Porn has taught me many things. Some good. Some bad. Some which have led to quite frankly alarming threats and wonderful times. But some things about sex get left out of even the most graphic porn.

I was just sixteen. It was a party.

One of those parties that you only experience in those couple of years after parents will no longer allow large gatherings in their domicile but before you can legally go into clubs. Some youth centre/hall/drug squat had been hired out in order to gather a wide selection of hormone-crazy teens together, ply them with alcohol and watch them pretend to be cool and experienced in the ways of the opposite sex.

In fact, despite the media screaming that toddlers are screwing whilst watching episodes of The Tweenies, in many cases at sixteen you're still pretty clueless. Particularly if, like I was, you were educated in an all-boys school.

Girls were these aloof, mysterious creatures who came, stole all your alcohol, gave you 'meaningful' looks through their eyelashes that you had not clue-one how to understand and then fucked off with an older guy. Probably because when a girl gave him a clear 'come-hither' look the older guy didn't panic and start asking his pissed up mates what to do.

Seriously, if you think blokes in general are bad at reading signals (and, to be fair, we are) then mid-teenage boys are the absolute worst. The tiniest movement from a girl will be considered some sort of sexual come-on: woe betide you if you're a girl at a teen party with an eyelash in her eye, you'll have the entire Y-chromosome section of party thinking you're 'Well up for it.' Not that most of them exactly know what 'it' is. Add to this the crushing sense of insecurity and sexual inadequacy that lots of boys have and you've got a teen-boy mindset.

'She's looking at me! And...moving her head? At me? Does she? No, no, can't be me. Must be someone else. I'll just look cool and see what she does. Yeah, I'll just drink my Tennants Super-strength lager and look coo, eww, God this tastes nasty. Why do we drink this stuff? Anyway. Cool. Look cool. Look Ohmigod!!! She's looking again. She wants me! She wants to do 'it' with me! She, wait, wait perhaps she just wants a drink. Does she? Should I go over? Yeah I'll go over and ask her if she wants some booze. Yeah. Yeah. I'll say 'Hey babe. Thirsty? I got some alcohol right here.' Then she'll, uh, say, well I don't know what she'll say but it'll be pretty damn provocative I tell you that! What if she asks if I want a blow job? I don't even really know what a blow job IS. What if I don't like it? She might laugh. No, no. It'll be fine. Right I'll just, hey, hey where'd she go? Damn.'

There were much of the above thoughts, which probably ended in the girl (I forget her name) storming over and saying 'You've been fucking staring at me over your shitty lager for over an hour. Are you gonna make a move or what? I'm running out of spit the number of times I fucking wet my lips at you!'

Anyway. I'd (Christ alone knows how) got the girl. I was a little merry. We went outside to lie on the grass. There was kissing. There was fondling. There was the universal constant about fucking with the bra whilst kissing her so she 'doesn't notice' (yeah, right). There was her getting annoyed with my crapness and undoing the bra and taking my wrists with her hands to put them where she wanted.

And here was where the problem started.

Having had my hands placed below waist level (is that second base? third base? I don't know- at the time I just got with my mates and said 'Dude! I totally scored!') I was excited. MY HANDS were stroking HER THIGHS!

Whoa!!! It was amazing. It was magical. HER HANDS were moving over ME! Blood was marching from the rest of my body to fuel my 'excitement'. And I can only assume this blood-drain from my brain was partially too blame for what happened next.

I grew overconfident. (Girl! Grass! Hands! Apparent enjoyment! Bit drunk! Dude! Sco-ooooooore!!!!) The hands strayed further. They strayed upwards. The chronic fearful shaking that overtook them as they moved ever upwards probably did good things for her.

They...

Went...

Inside...

...And lets just stop for a second here to remind you of something. I was at an all-boys school from age 11. All boys. The sort of school where if you're vaguely female 94% of the place (and I include the teachers in that figure) will fancy you. And 5% of the school are gay. The sort of place where dowdy French teachers go to get their egos boosted by the row of hard-on's that appear when they lean forward over a desk. So all boys.

Sure I knew the theory of sex- I'd done Biology. Sperms, eggs, chromosomes blah, blah. And I was the oldest brother of 2 brothers and a sister. A sister who at this point was 6. So no help there.

I had seen porn, of course, but 2-D pictures of hairless vaginas gave me little information on how they worked, felt, and even looked when not being pulled apart by the red-clawed fingernails of an over-smiling model. Basically I was very clueless about 'chicks-bits'. Remember that. Please.

Back to the story- scared shitless, bit drunk, hands went inside...

Her...

Panties...

And whoa, and geez, and christ, and DUDE! and wow, and fuck, and mmm, and.... wait? Wait. Is this STRING?

I'll just pull this out...

Look, I didn't know! I was 16 for fucks sake! How the hell was I supposed to know that girl wadded themselves up with cotton wool every 4 weeks? You don’t get THAT in porn, I’ll tell you that for nothing. OK; I’m sure that there’s a fetish for it somewhere (Editor? Is there?) (Yes there is - Ed.) but, trust me, my furtive experiences with Razzle, Mayfair and Men Only had said NOTHING about bloody cloth up the vag. And you most certainly dinny see Suzie-19-from-Chester with a tampon string poking out from between her legs. So my reaction to pulling on the string and finding a blood-soaked tampon was understandable.

I yelled.

She screamed.

I flung the tampon away from me into the grass.

Things did not go well from there…

Next time: Anal sex!