though it’s now so well thumbed that the pages have started to fall out, the scandal and outrage at the time seems laughable. But reading it then was a revelation. My favourite chapters still have the tops of the pages folded over for ease of finding. One particular section involved a feisty yet vulnerable woman having a row with a man who she clearly fancied but also found herself continually clashing with. She ended up tied to a tree with ivy (I know, it’s a bit lame, but go with it – it was special Greek ivy, which may have heretofore unknown bondage qualities) while he did whatever he wanted to her – running his hands over her body, viciously kissing her, verbally abusing her. She stood there, aroused in spite of herself and he made her come, all without her able to do anything but rest her head against the tree and moan out her pleasure. It sounds quite cheesy indeed now, almost Mills and Boon-esque, but at the time it struck a chord with me. Suddenly that was what I was replaying in my head as I lay in bed at night, now accompanied by a hand between my legs rubbing myself to bring about blissful sleep.
Of course, there comes a time in every girl’s life where actual boys overtake both books and the Guys of Gisborne of our imaginations (I was never really the Robin sort). My first serious boyfriend, older but not wiser, initially seemed somehow to pick up on signals I didn’t even know I was giving out. Unlike other boys I’d kissed, he’d hold my head firmly in place, my ponytail twisted around his hand as we kissed goodnight, and I loved it. I loved feeling under his power, immobile as our tongues duelled.
I used to daydream about the possibilities of those kisses, what they could be a prelude to, the hint they gave of a different side to him, a side the world didn’t see but which I could feel, as if that side of him was calling to a complementary side of me. And then one night, while kissing me goodbye, he bit my lower lip, so hard I whimpered into his mouth in a kind of surprised pleasure. Instantly he broke away, nearly taking a clump of my hair with him in his haste, and apologized for hurting me. It felt awkward to explain that actually I’d liked it, so I accepted his apology, said it didn’t matter, and went indoors disappointed, with my nipples erect and my knickers moist.
I still didn’t really know the significance of that kiss exciting me. All I knew was that nice girls didn’t get off on such things, or if they did they certainly didn’t talk about it. So I didn’t. I went about my life, going through all the usual milestones. Eventua
lly my first beau and I, taking advantage of his mum having to go into work to cover a poorly colleague’s shift as a doctor’s receptionist, did lose our virginity together, but the mixture of neither of us having done it before, feeling a bit self-conscious and keeping an ear out in case his mum returned home unexpectedly, meant it was perfunctory and, while perfectly pleasant, didn’t rock my world. Afterwards I reflected that it didn’t feel as pleasing as lying in bed touching myself – although at the time I didn’t connect that with the fact that I hadn’t orgasmed. Looking back on how naive and tentative our fumblings were, it seems a miracle we managed to have any kind of sex that first time at all. However, we found that practice made, if not perfect, then certainly ‘good enough that we’d both grin giddily at each other for a long while after’, although the lack of privacy meant we were constantly in fear of being discovered in flagrante delicto, and developed skills for a quick change that Clark Kent would be proud of, although possibly also slightly disturbed by.
2
My first youthful romance fizzled out as we both moved out of home and went off to university at other ends of the country. We missed each other to start with but, in that way of freshers everywhere, were both soon caught up in academic life and the extra-curricular fun it offered.
That said, for a fair while my extra-curricular fun mostly involved using the shared kitchen to bake bread – my mum didn’t take kindly to people using her kitchen so I was enjoying finally being able to do some cooking for myself. There were also post-lecture drinks punctuated with the kind of discussions that in hindsight are pretentious tosh but that, when you’re eighteen, you think are very important and show how grown up you are. It was during one of these drunken rows that I met Ryan. If Ryan didn’t exactly lead me astray (by this point I was fairly sure I was capable of coming up with enough dodgy thoughts of my own, even without my burgeoning book collection and access to the internet in my room, another perk of academic life), he certainly opened the door to a world I hadn’t fully realized I wanted to visit, even if I had been vaguely aware of its existence. So that makes at least a few of those hours debating Foucault, feminism and Chomsky (I told you it was pretentious) worthwhile.
I’d first seen Ryan in the library during my third year of uni. His favoured corner to sit and work was opposite mine, which makes us both sound more diligent than we actually were. We were on polite nodding terms, even moving up to the ‘would you keep an eye on my stuff while I nip to the loo?’ level, although I’d still have taken my handbag with me. I’m not that much of a sucker for a handsome face. He was though.
My friend Catherine brought Ryan to the pub one night and he joined the melée of drunken burbling, although I noticed he mainly observed everyone, rather than getting involved in the discussion himself. When he did intervene to say something he said it slowly and carefully, he was articulate and would not be shouted down. I found him impressive and in sharp contrast to most of the other guys huddled round our table.
He was a little bit older than I was, an American graduate student majoring in politics on a term’s exchange at our university, and while he was kind and funny and good company he took his studies – and indeed most things – very seriously. I liked that though. College life was fun, but I was not into freshers’ week and drinking until I puked. I was always mindful it was costing money for me to study so I should work hard. I liked his work ethic and that he felt the same. Plus, I couldn’t help but note, he was sexy in a brooding and slightly geeky way, and had an accent that could seriously cause butterflies, assuming of course that he was moved to speech.
It took a little while. Debate was raging about a calendar being organized by one of the female sports teams to raise funds, which involved them posing naked but with a selection of random objects covering their modesty. Someone who lived on my floor was moaning about how demeaning it was, mostly it would appear because his girlfriend was appearing in one of the pictures. I was arguing that it wasn’t demeaning, and wasn’t actually his business as long as she felt comfortable doing it. The ongoing row got increasingly heated, which was inevitable since he was worried about people leching after his lady’s ample charms, and what he lacked in articulateness five pints down he more than made up for in volume, wild flailing gesticulation and hyperbole. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t actually care either way, but arguing was fun and frankly talking to him about it was like shooting fish in a barrel. Possibly one filled with beer.
It soon became clear that I wasn’t the only one who saw debate as a kind of sport. Ryan weighed in on my drunken floormate’s behalf, calling me anti-feminist, discussing the nature of intent and effect of pictures, via a discussion of old-style bawdy holiday postcards and landing squarely on a debate on the pros and cons of pornography.
After a while the circle of people talking tightened, with others moving away to buy more beer, mingle or – frankly – hide. But we kept arguing, him against any kind of pornography, me for it as long as everyone involved was there by choice and paid fairly, while Catherine’s head moved back and forth like she was watching a game of particularly wordy tennis.
Part way through I began grinning internally. My theory on porn is very much (legality allowing) an each-to-their-own policy, and as such I didn’t care that much either way, but I couldn’t allow him to have the last word and wanted to see how long before he would run out of steam. Also, if I was being honest and a bit fickle, I kind of liked how the hot American’s entire attention was focused on me, even if he had taken to occasionally putting his head in his hands in response to my debating intransigence.
It took a little while, but I saw in his eyes the moment he realized I was arguing for sport. His head was in his hands again, and he straightened his shoulders, took a long look at me, saw my smile twitching in a way I couldn’t hide, and then leaned over to shake my hand.
‘Well played, miss. Well played.’
I grinned at him and bought him a beer. It seemed only polite.
By the time the bar kicked out and we all began our stumble home, both Catherine and I were unsteady and a little giggly. He offered to walk me home, and as I put my scarf on Catherine leaned over and grabbed his arm.
‘You can walk us both home. We live in the same halls.’ It might have been wishful thinking but he didn’t seem thrilled by that as a suggestion. If I’m honest I wasn’t either – the guy I’d been eyeing for weeks across the library had turned out to be rather fun, and I was hopeful he might feel the same about me. However, bearing in mind how buttoned up he was when he hadn’t had copious liquid lubricant, I was unsure how I’d get the opportunity to find that out again.
All praise the in-room internet though. I woke the next morning, with a banging head and yearning for a bacon sandwich, to find an email asking me if I wanted to meet and see a film at the local cinema. I was so keen I replied before I even got up in search of a stomach-settling cup of tea.
We went to the cinema. He made the mistake of chivalrously letting me choose the film, which meant I inadvertently dragged a man who disliked the shocks and tension of horror films and the implausibility of sci-fi to a film that was both. Even in the darkness of the room I could see the slight look of disdain on his face in the flickering light from the screen – when his hands weren’t over his face at least.
After the film we went out for dinner. The chat was spirited, not least because I was mocking him for being even more of a wuss than I was, while he was decrying how silly the whole thing had been and nitpicking plot holes in a way that made me laugh out loud. It was lots of fun and when he said we should consider doing it again I found myself agreeing without hesitation.
So we did. A trip to a comedy club, a band at the students’ union, and then eventually he just invited me round to watch DVDs, which even in my relatively innocent ways I figured was make or break on the flirting front. I made chocolate brownies and, while I’m not sure how they compared to those from back home, he devoured them while we drank massive amoun
ts of coffee and channel hopped. And then finally, after I’d pretty much given up trying to work out if he was interested in me romantically, he leaned over and made his move. Ostensibly he was brushing crumbs from the side of my mouth, but he quickly followed the touch of his fingers across my lips by pressing his mouth to mine. I smiled inwardly, but didn’t feel the urge to quibble. By this point I’d been thinking about what this moment would be like for weeks.
He started tentatively, gently kissing my lips, pressing little kisses over and over against me, and then, braver, he pushed his tongue inside my mouth and kissed me properly. I wasn’t disappointed. He tasted of chocolate and coffee, his mouth soft against mine. As he explored me, I opened my mouth eagerly, urging him deeper.
His hands slipped around me, stroking my back, pressing me closer. The feeling of his fingertips along my spine made me shiver with arousal, all my nerve endings on alert at his touch, at every whisper of a connection his body made with mine – his hands, his mouth, even his groin pushing insistently against me.
For a long time we just kissed, drinking each other in. He was a great kisser, leisurely and passionate, and while our hands roamed each other over our clothes he was happy to continue teasing me with his tongue in a way that broke my brain a little. A splintered, half-formed thought came somewhere through the haze: If he can make me feel like this just by kissing what on earth will fucking him be like?
The Diary Of A Submissive: A True Story Page 2
