Inexplicably, while I was University, Jenny found new friends.
I can’t blame her for this; I couldn’t expect her to wallow in the Windsor Wasteland without her greatest chum while I selfishly undertook an English Literature degree and then a Post Grad, leaving her to work in the Tile Depot skint, friendless and in want of a career that didn’t involve calculating the square foot of people’s bathrooms. She became accomplices with a girl named Carla with whom we had been to school but had lost touch with in the years since (and by ‘lost touch’ obviously I mean ‘totally and completely forgot about her existence’).
Carla had that crispy curled hair that might maybe have a nice natural wave to it but when damp, has a liftetime of mousse applied which crusts and scrunches into a wet-look, kinked mop. It was such a noughties look. Teamed with a terrible boob job and a wedge of dream-matte mousse foundation with matching Rose blusher, Carla fitted in to the status quo in a way I could not.
Jenny and Carla decided a girl’s holiday was in order. They’d worked their 9-5s darn near long enough and now deserved to splurge their minimum wage on a Thomas Cook package deal to Zante (or somewhere like that). All remaining cash was spent buying faux Burberry bikinis from Bovingdon market, roman buckle belts with Rara skirts and Carrot Sun oil, factor -30. They really looked the part of the twenteen year old holiday makers about to scrape their vaginas across the European borders.
One evening while on holiday, Jenny and Carla (predictably) met a bunch of Northern boys. I say Northern but this could be entirely wrong and they could just as easily have been from Essex or Birmingham. To match the Northern identity of these holiday conquests though, let’s give them the typically Northern names of Dave and Paul (as opposed to Darren and Curtis from Essex or Archie and Reggie from Birmingham). Dave liked a petite girl with perky, though questionably nippled breasts and so made a beeline for Carla. Paul, on the other hand, enjoyed a curvaceous brunette and so was naturally predisposed to anchor himself to Jenny.
Over the next few evenings, Jenny and Carla spent much of their nights rubbing shoulders with the Northern lads (this comprised of a much bigger group than just Dave and Paul) in a bid to see in their trans-UK conquests. The time spent chugging down fishbowls the colour of Toilet Duck and vomiting chunks of cheesy chips onto the hot Grecian pavements while on all fours with a group of sunburnt boys from Stockport looking on paid off and before long Jenny and Carla found themselves in their darkened hotel room with Dave and Paul.
I’m sure all manner of shenanigans went down in that hotel room comprised of two double beds. I can only imagine that knickers had to be unstuck from the walls in the wee hours of the morn and Calvin Kleins that had long lost their elasticity but remained being worn because of the waistband credentials gained were rapidly groped up from the tiled floors. Fulfilled, though probably massively disappointed by the sexual prowess of the youngsters, Jenny and Carla removed the post-condom rigour from their shaving-rash bedazzled vaginas and cracked on with the Club 18-30 Extravaganza they’d signed up to.
Jenny was disappointed, more so than Carla, to realise she had been a ‘wham, bam, thank you Ma’am’ kind of deal to Paul. He didn’t contact her after their evening spent together and she didn’t see him again in the days that followed. She was certainly more worldly than I was but definitely still quite naive and green when it came to the sexual attentions of men. She sucked it up though, didn’t let on that she was a little bit miffed to have been used and enjoyed the sun, sea and sand.
On the last night of their holiday, lo and behold but who should Jenny and Carla awkwardly bump into sipping a fishbowl without a care in the world? That’s right. Our Northern Guys – the very ones who had taken their string vests all those mornings before and done the flip-flopped walk of shame back to their 3 Star hotel. Old age has taught me that in such a scenario one must turn on one’s heel and totter away before aforementioned conquests see you and recognise you for the girls owning the vaginas they dipped into quickly like a Dairylea Lunchable and then threw away when they had scraped out all that cheesy cream.
But not Jenny and Carla. Oh no. Balls the size of great bongo drums they strutted on over to Paul, Dave and the remainder of their pastey, pale clique for the confrontation of the century.
The atmosphere was decidedly awkward and frosty. Little eye contact was made. It was all just a bit embarrassing for every single person involved. Except maybe Carla who never did really have her little stubby fingers on the pulse of social etiquette. Eventually it all got too much for Dave and Paul, the overtly passive aggressive insinuation that they had used these two girls they obviously perceived to be fair-game seemingly shameful to them in their shamelessness, and they sidled off like the sleazey little mole-rats they clearly were.
And that’s when Jenny found out…
The boys remaining in the party made small talk with our protagonists. Small talk led to laughter and laughter led to rekindling that holiday-maker relationship they had all cultivated before the night sweet pubey salad was made.
One particularly loutish young heathen turned to Jenny, voice laced with alcohol and Northerness, and asked thus:
‘How could you’s let him do that to you?’
‘Do what, exactly?’ replied Jenny.
At this point any number of things were rotating around Jenny’s drink-addled mind. Had I let him have sex with me unprotected? If so, is he riddled with more STDs than a Tudor man living in a whore house? Did he tell them he did me up the arse? Oh God, Oh God! On and on her wicked little mind worked itself into a frenzy.
At last, Northern friend put her out of her misery.
‘You let him shag you with a deodorant can.’
That’s right. Paul, for some unknown reason, had lied completely to his little group of rouged and raw chums. Instead of saying he had sex with Jenny (who, by the way, is a very attractive young lady and any guy would be blessed to nuzzle into her voluminous lady lumps) he told his friends that he had taken a stray bottle of Lynx Africa, shoved it in Jenny’s vagina and blasted her with it until she came. He also said this made her squirt.
Sadly Jenny never got the chance to confront Paul on his total fabrication of reality. She protested her innocence totally with his companions but she felt this went in no way towards making them believe her version of events; which was essentially that Paul and she had some pretty boring, shitty sex that ended in him coming and her faking it – depressingly that summarises my entire experience of sex up to the age of 30.
So the moral of the story here is a blindingly obvious one: Firstly, don’t have sex with random guys who look like they haven’t seen the sun in the entirety of their miserable little lives. It’s easy to get carried away on holiday – we’ve all been there, believe me. But if a Paul and/or a Dave approach, take a good long look at yourself and ask your reflection this question:
Does this guy deserve my vagina?
Respect your flaps, ladies. They are worth so, so, SO much more than a 7 minute grind with some nobody who will later go on to tell his friends that he brought you to orgasm using a tin can that, quite frankly, would probably be closer to making you come than his presumably teeny weeny pencil peen.