A Young Geek’s Tale
This book is a collection of interesting tales from my life. Purely by coincidence, it turns out that my most fun tales all seem to involve sex, love, drugs or alcohol. I’ll give you fair warning, there’s some bisexual content too. Feel free to skip over those sections if that’s not your thing.
This isn’t strictly an erotic novel – the focus is more on the weird and wonderful things that have happened to me during my younger years. There’s a fair amount of graphic sexual detail, but perhaps not quite as much as you might expect from a pure erotica novel.
I want to be clear – this isn’t a fantasy novel. In real life, sex isn’t 10/10 every time. In fact, most of the time it’s simply average. Sometimes it’s even awful. This book reflects that entire spectrum.
I wanted to write a book which feels believable. I want readers to relate to, and perhaps even see themselves in some of the scenes. So, not every sex scene in this book ends with all the participants exhausted and totally satisfied after a dozen mind-blowing orgasms. Sorry.
This book is based on a true story. Some of what follows actually happened. Exactly how much, I’ll leave up to your imagination.
Win A FREE FLESHLIGHT - Sign up below!
Quarterly draw for email subscribers - Win a Fleshlight STU!
Editor’s Note: This is an excerpt from Vincent’s book A Young Geek’s Tale
1 – No Longer Innocent
“No, don’t stop. Keep going,” she gasped. “My parents will still be a while.” Where better place to start a book about teenage exploits involving sex, drugs and alcohol than how I lost my virginity?
Let’s rewind a bit. I was about 17, doing A-levels at a local college, and like most teenage boys, was obsessed with sex. It seemed everyone except for me was “doing it”. All the cool people had (allegedly) had sex already, and I desperately wanted to join that exclusive club. It hadn’t really occurred to me that it might be best to save sex for someone special. I just wanted to do it, preferably as soon as possible.
Looking back, it’s funny how limited my sexual preferences were. All the boys fancied the fit girls, and the fit girls knew it. They seemed utterly unobtainable to an average-looking, spotty and geeky individual like me. I was frightened to even talk to most of them. They were like Goddesses, floating down the college hallways, effortlessly beautiful, smiling and charismatic. They deserved to be worshipped, not clumsily deflowered by a lad with no real idea of what he was doing.
But there were plenty of perfectly lovely girls at my college too, it’s just that most of them didn’t receive very much male attention. Loads of them were actually quite good-looking, though perhaps not in a totally conventional way. They were maybe a bit quieter than the “fit” girls, and perhaps not quite as “cool” – whatever that means. But almost all of them were great girls nonetheless.
Like a lot of men, I look back on those days and wonder why I was so pre-occupied with the unobtainable. I blame the media, especially those trashy lad’s magazines, packed with unrealistic Photoshopped images. They bombard us all from a young age, telling us exactly what we should consider beautiful, tragically corrupting the development of our own personal tastes.
I could have had a field day shagging at college, if only I’d been a bit more confident and had the nous to see through the media’s bullshit ideas about beauty.
I didn’t believe I was good looking in the slightest. One night, a few months previous, a stunner named Anna had been in the queue in front of me to get into the local nightclub. From nowhere, she turned to me and said, “You are so ugly, Vincent,” before laughing and returning to flirt with one of my friends. That really stung.
For years I truly believed I was ugly, simply because of that one comment uttered by a silly drunk girl. I never stopped to analyse it or look at the evidence to see if it was really true. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will probably scar me forever. Fortunately, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become a lot more comfortable in my own skin. I’m no George Clooney, but fortunately I like to think I have quite an engaging personality and a cheeky sense of humour.
I’m just half an inch shy of 6 foot, so I often round up when telling people my height, especially girls. I have quite an average build, fairly slim and toned with broad shoulders, but not overly muscular. I can thank my Mum for giving me a slightly rounded face; the dentist once asked me if I had an abscess before untactfully remarking, “Oh it’s not an abscess, you’ve simply got chubby cheeks.” Yeah, and your breath stinks, you old fart. I have been told my green eyes are mischievous and I have straight blonde hair. It’s thinning now I’m in my 30s, though back in my teens and early twenties it used to be my pride and joy.
So, onto Claire. She was quiet yet friendly, slightly short but she possessed sexy curves. She was clever and bookish, and attractive in her own unique way, not unlike myself. Why had I not found her attractive before?
The day was like any other at college. My class and I were stood in line, waiting for our lecturer to invite us into the room. We chatted amiably about music and drinking – the usual teenage passions. I’d spoken to Claire a few times before, but it was only small talk. I certainly hadn’t particularly fancied her, but that was about to change in a very dramatic fashion…
“So, what are you doing this Bank Holiday weekend?” Claire asked me.
PAUSE. At this point, I need to interrupt the story to explain something about myself. Too often I blurt out what I’m thinking without giving much thought to how it’ll be received. Certainly I’ll never be a diplomat or PR advisor. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve. Maybe that makes me naively idealistic, but it certainly makes life simpler. I’ve become better at filtering my more extreme thoughts as I’ve aged, but I was particularly prone to this gaffe in my teenage years.
I simply have no idea where the following phrase originated from in my head, but it was a real Vincent classic…
“Having sex with you!” I joked, without thinking. Suddenly I felt very silly – I barely knew this girl. Had any of my peers overheard?
“OK then,” she smiled. My heart nearly stopped. I could feel an instant swelling down below, not atypical for teenage boys with raging hormones. It felt like time stood still.
What, really? Did I hear correctly? Is a girl, a not unattractive one at that, offering to have sex with me? As easily as that, with no wooing or courtship!?
What happened next really is a bit of a blur, but somehow we must have made plans for our “date” that weekend. I couldn’t concentrate during that lecture, nor for the rest of the day. We’d decided I would hire a video (this was back in the days of good old VHS tapes) and watch it at her parents’ house across the other side of town. They’d be out for the day – result!
I’m pretty sure I masturbated to within an inch of my life as soon as I got home. And for probably the rest of the evening. And the following morning. I couldn’t quite believe it was going to happen – I was finally going to have sex! Or maybe it was some cruel trick… Girls can be like that sometimes.
My heart thumped in my chest as I chose the film. I really did not care what it was, but I still made some token effort to choose something we both might like. Generic action flick? Perfect.
I walked to her house, sun shining. Has there ever been a day as good as this one? I supposed there was the day I first discovered masturbation, accidently rubbing myself against the sheets in bed, just thinking it felt sort of nice. I was shocked and surprised when this eventually resulted in me cumming. So that’s what all the lads have been raving about! It would be weeks before I managed to go a whole day without playing with myself.
I arrived at her house and rang the bell. Please be in, please be in! She opened the door and we exchanged pleasantries, then she invited me in. YES! It’s really going to happen!
Heart hammering thunderously in my chest, we put on the film and sat next to each other on the sofa. To an outsider, it probably all looked perfectly innocent, just two platonic friends watching a film together, except for the beads of sweat that were forming on my forehead. How the hell do you start this kind of thing?
I think we watched at most 5 minutes of that film before turning to each other, ripping off each other’s clothes and hastily making our way to Claire’s room. She had a matching set of sexy frilly white underwear on. Though it wasn’t on for long.
I might as well tell you now to avoid getting your hopes up further… all in all it wasn’t a great experience.
We were both virgins and I suffered with tight foreskin. Even with a condom, which reduced the sensation, it was incredibly painful and not particularly pleasurable for either of us. As with most virgins, she bled. Even though I’d been expecting it, it still came as a bit of a shock as the redness leaked onto the towel she’d thoughtfully placed underneath us. With hindsight, perhaps more foreplay would have helped, like about 5 dates and 2 hours of heavy petting.
We tried a few positions, but nothing seemed to make much difference; it hurt.
Despite the pain, I did really enjoy going doggie style for the first time – it felt naughty. The feel of her soft skin was delightful too. She had large breasts with lovely light pink nipples. They were very perky; one of the benefits of being 17. “I’m finally having sex!” part of me thought, trying to block out the pain and awkwardness.
But before long, Claire began to cry. Oh no, this really is not going well at all.
I came out of her. That’s when she said, “No, don’t stop. Keep going. My parents will still be a little while.” But rather than encouraging me, the mention of her parents was the final nail in the coffin. We stopped, hugged, got dressed and said we’d see each other back at college.
I felt ashamed. Embarrassed and ashamed. I barely knew this girl, yet we’d both been desperate to join the “cool club” and have sex. I felt so awful about what had happened that I avoided Claire altogether for weeks, not talking to her. Man, I was such a dick. Claire really was a lovely girl. She deserved better.
A few weeks later, Claire was dating another guy in the same class. Good for her. He was a nice bloke. Kind. He was sure to treat her better than I did.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. I wonder sometimes about what would have happened if Claire and I had actually given our relationship a chance. I’m sure she didn’t intend for the whole botched date to be just a one-off.
But regrets, I’ve learned, are best left in the past.