A history of sorts - Part one

Where to begin? I spent most of my childhood in a small village in the middle of nowhere. There weren't many people my own age there, and the ones who were I didn't like much. So most of my friends were the ones I made at school. I went to an all-girls school, about 15 miles away from home. I used either bus or train to get there, as my mom didn't drive and my dad always worked such ungodly hours.

Being limited to the infrequent bus & train services, I mostly went home after school, rather than going to visit friends. That was probably why I enjoyed school more than most my friends. Unlike most of them, when we finally reached our final year, I elected to carry on with education rather than go straight into work. I got myself into a university Biology course, and left home to take up residence in the campus flats.

The more observant reader will have put two and two together from the above and realise that going to an all-girls school and having hardly any friends outside of school, I had very few male friends. I arrived at university an eighteen year old who'd never had a boyfriend or slept with anyone. Not that I hadn't wanted to, I just never had the opportunity. I was hoping to remedy that at uni. Little did I know. . .

I learned later on that 'Firsting' is an established phenomenon at most campuses. When first year students arrive, they're usually away from home and friends for the first time in their lives. So, a bit lonely and insecure, a bit vulnerable. . . ideal prey for the resident, established, horny students.

Every flat shared a kitchen, bathroom, and main door with five other flats. I met most of my 'fellow fives' moving in - the last one was a few days late. Not surprisingly, it wasn't very late in the evening before somebody suggested we take advantage of the on-campus bar & nightclub. Off we went for what was, for several of us, our first night ever of drinking and clubbing.

Beer is revolting. That was my first discovery. How anyone can drink the filthy stuff I will never understand. I managed to force myself to finish the first pint, and then switched drinks: Vodka with orange juice. Far more palatable. So much so, in fact, that I was having trouble staying upright by the time we were queuing at the club entrance. By the time we made the dance floor, I had discovered how people who've never danced seem to have no trouble in nightclubs: They're actually waving their arms and legs around in a drunken effort to stay upright.

I completely lost track of the girls I'd come in with, but another V&OJ or two and I stopped caring. I found it flattering and almost hysterically funny that hands wandered all over me when I staggered through the tightly-packed crowds, and it wasn't long before the 'firsters' were moving in for the 'kill'.

I don't really remember that much, for obvious reasons. I remember dancing with several utter strangers. I remember removing one hand very firmly from down the rear of my skirt and telling its owner, quite severely, "My arse is a hands-free zone," but another drink or two and a bloke I fancied more came along, and I just smiled as he ran his hands over my breasts.

I remember the bouncers firmly telling me it was time to leave, and my loud insistence that I be allowed to collect my coat before they chucked me out for being too drunk to stand unaided. I don't remember walking (staggering?) home, but I do remember getting back to flats and telling my male companion (where did he come from?) my address a dozen times because I was lost and he was being all chivalrous and taking me home.

Next thing I remember was helping him unhook my bra. I was wondering if it was such a good idea, but it felt like I was playing the part of a much more experienced girl, and didn't want to reveal I was really utterly inexperienced.

I remember it came as a complete surprise to me when I realized his cock was inside me. I think I had thought I was just being helpful in offering to let him sleep in my room, and was too drunk to realize there was anything odd about both being in the same bed naked. I remember it didn't last long, and I think that I refused to give him a BJ afterwards because of my insistence that "you can't have finished yet".

When I woke up, I felt about as horrible as I ever have in my life. Killer hangover plus killer guilt is a really, really bad combination. I managed to drag my sorry self out of bed and into the shower, and spent a very long time in the shower. In fact, I may even have fallen asleep in there. I only finished when somebody thumped on the door and demanded I stop hogging it.

I still felt ill, and I still felt unclean.

I went into the kitchen, where my hangover afforded much amusement. I was advised to drink lots of fruit juice, but after so much vodka-spiked OJ the night before, the mere thought made me want to throw up again. I drank a LOT of water instead, and even forced down some alka-seltzer. I began feeling human enough to think by early afternoon.

I didn't like thinking. It meant thinking about being fucked by a total stranger who I couldn't even remember the face of. After eighteen years without so much as a proper kiss! If anybody had asked me the day before "What kind of girl gets leglessly drunk and screws whoever happens to take her home?", I'd have given a one-word, four-letter answer. And that wasn't how I'd ever thought of myself. I felt so guilty I couldn't bear it. I couldn't even meet my own eyes in the mirror.

I tried to convince myself that it wasn't that big a deal. I'd fantasized about having sex thousands of times, including the no-names, one-night-only variety. I told myself the only reason it had been my first time was a lack of opportunity before, there was no special reason or virtue. There was nothing wrong with some harmless fun, I insisted.

I didn't buy it. Every argument I concocted just seemed like a lame excuse. I searched in vain for the one argument that would convince my damned brain that it shouldn't be making me feel so hideously guilty.

I was interrupted again by a thumping on the door. One of my flatmates, wanting to know if I'd like to join them in going out for junk food and then going on to the bar again. Fried food helps hangovers, she lied, and if it failed, there's always the "hair of the dog" remedy.

I wasn't interested, but I WAS starving, so I went along. I figured I could go home after food. But the fresh air perked me up a bit, and I livened up enough to ask what the hell dog hair was supposed to do for a hangover?

It's an obscure old saying. "Have a hair of the dog that bit you." No idea what it's original application was, but in alcohol terms, it means the best cure for a hangover is drinking the same stuff that gave it to you in the first place.

Hmm. "To understand recursion, you must first understand recursion"?

But it gave me an idea. It didn't seem a good remedy for a hangover, but that was only part of what was making me feel awful. Perhaps, I thought, the way convince myself I didn't do anything wrong is to ACT like I didn't? What would that mean?

I thought about it. It seemed like a vaguely reasonable idea. And the thing about vaguely reasonable ideas is, they only get more reasonable as you get more drunk.

I stuck with my friends, and joined them to hunt for another 'hair of the dog' - get rat-arsed (that's 'drunk' to a non-Brit) again, and get laid again. THAT was a pretty compelling argument, my addled brain thought. It must be an OK thing to do if I keep doing it deliberately. That'll stop me feeling bad about it.

And, to be honest, I didn't feel as bad about it the next morning when I woke up and found cum all over my belly and tits and only a vague recollection of how it had got there. I remembered remembering about condoms this time, and insisting he wore one, and I seemed to recall him saying he didn't have one, but it would be okay. He had evidently kept his word and pulled out at the important point.

By the end of the week, it almost seemed normal. Only one of my flatmates was still speaking to me, and I didn't like her very much - she was a slut whose idea of a good time was drinking and picking up some guy for a one-night stand.

We went out together most nights.



Continued in:

ID: 957629   (Rated: XGC) Title: A history of sorts - Part two  Description: The saga continues By: tatty_oldbitt