Johnny was in the bathroom, trying to do his hair. Somehow, no matter how much laundry starch he put on it, he could never quite get it to spike up as perfectly he wanted, though he was determined to get it as good as possible for the gig tonight. For the start of the gig, anyway. By the end it'd be a sweaty mess, but so would everybody else's. Recently he'd gone back to having it orange again, after a period dying it black in tribute to Sid (RIP). He studied his reflection. Not too bad. Maybe the start of a zit on his chin, but one of the good things about punk girls was they didn't seem to mind so much about that sort of thing.

Johnny certainly hoped he'd meet some girls tonight. At eighteen, he was permanently horny, and found himself wanking two, three, sometimes even four times a day, but still he could never seem to satisfy his urges. His mum had thrown away his stash of porn recently, and he'd had to fish the magazines out of the dustbin and sneak them back into the house. A certain amount of contamination from the leftovers of a meal meant the magazines were now literally, as well as metaphorically, dirty, and his beloved Miss October had been catastrophically disfigured by congealed gravy.

As for experience with actual real live girls, there'd been some, but not nearly enough for Johnny's liking. His most closely guarded secret was that he'd never actually gone all the way and done it. Of course that wasn't what he told his mates. As far as they were concerned he had a different bird on the go every week, every one of them a rampant nymphomaniac. They said the same - but he strongly suspected that quite a few of them hadn't done it, either. Surely spotty, ugly Gary couldn't have shagged twenty-seven girls, as he claimed. Johnny had never even seen him talking to a girl.

...

The closest Johnny had come so far had been with a posh bird called Catherine Carmichael. She'd been in his class at primary school, and a few months ago he'd bumped into her on the top deck of the bus, and she'd recognised him and cadged a cigarette. Whereas he'd left the secondary modern at sixteen, and was by then well into his second year of work at the cake factory, she was in the upper 6th form of the local grammar, and about to sit her A-levels. They got chatting about music - it turned out she was a secret Sex Pistols fan - and she'd ended up taking him back to her house, one of the massive places off Victoria Park.

Up in her bedroom, with her enthusiastic encouragement (whether from experience, or more likely a lucky guess, Gary’s assessment of posh birds as being 'goers' seemed to be correct, if Catherine was anything to go by), Johnny had managed to get well into her school uniform and underwear, and was looking forward to finally getting a proper fuck, but proceedings had been abruptly halted by the cut glass tones of her mother calling, "Are you home, darling?" and the woman's rapid ascent up the stairs, which had forced him into hiding in a wardrobe. Catherine was eventually able to sneak him out of the house after he'd endured twenty minutes in cramped conditions, hugging his bundle of clothes, an eighteen year old's ever-hopeful erection not quite subsided, while waiting for the girl and her mother to finish negotiating the finer points of revision schedules and violin practice. Afterwards, he'd eventually got up the courage to phone her, but for whatever reason she'd seemed uninterested in making a second attempt on his virginity, so that was that.

Johnny's reverie about Catherine's lovely little tits and wet cunt was interrupted by his own mother shouting, in far less refined cadences than those of Mrs Carmichael, "Jonathan, Daniel's here for you!" He wished she wouldn't call him Jonathan - was Johnny so hard for her to remember? Apparently so. After a final adjustment to his hair, he bounded downstairs, ignoring his mum's standard protestations, ("you're not going out looking like that, I brought you up to take pride in your appearance, what are those stains on your jeans?" etcetera), and left the house, slamming the door behind him.

...

Johnny and Daniel, who these days styled himself 'Danger,' made their way to the gig venue. The band, The Vomitones, were terrible, of course, but wasn't that kind of the point? The scene may have already moved on in 'that London', but out in the provinces, the spirit of '76/'77 lived on, in DIY bands, and the kids in DIY bondage trousers, like Johnny and Daniel - sorry, Danger - who pogoed to them.

Seven pints in, and Johnny was feeling reckless. Having tried, unsuccessfully, to chat up a seriously cute Debbie Harry lookalike, and a sexy, but rather scary girl called Jean, whose commitment to punk fashion involved showing a lot of cleavage and a hint of nipple through her ripped tee shirt, he'd resorted to talking to Crazy Sue.

Everyone knew Crazy Sue, or Wino, as she was often called. A serious drinker, it was rumoured she'd give a blow job for half a pint of bitter, and full sex for a pint of cider. Exactly what she'd do for a Watney's Party Seven was the subject of some speculation amongst Johnny and his mates, although so far none of them had dared to try and find out, not least because they didn't want to risk that amount of alcohol on an unsafe bet.

Sue, who was very short and somewhat round, was wearing what appeared to be a bin liner and fishnets, and with her blobby features, wonky makeup, and spiky dyed black hair, the overall effect was rather akin to that of a Mr Potato Head in fancy dress as Siouxsie Sioux. Johnny was drunk enough that he was contemplating the sex-for-cider option, the only problem being that he'd spent all his money getting himself into that state, so now couldn't actually afford to buy the necessary pint. Not that Sue looked like she needed it, she was already plastered, and from the way she was pawing at Johnny's leg seemed potentially in the mood to give freebies. In a bizarre way, getting free sex from Wino was actually more distasteful and embarrassing than a transactional arrangement, and a few of Johnny's slightly less drunk brain cells were sounding an alarm that he'd never live it down, but his ability to heed this was rather impaired by the alcohol, and the ever present ache in his balls.

"Lesh go oushide," Sue slurred, giving a loud hiccup as punctuation.

"Yeah awrigh," mumbled Johnny. They staggered out of the venue's side door and into the alleyway. Sue was immediately all over him like a rash, but being five feet to his six, and extremely uncoordinated, was not able to land a snog, and ended up headbutting him on the chin, causing an equally uncoordinated Johnny to stagger backwards, taking her with him. They landed in a heap, but cushioned by all the booze were not hurt. Now that the height difference wasn't an issue, Sue lost no time in sticking her tongue down his throat and unzipping his fly.

Johnny's half dozen still-functioning brain cells were screaming, "noooo, don't do this!" but his cock had no intention of wasting any opportunity, no matter how unpromising, and sprang to attention at her touch. It was his stomach that managed to stage the intervention, by choosing that moment to heave violently.

"Urrrgghhh, I'm gonna puke," said Johnny, although this came out more as "urrggghh argghhh ugh," due to the impediment of Sue's tongue. He pushed her off and rolled over, and vomited extravagantly.

Having been deprived of getting her kicks from sex, Sue resorted to violence, and started beating him about the head with her little fists. Just at that moment Danger came out of the door, closely followed by the Debbie Harry lookalike. Danger pulled Sue off, and Johnny at least had the presence of mind to discretely do up his fly before staggering to his feet, a lucky escape for his reputation. As he swayed unsteadily out of the alley to make his way home, he tried not to notice Danger and Debbie apparently trying to eat each other's faces. Of all his mates, Danger was the one most likely to have done it, and possibly with twenty-seven girls, although unlike Gary he kept closed-lipped on the subject. Girls all seemed to love Danger. It was so unfair, surely he could leave a few for everybody else?

When he eventually stumbled home, he thought he'd have a little consolation wank, but on feeling under the mattress discovered his stash of magazines was gone. A trip down to the back yard confirmed his worst fears - the dustbin had been emptied that day. From now on he would have to resort to merely his fevered imagination.

...

Sometimes where that took him was disturbing. One day he caught himself in a fantasy about Margaret Thatcher while he beat the meat. The subsequent memory of it sent a hot flush of shame and confusion through him. It was a hate-fuck, of course, he loathed the bitch, everyone did, well everyone he knew, anyway. Clearly some people liked her because she'd become prime minister. But he certainly didn't, and still less fancied her. So why was it so arousing to think about taking her? Fuck! It surely must be sheer desperation. He was starting to think he'd completely lose his marbles if he didn't get his end away soon.

...

One dinnertime at work, he was out of ciggies, and his mum's friend Janice Ogelby, who also worked at the cake factory, took pity on him and gave him a couple of hers. Whereas Johnny worked on a big mixing machine, spending his days loading it up with ingredients, Janice was on the final decoration line, putting the finishing touches to the cakes before they were packed, ready to be distributed to supermarkets in the region.

Of all his mum's mates, Janice was probably about the least annoying, and unlike most old people, actually seemed capable of calling him Johnny, rather than the hated Jonathan. After her small act of kindness in the canteen, he would often find himself thinking about her. Even though she was well ancient - at least thirty - he couldn't help noticing she had a good figure, and great legs. Recently separated, she had started wearing more makeup, and nicer (or at any rate, more revealing) clothes, of late. He became convinced she was flirting with him. She always said hello when she saw him at dinner break, and would make a point of exchanging a few pleasantries with him when she called for his mum on their bingo nights. Maybe she was in the market for a younger man, now that Mr Ogelby had been sent packing? Johnny reflected that perhaps his lack of success in losing his virginity was down to his choice of partners. With girls his own age seemingly unwilling to assist him to achieve his goal, the idea of an experienced older woman was starting to seem very appealing. The problem was how to make something happen when he only ever saw her at work, or when she was with his mum. He wondered if he could engineer a way to visit her house.

In the event, an opportunity came quite soon. Johnny's mum was in bed with a nasty winter flu, and asked him if he would pop round with a fiver she owed Janice, since she wouldn't be going to bingo that night. He felt mildly panicky about what to wear. Should he try to smarten up a bit? Did it even matter, since Janice had seen him in the horrible hairnet he had to wear for work, and still seemed to fancy him?

"Are you going, or what?" shouted, or rather croaked, his mum, the flu having affected the timbre, but not the volume, of her voice. He hurriedly changed into his least ripped jeans and headed out. Janice only lived in the next street, and within a couple of minutes he was knocking on her door, feeling nervous and excited. He reflexively tapped his ticket pocket to feel the condom that he carried everywhere, just in case. He expected Janice would be on the pill, but no sense in being unprepared. When she came to the door, he stammered about the fiver, suddenly shy.

"I need to talk to you about something, actually," said Janice. Do you want to come in for a minute, Johnny, love?" This was it, he was sure. Cock bulging with anticipation, he followed her into the living room.

"This is going to sound a bit strange coming from me," she said, "but there's someone that likes you, and she could really use a friend at the moment."

"I know, and I like her too," said Johnny, smiling in what he hoped was an appealing and friendly, yet smoulderingly sexy way.

"Oh! That's good then! I was going to ask you to take her out. She'd like that."

"I'd love to," he said, thinking that going on a date wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, but if a few drinks would loosen Janice up, maybe it would be worth it. It fleetingly crossed his mind to wonder why she kept referring to herself in the third person, but maybe it was just her way of being coy. He'd have to choose a pub where his mates would be unlikely to see him. He moved a little closer to her. It didn't look like he was going to get a fuck quite yet, but surely a snog was on the cards. "Mrs Ogelby...."

"You can call me Janice."

"Janice." He launched himself towards her and tried to plant his lips on hers, only for her to leap back in alarm.

"What on earth are you doing, Johnny?!"

"I thought.... I thought you liked me! You just said you wanted me to take you out!"

"Not me, you daft boy! I'm practically old enough to be your mother. What ever gave you that idea? I was talking about my cousin, Sue. You know, short girl, black spiky hair? She's having a rough time at the moment, since her dad died. Between you and me she's drinking far too much. I'm worried about her."

"Ohhhhhh," said Johnny, the penny dropping with an almighty clang. "But you always say hello, and talk to me, and stuff."

"Yes, because I work with you, and you're my friend's son. Just because a woman talks to you, doesn't automatically mean they fancy you. Bless you, you've still got a bit to learn, haven't you?" She looked at him, her face a mixture of amusement and pity. "Go, on, get yourself home, and let's forget it ever happened. Try to be kind to Sue, if you see her."

He slunk home, his face burning with embarrassment. Oh well, she was far too old for him, he told himself. When he'd got close he'd even spotted a grey hair. Yeah, well ancient.

…

After the debacle with Janice, Johnny decided to stick strictly to his own age group, and a couple of weeks later was at the bus stop snogging a girl called Tracey.

He knew Tracey from school, although these days she worked with her dad in his butcher's shop. They didn't fancy each other, but the amount they'd had to drink helped, and for both of them it was a case of getting off with anyone being better than getting off with no one. They'd bumped into one another in The Globe, a pub in the town where the punks and Tracey's gang of heavy metal fans congregated. Occasional fights broke out between the two groups, but for the most part they co-existed reasonably happily, profiting both the pub's landlord and the local speed dealers.

As far as Johnny was concerned, the main attraction of Tracey, other than willingness to snog him, was that she had huge tits. While massive mammaries were not the be all and end all for him, unlike for one or two of his friends who seemed completely obsessed with them, there was a certain novelty value in being able to handle a pair the size of Tracey's, and he was determined to make the most of it. The problem was that it was a freezing night in early December, and even drunk as she was, Tracey was being rather squeamish about having Johnny's cold hands up her tee shirt.

Eventually, the bus arrived and they headed upstairs to the back seat. After rubbing his hands together to warm them up, Johnny started a fresh ascent of Tracey's twin peaks, this time approaching via the back route. He managed to get her bra undone on the way round and grabbed handfuls of the freed flesh. Tracey responded better this time, and her nipples pleasingly stiffened at his touch, although whether from arousal, or his still chilly mitts, it was hard to know. In turn she put her hand down his jeans. His prick initially shrank from her icy touch, but soon got its act together.

The bus ride passed in a pleasant blur of happy mutual groping, but all too soon it was Tracey's stop. Not yet willing to relinquish her fabulous fun-bags, Johnny disembarked with her, and some further fondling and snogging took place in her back yard, but with her parents still up watching telly there seemed no hope of her sneaking him to her room as they'd hoped, and their ardour quite quickly cooled in the frigid night air. A cold mile walk the rest of the way home, and yet another wank, squeezing a pillow in poor imitation of Tracey's tremendous titties, was Johnny's destiny that evening.

...

A few nights later, Johnny was back at the Globe for a showcase of local punk ‘talent’, a double bill of a dreadful band called The Snot Rags, supported by the truly execrable Ruby And The Garbanzas. It being a Tuesday evening, and the bands being as awful as they were, even by the standards of the local scene, the pub was not busy, and almost all of the sparse crowd was male, to Johnny’s intense disappointment. Jean was there, as drummer for the Snot Rags, and was as scary and sexy as ever, and Wino was slumped in a corner, but that was about it, as far as girls went. Since the conversation with Janice, Johnny hadn't exactly been nice to Sue, but he had at least stopped speculating with his mates about what sex acts she would perform for what amounts of alcohol. That was as far as his warmth towards her went, though.

In the interval, after the hapless Rubys had been bottled off the stage, Johnny got chatting to another lad about his own age, who he’d seen around but had never spoken to before. After a bit of chit-chat about music, and gigs they’d each been to, the conversation turned to girls. His new friend Ant was having a ‘dry spell’, and Johnny said the same, without mentioning that a ‘wet spell’ was yet to materialise for the first time.

“I’m bored of it here,” said Ant. “Can’t be arsed with the rest of the gig, The Snot Rags are a shite band, anyway. I’ve got some cider and an eighth of hash at mine, do you fancy going back there?”

“Yeah, why not,” said Johnny. He’d never smoked hash before, so was interested to see what it was like.

They made their way to a scruffy flat not far away. After pouring them each a glass of cider, Ant put a record on and used the cover as a rolling surface. “Inhale, and hold it in your lungs,” he instructed, after taking a few puffs of the joint and passing it over. Johnny did so, trying not to cough. By the time it had been passed back and forth a few times, he started to feel light-headed and a bit woozy, but happy. Ant made a joke that Johnny knew was crap, but he couldn’t stop giggling.

“Fuck, hash makes me horny,” said Ant. “Is it having that effect on you?”

“Not sure how I’d tell the difference,” quipped Johnny, prompting another outbreak of giggling from the red-eyed pair.

“Hey, wanna look at some porn?” asked Ant, pulling a stack of dog-eared magazines from under the dilapidated sofa. Johnny tried not to think about the bodily fluids they might be covered in as he flicked the pages over. With his own stash now in landfill somewhere, he couldn't afford to be too fussy.

They worked their way through the pile of mags, commenting lewdly on the models’ assets, and what they’d like to do to them. At the bottom was the edition with Johnny’s favourite centrefold Miss October. “I’ve had some right good wanks over her,” he said, wistfully, after telling of his copy’s misfortune with the gravy, and its eventual loss.

“Fancy another one?” said Ant. Johnny looked up to see Ant had his cock out. “Wanking competition! Last one to cum rolls the next spliff, and has to buy the winner a pint next time we’re out!”

‘What the hell?’ thought Johnny, in the surprised and shocked sense. He had heard of wanking competitions happening amongst some of his friends, including of course, Gary, but had never taken part in one himself. Then his drunk, stoned and horny brain took over: ‘What the hell,’ it thought, in the go-for-it sense. He was pleased to note that he was quite a bit better endowed than Ant, so there was that.

“Not fair, you had a head start!” He pulled out his cock and started stroking, and was soon hard. Doing it in front of another lad didn’t seem to affect his ability to get an erection, it seemed.

Focussing on the ample charms of the centrefold, and trying to imagine that his hand on his cock was in fact the soft but tight grip of the wet pussy that she was so generously displaying to the world, Johnny pumped away, but found he was unable to quite forget the presence of Ant. Rather than the imagined dulcet tones of Miss O telling him to ‘fuck me hard, big boy, you’re the best I’ve ever had,’ etcetera, etcetera, all he could hear were Ant’s increasingly frenzied grunts. It became clear that Johnny would be rolling the next spliff, and sure enough Ant soon prayed an impressive arc of semen right across the magazine.

Once Ant’s orgasmic noises had subsided, Johnny was able to concentrate better, and after another minute or so added his own load of jism to already the soaked pages. Poor Miss October was just destined to be covered in gunk of one sort or another, it seemed.

A few days later, when Johnny was walking through the town centre, he heard, ‘Oi, wanker, don’t forget you owe me that pint!” yelled at him from across the street. He looked up to see Ant, standing outside the Grand Hotel wearing what looked like a porter’s uniform of maroon jacket with gold buttons and trim, and a matching hat. Evidently he worked there. Johnny thought it was a bit rich of Ant to be calling him a wanker when he was dressed the way he was, but gave him a wave anyway.

...

The Saturday before Christmas, Johnny's mum was visited by her sister, who had recently married a widower with two teenage daughters. Unlike his father, who'd had the foresight to need to 'see a man about a dog', Johnny hadn't managed to escape the house in time, and was trapped in the living room, being bored rigid by his mum, aunt, and step uncle's conversation, which was all about his aunt's new-found religious faith, and the church activities she and her husband seemed to spend all their free time on.

His step cousins were there too, and were looking equally bored, or perhaps just simply blank. They were seventeen-year-old identical twins, with long mousey hair, in pale blue dresses of a childish style, who had a rather otherworldly air about them.

"Hope and Joy have brought some records, why don't you take them upstairs and play them," said his mum. Johnny couldn't think of much that he'd like to do less, but perhaps listening to more of the adults' conversation was one such thing, so he agreed. He got up, and the twins obediently followed him up the stairs to his room.

The girls plonked themselves on the unmade bed, leaving Johnny to perch uncomfortably on the chest of drawers where he kept his record player. They regarded him with their wide, vacant, almost colourless eyes, and wordlessly handed him a carrier bag containing a couple of records. Johnny's heart sank as he pulled them out to discover they were albums by The Joy Strings, a Christian group. He'd been bracing himself for something like The Bay City Rollers, but the reality was even worse.

"We like them," said Hope (or possibly Joy).

"Daddy says we're not allowed to listen to the Devil's music," said Joy (or possibly Hope).

"Oh, er, sorry, I don't think my record player is working at the moment," Johnny improvised, a slight note of panic detectable in his voice. An uncomfortable silence descended and the girls stared at him, unblinking. There really was something not-quite-of-this-world about them.

After a long agonising pause, Joy (or Hope) suddenly asked, "are you going to show us your 'thing'?"

"We like boys' 'things'. We saw Charlie's at church camp. And Donny's. And Alex's. And a few others," said Hope (or Joy). "They taste nice," she added.

Stunned, Johnny said nothing, and just opened and closed his mouth a couple of times.

"Show us, then," said Jope.

"Yes, show us," added Hoy.

With the distinct possibility of a blow job, or maybe even two blow jobs, being on the cards, Johnny thought he might as well make the most of the bizarre situation, and opened his fly. His cock, ever-ready for any sort of attention, sprang out.

"It's quite big," remarked Hojo, admiringly. This flattery encouraged it to grow bigger still.

"Me first, as I'm the oldest," said Joho, and knelt in front of him and began sucking enthusiastically. Johnny closed his eyes so as to avoid the off-putting owl-eyed gaze of her younger sister. He had to admit, the girl with her mouth round his erection certainly knew what she was doing, and he was soon close to cumming.

"Let me have a go," demanded the other twin. Somewhat reluctantly her sister relinquished her mouthful, and let her sibling take over. If anything the younger girl was even more skilled, and it wasn't long before Johnny felt his balls tense. He squirted an almighty spurt of spunk into the back of her throat.

"Save some for me," demanded her sister. Twin two spat out his cock, and a second spurt landed mostly on Johnny's stomach - luckily his jumper had ridden up. Twin one was quick to push her sister out of the way and licked his belly clean. "Nice," she said. "Giving is more godly than receiving, but we get our reward too, and not just in heaven."

Another awkward silence descended. Johnny had, not in any case, fully regained the power of speech after his ejaculation. "Would you like a cup of tea?" he managed, after a few moments.

"Daddy says we shouldn't have stimulants. But we'd like some orange squash, please." They all trooped down to the kitchen, where the girls drank their tartrazine-laced beverages in silence.

"Would you like to taste my 'thing' again?" asked Johnny, hopefully, when they'd finished their drinks. His cock had recovered from round one, and was ready for another go. The girls assented, and back in his bedroom a second amazing blow job was thoroughly enjoyed by all parties.

"We like you, Johnny," said one girl.

Johnny thought he liked the twins, too, or at the very least could tolerate them for the sake of their marvellous mouth skills. Maybe he'd have to visit with his mum, next time she saw her sister.

"But we didn't get you a Christmas present," the other said, regretfully. "Would you like our records?"

Feeling magnanimous as a result of his recent orgasms, Johnny agreed to accept the albums. He could always melt them to form ashtrays, or something. Just then his mum called up that it was time for the twins to leave. "Bye Johnny," said the girls, and waved at him from the back of their father's car as they drove off.

"That's nice that you all got on so well," said his mum.

...

Christmas came and went, with Johnny frequently meditating upon the Hope and Joy that the season had bestowed upon him. On New Year’s Eve he and his mates had been invited to a party that was being held by a slightly older member of the local scene. Everybody would be there to see in the new year, and the new decade.

When Johnny and his gang arrived, the house was already heaving with people, who were spilling out into the street. After an hour or so of manoeuvring around the party, shouting inanities to people he knew over the deafening punk soundtrack, and availing himself of the quite possibly lethal party punch, at close to midnight Johnny found himself in the packed kitchen, squashed into a corner with a girl he'd never met before.

She was all dressed in black, and had long, bleached blonde hair. He found her attractive, but slightly odd-looking in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on, until he suddenly realised she had no eyebrows. She said her name was Nico, and between chain-smoking Gauloises, was talking to him about art in a husky and heavily accented voice, that he couldn't quite place. He thought maybe she could be from Germany, or somewhere further east - his knowledge of geography was too limited to guess where.

Johnny, who knew nothing about art, not even what he liked, wasn't able to contribute much to the conversation, but did manage to ask her where she was from. "I am a citizen of the world," she replied, enigmatically, pronouncing 'world' as 'vurld'. He hoped it was a part of the vurld where girls were free with their sexual favours.

The countdown for midnight started, and after the strains of Auld Lang Syne had died out (the two lines that anyone knew, anyway), Johnny seized his chance and snogged Nico. When she didn't recoil in horror, he asked, "shall we go upstairs?"

"Ja," she replied.

They fought their way up the stairs and into a bedroom piled high with coats, not just on the bed but all over the floor. The bed already being occupied by another couple, Johnny and Nico took the floor, lying on a heap of jackets and scarves and covering themselves with a duffel coat for a modicum of privacy.

After divesting her of her black polo neck sweater and persuading her to put out her latest Gauloise, he aimed for the bullseye and put his hand down her jeans. He was rather surprised to feel slightly stubbly skin, as his previous experiences of this part of girls' anatomy had involved hair, and he initially found it a little off-putting (had he known anything about art, he might have recognised himself as a kind of reverse John Ruskin), but he soon got used to the idea, and having removed her jeans and knickers, and waited for her to put out yet another cigarette, had unrolled the long-reserved condom onto his erect member, ready to finally, finally, lose his virginity. Even the increasingly loud grunts and moans coming from the couple on the bed, who he by now realised were Gary and Wino, couldn't deter him, although he was rather miffed to have been pipped to the cherry-popping post by Gary, even if it was only by a few minutes.

Just then, a girl burst into the room yelling, "Nic? Nic, are you in here? Barry's been looking for you all over!"

"Ah fuck, I thought he'd passed out," said Nico, in a distinctly non citizen-of-the-vurld accent. "My boyfriend," she added, helpfully. She hurriedly got dressed, leaving Johnny with a rapidly deflating erection, wondering if he was ever destined to have sex.

Later, he was ruefully talking to the party's host Daz about the incident, (of course leaving out the detail that it would have been his first time). "Where's Nico from, anyway?" he asked.

Daz laughed. "Mate, she's not Nico from Nuremberg, she's Nicola from Nuneaton! Pretentious cow, that's what one term on an art foundation course does for you. I reckon you had a lucky escape there, mate, I heard she roped Barry into one of her 'happenings' a few weeks back, he ended up naked, covered in paint, and reading Shakespearean sonnets backwards, poor bloke!" Johnny privately wondered if such indignities might even be worth it, if only he could get a fuck.

...

Early in the new year, Johnny and his mates travelled to another city nearby to see The Buzzcocks. As well as being excited to see a proper band for once, Johnny hoped the change of scene meant there'd be some different girls there that he might have a chance with.

He was in the bar queue after the support band had finished, when he noticed a tall, pretty girl at the back of the crowd. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but he couldn't work out what. She had cropped pink hair, elaborate eye liner, and amazing legs, shown off by the ripped fishnet tights and the extremely short tartan kilt she had on. He ogled her for a bit, but decided she was way out of his league. Most likely she'd be snogging Danger by the end of the night, he thought, resignedly. He turned to the barman to order his drink.

As he was heading out of the throng with his pint, to his surprise she turned round and spotted him, and ran over. "Johnny! Remember me? Remember when you had to hide in my wardrobe that time? God, that was funny, wasn't it!"

"Catherine! You look so different!" Last time he'd seen her she'd had long dark hair, no make up, and had been in school uniform - although come to think of it, the tiny skirt she was wearing did look rather like the one he'd had his hands up all those months back, but shortened by about a foot.

"Everyone calls me Cat, now."

"I thought you were going to Oxford?" said Johnny.

"Didn't get in, did I. Totally messed up my exams. Mum and Dad were furious! But I would have hated it! I'm at the poly here."

Just then there was a cheer and the crowd surged forward - the band had come to the stage. As the first bars of 'Orgasm Addict' played, Johnny was torn between pushing to the front to get a better view of his heroes, or hanging back a bit with Cat. The front of a punk gig could be pretty physical, and he wasn't sure she'd be up for it. But then Cat grabbed hold of his hand and pulled him forward into the crowd.

Outside, after the gig, Cat said, "do you fancy finishing what we started? My housemates haven't come back after Christmas holidays yet, so it's guaranteed there'll be no interruptions, this time."

"I didn't think you liked me," said Johnny. "You didn't seem to want to see me again."

"Just had too much pressure with A levels, and Mum nagging me all the time. Couldn't really cope with anything else at that point."

"I'd love to," said Johnny, and suddenly they were kissing.

Back at the flat, they'd barely got in the front door before they were tearing each other’s clothes off, jackets, jumpers, Johnny’s shirt, and Cat’s little skirt ending up in a tangled heap in the hall. "My room's in here," said Cat, trying to kick off a Doc Marten while the laces were still in a knot, and indicating a door on the left. In the room Johnny pulled her tee shirt off over her head and took a breast in each hand. They were small, but perfect, round and firm, and tipped with small peachy nipples. As he buried his face in them, licking and kissing and sucking, he thought he had never seen such lovely tits. Meanwhile Cat had pulled down his trousers and had her hand in his briefs, stroking up and down his cock, before sinking to her knees and taking the head into her mouth whilst helping him out of his boots and lower garments, and wriggling out of her tights and knickers.

On the bed, they kissed passionately, naked bodies entwined, and Johnny’s fingers discovered that Cat’s pussy was just as wet, soft and inviting as he had remembered. She unrolled a condom onto his straining erection. He was so excited! He was about to do it! He almost couldn't believe the moment had come, at long last. He climbed on top of her, and when he entered her, it felt even more amazing than he'd imagined, hot and tight and slippery and...

...three thrusts and it was all over.

"Was that your first time?" asked Cat.

No point in denying it. "Yeah. Sorry." He felt gutted. He'd finally got to have sex, with an absolutely gorgeous girl that he really liked, and he'd blown it. Might as well resign himself to a life of celibacy, and be done with it.

"Never mind, Johnny, it won't be your last. Tell you what, why don't I make us a cup of tea, then we can have another go, if you like."

Johnny's heart soared with relief and happiness. Seeing Cat's rather fetching rear view as she headed out of the room, his cock didn't actually think it needed the tea break, but it had waited long enough for the first time, so fifteen minutes until the second was nothing. As Johnny lit up his very first post-coital cigarette, he felt like the luckiest punk alive.