A beam of light falling through a gap in the curtains disturbed my restless, fitful sleep.
It hurt! Oh God, it hurt!
My head felt as if an elephant was using it as a trampoline; my eyes seemed to be glued shut; my mouth had been used to store old sawdust and as for my tummy…
Was it morning? If I could open my eyes, I might find out but they remained stubbornly closed. I raised my fists to my face and rubbed my eyelids. The grit holding them closed fell away but not without a few malicious grains falling into each eye.
“Owwwww!”
I gingerly opened one eyelid, wincing as the early morning light struck me full in the face, burning into my head. I blinked, closed my eyes again and breathed heavily, trying desperately to think.
I was lying face down on a bed in a darkened room. The bed was familiar. The room was familiar.
I felt bad; very bad.
Tentatively, I opened both eyes, raised my head from the pillow and blinked again. The room was spinning and my stomach was churning. My mouth was dry; very dry and there was a vaguely familiar taste in my throat.
I raised myself on my elbows and felt the churning in my stomach increase.
Oh God! Move, Debbie move now!
Throwing myself out of bed, I leapt unsteadily to my feet and clasped my hands to my mouth as I rushed across the room, through the bedroom door, across the landing and into the bathroom where, falling to my knees, I hung my head over the toilet bowl and was violently and noisily sick.
My rather chubby body contorted with powerful spasms as I held onto the rim of the bowl, the smell and taste of vomit in my nose and mouth. The spasm passed then came again, I was sick a second time; it subsided.
I held firmly to the bowl to steady my trembling body, and tried to breathe my way back to sanity.
After what seemed a very long time, the room stopped spinning and my tummy felt a little more stable. With super-human effort I managed to flush the toilet; the slight spray of cold water revived me a little more and slowly my body came back under my control.
I closed the toilet lid and, still on my knees, breathed in deeply again, feeling my stomach settle a little more then raised one arm to the sink and with a hand on the edge of the bath, lifted myself up and round until I could sit on the toilet seat.
The coldness of the seat against my bare buttocks made me jump. I was naked from the waist down! How the hell had that happened? I was still wearing the tight yellow top I had worn the previous evening – though no longer with a bra.
Where was it? And where were my skirt and knickers? What had I being doing last night?
Nervously raising my head, I stared blindly at the ceiling as the memories began to come back into my mind.
Oh shit! The party! Would I never learn?
I filled a toothbrush beaker from the cold tap and downed it in one, then did the same again and again. The cool water seemed to reach out through my body bringing relief in its path. Both the room and my head had stopped spinning but my stomach was still threatening to erupt so it was with great care that I rose to my feet and tottered, still naked from the waist down, back into my bedroom where I threw myself back onto the bed and went back to sleep.
It was past lunchtime when I finally dragged myself downstairs dressed only in my bathrobe. I had thrown my dirty top into the washing basket and was running a deep, hot bath to try and help me recover at least some humanity.
While the tub was filling I padded downstairs intending to make myself a large pot of strong black coffee but the sight that greeted me as I reached the foot of the stairs froze me to the spot.
The house was a pigsty!
Dirty glasses and crushed beer cans adorned almost every surface in the lounge, kitchen and dining room; half- empty take-way food trays cluttered the tables and lay on the floor with predictable stains on the carpets. There were empty vodka and tequila bottles in the waste bins and on top of the television.
Would I never, ever learn?
Of course it had seemed a good idea at the time; all my friends had told me so. With my parents away for the weekend and my brother at University, I had the house to myself.
Mum hadn’t been keen but Dad had assured her that at eighteen I was an adult now and could be trusted at home alone.
So what had I done on my first night alone?
Of course, I had arranged a party, straight away on the Friday night. No more than three hours after Mum and Dad had left for their romantic weekend a dozen teenage hooligans masquerading as my closest friends had descended on our home.
And the results were all around me. If I hadn’t felt sick already, the sight of our lovely home trashed like this would have made me retch.
Worst of all, the whole house stank of cigarette smoke and, in some places, of other less legal smoke too.
Standing in the lounge, I looked around the room in despair only to find my skirt draped around the reading light behind Dad’s favourite chair.
What in God’s name had happened?
One thing was clear; with my parents coming home the following evening, there was no time for self pity; I had to start cleaning and start cleaning straight away. The bath would have to wait until I had made some kind of inroad into the devastation all around me.
I ran upstairs and turned off the taps then opened all the windows in the house, thanking God that the day was warm and I wouldn’t freeze.
I grabbed a roll of bin bags from the kitchen drawer, pulled one open then went from room to room throwing all the most obvious rubbish into it. Beer cans, bottles, stale food; all went straight into the one bag despite my normal obsession with recycling and the environment.
A second bag followed swiftly but by the time it was full, I could see a toxic-smelling mixture of beer and curry beginning to leak out of the first bag and onto the kitchen floor.
Shit!
Grabbing the bag in one hand I searched for the door key but it wasn’t in the door and I couldn’t find it in the mess but I did find my bra on a hook behind the kitchen door.
Shit! Shit! Have to use the front door instead.
For a moment I hesitated; going out this way would let any nosy neighbours see me dressed only in my bathrobe but this was an emergency.
Holding my hand underneath the leaking bag I walked quickly and carefully into the hallway and towards the front door. It was closed but only on the latch; no key was needed. Releasing the bottom of the leaking bag I turned the handle, pulled the heavy door open and carried the bag outside.
I looked quickly around the street.
Shit again! Billy Thomas and his teenage friend were across the road on their bikes. They were staring at me too with broad grins on their lustful faces but I had no choice; I walked slowly and casually around the house to the bins where I calmly dumped the bag of rubbish. Then, moving as quickly I could without looking suspicious, I returned to the front door. I was about to enter and continue my cleaning when something distracted me.
What was that? I hadn’t seen it when I had gone out but there, partly concealed by Mum’s favourite plant pots was a good-sized display of fresh flowers.
Thinking that they must be a surprise present from Dad to Mum, I carried then into the house and placed them in the middle of the kitchen table. I was just about to re-start my cleaning when I noticed the name on the little envelope that contained the card.
‘To Debbie’
They were for me? Someone had sent these beautiful flowers for me? Who could it possibly be?
I picked up the card and opened it tentatively. Who would send me flowers? I didn’t have a boyfriend; in truth I had never had a real boyfriend. At eighteen and to be honest, rather plump, I was still largely untouched by male hands below the waist and was most certainly still a virgin.
That didn’t mean that I was completely frigid; no indeed, after a few drinks my resistance always weakened and my defences often came down quickly but never all the way. As a result, several of the boys at school knew my over-sized boobs rather well and I had performed a few hand-jobs while under the influence of alcohol but even when drunk, my knickers had remained firmly in place.
I crossed to the kitchen window and opened the envelope in the early afternoon sunshine.
My heart missed a beat as I read the words.
‘To Debbie.
Thank you for letting me be your first. I hope it won’t be our last.
See you this afternoon as we promised.
Love Darren
PS: I’ll bring the morning after pills with me. We don’t want you getting pregnant your first time J ’
What the fuck...? I re-read the card then re-read it again.
It couldn’t be true!
The implication of the note was horrifyingly clear; I had had sex for the first time last night.
And not just any sex; unprotected sex.
And not just unprotected sex, unprotected sex with a boy called Darren.
And there could only be one Darren!
It couldn’t be true! Darren Clarke hadn’t even been at the party; at least he hadn’t been at the part of the party I could remember.
It couldn’t be true. No matter how much of the evening was missing from my memory, surely I would remember if I had just lost my virginity!
A cold wave washed over me. What in God’s name should I do?
There must be some way of checking. I’ll call Izzy.
No, get real girl, are you really going to call a friend and ask if you lost your virginity last night? Whatever the answer, just asking the question would make me look... either a gullible idiot or a slut!
Think! Think!
Ah! Maybe I could check myself. If I really had had sex, there would be signs; signs on the bed; signs on my body.
Quick!
I ran upstairs and grabbed a hand mirror from Mum’s dresser then rushed back into my room, cast aside my robe and lay back on the bed, naked. Spreading my chubby legs wide, I held the mirror between my thighs and stared hard at the reflection of my vulva.
Oh my God!
It was true! The evidence was there! Small but definite gobs of something white were stuck in my curly brown pubic hair. I looked harder; there were dried-up patches of something sticky on the tops of my thighs too and in the deep creases where they met my dark triangle.
My slit itself was a bit puffy and red too.
Oh my fucking God! Semen! I really had lost my virginity last night.
Jesus girl, what have you done?
Then a worse realisation hit me; if there was semen everywhere, that meant whoever had fucked me hadn’t used a condom. God alone knew how much of the stuff had gone inside me; how much was still inside me!
I shuddered in horror; I had lain in a drunken stupor all night and most of the morning with a boy’s sperm wriggling inside my body, perhaps even inside my womb!
Jesus Christ! I might actually be pregnant already! And what if he’s given me an STD?
A wave of self-disgust washed over me along with a heavy undercurrent of fear.
Darren Clarke! Darren fucking Clarke!
Despite all I had promised myself, now he had added my name to the long list of his conquests.
He’d had my cherry too, and I had sworn I would keep myself intact until I met the right boy! I had sworn I wouldn’t let myself join the growing gang of girls who had been deflowered by Darren fucking Clarke.
And yet it had still happened!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! You stupid, stupid girl!
What was worse was that I couldn’t remember a single thing about it. According to all my books and magazines, a girl’s first time was supposed to be special; loving, caring; something to look back on fondly in years to come.
I had no memory at all of my first time but the evidence on my body was clear; a boy’s erect penis had been in my vagina; had even ejaculated inside me and I had no memory of the whole event, fond or otherwise.
It wasn’t fair!
Now the only memories of my defloration would be of hangovers, vomiting in the toilet and cleaning stale Indian food off pale cream carpets.
Darren fucking Clarke!
***
Darren Clarke was the Don Juan of our school. He was a year older than me so had left school the previous summer. Now at University, he must have come home for the holiday but how he managed to be in our house the previous night was a mystery.
Undoubtedly gorgeous; tall, dark haired, excellent at sport if a little challenged in the classroom, he had been the heartthrob of most of the girls in his school year and all of those in mine.
He was also ruthless and unscrupulous when it came to sex and was known to have slept with the majority of those admiring girls at least once. A good many cherries had fallen to his considerable seductive powers but he seldom stayed long with a conquest once her virtue or, better, her hymen had been notched up on his belt.
My own sex life was almost non-existent; had been non-existent I should say if I had indeed just lost my virginity. Being short and a little plump, I wasn’t at the top of many boys’ ‘would you do her?’ list. As a result, my virginity hadn’t been assailed very often and my self-imposed desire to save myself for my husband hadn’t been difficult to maintain.
At the age of eighteen I was probably the only virgin remaining in our year.
Had been the only virgin, I should say.
Darren fucking Clarke!
***
My stomach and head began to throb; I ran to the kitchen and downed another two glasses of water then took three paracetamol tablets. Perhaps when my headache moderated I would be able to think more clearly; perhaps then I would know what to do.
The cleaning up would have to wait.
Abandoning the mess, I went back upstairs and finished running the bath then took off my robe and lay back. The hot water began to do its stuff; my muscles began to relax and, as the tablets joined in the effort, I began to feel human again.
After a while I began to wash myself, scrubbing all evidence of the party and its excesses from my chubby body, paying special attention to the dark triangle between my thighs, seeking out and washing away every last trace of Darren Clarke’s semen.
The thought of that sticky goo went over and over in my mind. Having spent so long in bed with it inside me, most of it had probably been absorbed by my body hours ago. I begged God not to let me become pregnant; not to have let any of the millions of sperm that had entered my womb find a waiting egg.
I would have to do something about it but could I trust Darren’s pills - if he brought them? I would have to go to the Doctor to get the ‘morning after’ pill on Monday. But our Doctor played golf with my Dad; how could I ask him for something so personal?
And would the pills work on a Monday if I had been knocked-up on Friday night?
And what if they didn’t work? What if I had to have an abortion? What if I had to have the baby?
Jesus Debbie; what have you done?
But I couldn’t spend all day wallowing in self-pity. After half an hour of soaking, my fingers were pruned and it was time to remove the rest of the evidence of my mis-deeds. As far as my parents were concerned, having a party at all was crime enough to warrant the withdrawal of the car for a long period.
I rose from the water and towelled myself down, my skin pink from the heat. Wrapping the towel around me I walked through to my bedroom and pulled on a pair of big-knickers, wriggled my boobs into a rather undersized bra then donned my usual tight white top and short, elasticated skirt.
Examining myself in the mirror; I was relieved to see that I looked like what I was; an overweight, hungover teenager with a big job to do. I was no longer a virgin but there was nothing obvious to give that secret away.
If I was pregnant as well, there was nothing outwardly to show for that either.
I went back downstairs to the kitchen and took a Diet Coke from the fridge, downed about half of it then realised I was hungry. That was good; it meant my stomach was at...
It hurt! Oh God, it hurt!
My head felt as if an elephant was using it as a trampoline; my eyes seemed to be glued shut; my mouth had been used to store old sawdust and as for my tummy…
Was it morning? If I could open my eyes, I might find out but they remained stubbornly closed. I raised my fists to my face and rubbed my eyelids. The grit holding them closed fell away but not without a few malicious grains falling into each eye.
“Owwwww!”
I gingerly opened one eyelid, wincing as the early morning light struck me full in the face, burning into my head. I blinked, closed my eyes again and breathed heavily, trying desperately to think.
I was lying face down on a bed in a darkened room. The bed was familiar. The room was familiar.
I felt bad; very bad.
Tentatively, I opened both eyes, raised my head from the pillow and blinked again. The room was spinning and my stomach was churning. My mouth was dry; very dry and there was a vaguely familiar taste in my throat.
I raised myself on my elbows and felt the churning in my stomach increase.
Oh God! Move, Debbie move now!
Throwing myself out of bed, I leapt unsteadily to my feet and clasped my hands to my mouth as I rushed across the room, through the bedroom door, across the landing and into the bathroom where, falling to my knees, I hung my head over the toilet bowl and was violently and noisily sick.
My rather chubby body contorted with powerful spasms as I held onto the rim of the bowl, the smell and taste of vomit in my nose and mouth. The spasm passed then came again, I was sick a second time; it subsided.
I held firmly to the bowl to steady my trembling body, and tried to breathe my way back to sanity.
After what seemed a very long time, the room stopped spinning and my tummy felt a little more stable. With super-human effort I managed to flush the toilet; the slight spray of cold water revived me a little more and slowly my body came back under my control.
I closed the toilet lid and, still on my knees, breathed in deeply again, feeling my stomach settle a little more then raised one arm to the sink and with a hand on the edge of the bath, lifted myself up and round until I could sit on the toilet seat.
The coldness of the seat against my bare buttocks made me jump. I was naked from the waist down! How the hell had that happened? I was still wearing the tight yellow top I had worn the previous evening – though no longer with a bra.
Where was it? And where were my skirt and knickers? What had I being doing last night?
Nervously raising my head, I stared blindly at the ceiling as the memories began to come back into my mind.
Oh shit! The party! Would I never learn?
I filled a toothbrush beaker from the cold tap and downed it in one, then did the same again and again. The cool water seemed to reach out through my body bringing relief in its path. Both the room and my head had stopped spinning but my stomach was still threatening to erupt so it was with great care that I rose to my feet and tottered, still naked from the waist down, back into my bedroom where I threw myself back onto the bed and went back to sleep.
It was past lunchtime when I finally dragged myself downstairs dressed only in my bathrobe. I had thrown my dirty top into the washing basket and was running a deep, hot bath to try and help me recover at least some humanity.
While the tub was filling I padded downstairs intending to make myself a large pot of strong black coffee but the sight that greeted me as I reached the foot of the stairs froze me to the spot.
The house was a pigsty!
Dirty glasses and crushed beer cans adorned almost every surface in the lounge, kitchen and dining room; half- empty take-way food trays cluttered the tables and lay on the floor with predictable stains on the carpets. There were empty vodka and tequila bottles in the waste bins and on top of the television.
Would I never, ever learn?
Of course it had seemed a good idea at the time; all my friends had told me so. With my parents away for the weekend and my brother at University, I had the house to myself.
Mum hadn’t been keen but Dad had assured her that at eighteen I was an adult now and could be trusted at home alone.
So what had I done on my first night alone?
Of course, I had arranged a party, straight away on the Friday night. No more than three hours after Mum and Dad had left for their romantic weekend a dozen teenage hooligans masquerading as my closest friends had descended on our home.
And the results were all around me. If I hadn’t felt sick already, the sight of our lovely home trashed like this would have made me retch.
Worst of all, the whole house stank of cigarette smoke and, in some places, of other less legal smoke too.
Standing in the lounge, I looked around the room in despair only to find my skirt draped around the reading light behind Dad’s favourite chair.
What in God’s name had happened?
One thing was clear; with my parents coming home the following evening, there was no time for self pity; I had to start cleaning and start cleaning straight away. The bath would have to wait until I had made some kind of inroad into the devastation all around me.
I ran upstairs and turned off the taps then opened all the windows in the house, thanking God that the day was warm and I wouldn’t freeze.
I grabbed a roll of bin bags from the kitchen drawer, pulled one open then went from room to room throwing all the most obvious rubbish into it. Beer cans, bottles, stale food; all went straight into the one bag despite my normal obsession with recycling and the environment.
A second bag followed swiftly but by the time it was full, I could see a toxic-smelling mixture of beer and curry beginning to leak out of the first bag and onto the kitchen floor.
Shit!
Grabbing the bag in one hand I searched for the door key but it wasn’t in the door and I couldn’t find it in the mess but I did find my bra on a hook behind the kitchen door.
Shit! Shit! Have to use the front door instead.
For a moment I hesitated; going out this way would let any nosy neighbours see me dressed only in my bathrobe but this was an emergency.
Holding my hand underneath the leaking bag I walked quickly and carefully into the hallway and towards the front door. It was closed but only on the latch; no key was needed. Releasing the bottom of the leaking bag I turned the handle, pulled the heavy door open and carried the bag outside.
I looked quickly around the street.
Shit again! Billy Thomas and his teenage friend were across the road on their bikes. They were staring at me too with broad grins on their lustful faces but I had no choice; I walked slowly and casually around the house to the bins where I calmly dumped the bag of rubbish. Then, moving as quickly I could without looking suspicious, I returned to the front door. I was about to enter and continue my cleaning when something distracted me.
What was that? I hadn’t seen it when I had gone out but there, partly concealed by Mum’s favourite plant pots was a good-sized display of fresh flowers.
Thinking that they must be a surprise present from Dad to Mum, I carried then into the house and placed them in the middle of the kitchen table. I was just about to re-start my cleaning when I noticed the name on the little envelope that contained the card.
‘To Debbie’
They were for me? Someone had sent these beautiful flowers for me? Who could it possibly be?
I picked up the card and opened it tentatively. Who would send me flowers? I didn’t have a boyfriend; in truth I had never had a real boyfriend. At eighteen and to be honest, rather plump, I was still largely untouched by male hands below the waist and was most certainly still a virgin.
That didn’t mean that I was completely frigid; no indeed, after a few drinks my resistance always weakened and my defences often came down quickly but never all the way. As a result, several of the boys at school knew my over-sized boobs rather well and I had performed a few hand-jobs while under the influence of alcohol but even when drunk, my knickers had remained firmly in place.
I crossed to the kitchen window and opened the envelope in the early afternoon sunshine.
My heart missed a beat as I read the words.
‘To Debbie.
Thank you for letting me be your first. I hope it won’t be our last.
See you this afternoon as we promised.
Love Darren
PS: I’ll bring the morning after pills with me. We don’t want you getting pregnant your first time J ’
What the fuck...? I re-read the card then re-read it again.
It couldn’t be true!
The implication of the note was horrifyingly clear; I had had sex for the first time last night.
And not just any sex; unprotected sex.
And not just unprotected sex, unprotected sex with a boy called Darren.
And there could only be one Darren!
It couldn’t be true! Darren Clarke hadn’t even been at the party; at least he hadn’t been at the part of the party I could remember.
It couldn’t be true. No matter how much of the evening was missing from my memory, surely I would remember if I had just lost my virginity!
A cold wave washed over me. What in God’s name should I do?
There must be some way of checking. I’ll call Izzy.
No, get real girl, are you really going to call a friend and ask if you lost your virginity last night? Whatever the answer, just asking the question would make me look... either a gullible idiot or a slut!
Think! Think!
Ah! Maybe I could check myself. If I really had had sex, there would be signs; signs on the bed; signs on my body.
Quick!
I ran upstairs and grabbed a hand mirror from Mum’s dresser then rushed back into my room, cast aside my robe and lay back on the bed, naked. Spreading my chubby legs wide, I held the mirror between my thighs and stared hard at the reflection of my vulva.
Oh my God!
It was true! The evidence was there! Small but definite gobs of something white were stuck in my curly brown pubic hair. I looked harder; there were dried-up patches of something sticky on the tops of my thighs too and in the deep creases where they met my dark triangle.
My slit itself was a bit puffy and red too.
Oh my fucking God! Semen! I really had lost my virginity last night.
Jesus girl, what have you done?
Then a worse realisation hit me; if there was semen everywhere, that meant whoever had fucked me hadn’t used a condom. God alone knew how much of the stuff had gone inside me; how much was still inside me!
I shuddered in horror; I had lain in a drunken stupor all night and most of the morning with a boy’s sperm wriggling inside my body, perhaps even inside my womb!
Jesus Christ! I might actually be pregnant already! And what if he’s given me an STD?
A wave of self-disgust washed over me along with a heavy undercurrent of fear.
Darren Clarke! Darren fucking Clarke!
Despite all I had promised myself, now he had added my name to the long list of his conquests.
He’d had my cherry too, and I had sworn I would keep myself intact until I met the right boy! I had sworn I wouldn’t let myself join the growing gang of girls who had been deflowered by Darren fucking Clarke.
And yet it had still happened!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! You stupid, stupid girl!
What was worse was that I couldn’t remember a single thing about it. According to all my books and magazines, a girl’s first time was supposed to be special; loving, caring; something to look back on fondly in years to come.
I had no memory at all of my first time but the evidence on my body was clear; a boy’s erect penis had been in my vagina; had even ejaculated inside me and I had no memory of the whole event, fond or otherwise.
It wasn’t fair!
Now the only memories of my defloration would be of hangovers, vomiting in the toilet and cleaning stale Indian food off pale cream carpets.
Darren fucking Clarke!
***
Darren Clarke was the Don Juan of our school. He was a year older than me so had left school the previous summer. Now at University, he must have come home for the holiday but how he managed to be in our house the previous night was a mystery.
Undoubtedly gorgeous; tall, dark haired, excellent at sport if a little challenged in the classroom, he had been the heartthrob of most of the girls in his school year and all of those in mine.
He was also ruthless and unscrupulous when it came to sex and was known to have slept with the majority of those admiring girls at least once. A good many cherries had fallen to his considerable seductive powers but he seldom stayed long with a conquest once her virtue or, better, her hymen had been notched up on his belt.
My own sex life was almost non-existent; had been non-existent I should say if I had indeed just lost my virginity. Being short and a little plump, I wasn’t at the top of many boys’ ‘would you do her?’ list. As a result, my virginity hadn’t been assailed very often and my self-imposed desire to save myself for my husband hadn’t been difficult to maintain.
At the age of eighteen I was probably the only virgin remaining in our year.
Had been the only virgin, I should say.
Darren fucking Clarke!
***
My stomach and head began to throb; I ran to the kitchen and downed another two glasses of water then took three paracetamol tablets. Perhaps when my headache moderated I would be able to think more clearly; perhaps then I would know what to do.
The cleaning up would have to wait.
Abandoning the mess, I went back upstairs and finished running the bath then took off my robe and lay back. The hot water began to do its stuff; my muscles began to relax and, as the tablets joined in the effort, I began to feel human again.
After a while I began to wash myself, scrubbing all evidence of the party and its excesses from my chubby body, paying special attention to the dark triangle between my thighs, seeking out and washing away every last trace of Darren Clarke’s semen.
The thought of that sticky goo went over and over in my mind. Having spent so long in bed with it inside me, most of it had probably been absorbed by my body hours ago. I begged God not to let me become pregnant; not to have let any of the millions of sperm that had entered my womb find a waiting egg.
I would have to do something about it but could I trust Darren’s pills - if he brought them? I would have to go to the Doctor to get the ‘morning after’ pill on Monday. But our Doctor played golf with my Dad; how could I ask him for something so personal?
And would the pills work on a Monday if I had been knocked-up on Friday night?
And what if they didn’t work? What if I had to have an abortion? What if I had to have the baby?
Jesus Debbie; what have you done?
But I couldn’t spend all day wallowing in self-pity. After half an hour of soaking, my fingers were pruned and it was time to remove the rest of the evidence of my mis-deeds. As far as my parents were concerned, having a party at all was crime enough to warrant the withdrawal of the car for a long period.
I rose from the water and towelled myself down, my skin pink from the heat. Wrapping the towel around me I walked through to my bedroom and pulled on a pair of big-knickers, wriggled my boobs into a rather undersized bra then donned my usual tight white top and short, elasticated skirt.
Examining myself in the mirror; I was relieved to see that I looked like what I was; an overweight, hungover teenager with a big job to do. I was no longer a virgin but there was nothing obvious to give that secret away.
If I was pregnant as well, there was nothing outwardly to show for that either.
I went back downstairs to the kitchen and took a Diet Coke from the fridge, downed about half of it then realised I was hungry. That was good; it meant my stomach was at...
