Notes from the Sofa by Alex Neve

Mistake Number Two: Leaving Further education prematurely after having sex for the first time with someone who wore a floor-length pleather coat.

Photo by Siora Photography on Unsplash

Hi, I’m Alex. I’m thirty-nine and will shortly be living out of a suitcase again, something I thought I’d left well behind in my twenties. Back then, I was a regular sofa surfer (thanks to everyone who put me up! Apologies if I cried too much or you caught me masturbating when I thought you were out).

Of course, thanks to London rental prices, my situation is unexceptional and I’m lucky enough to have been offered many a sofa to surf, but with several of my friends purchasing their first homes, some even their second, I’m starting to wonder how I’ve fucked up so badly, that I’ve ended up in this situation (again).

So, rather than moan, over the next few weeks I’ll walk you through a series of mistakes that perhaps you can avoid. I’ll have to go back to the very beginning to unpick the missteps that have often led to friends and family holding me up as an example of what can happen if you don’t work hard enough at school.

Mistake Number Two: Leaving further education prematurely after having sex for the first time with someone who wore a floor-length pleather coat.

I’d held on to my “purity”, clutching it tightly until I’d reached and passed the legal age of consent. For some reason, that was quite important to me. Surprising, seeing as I was one of the few remaining at my school who hadn’t done it, with most having at least given a blow job, but a few frigid bitches remained, and I was one of them. I chalk this up to my mother putting the fear of god in me, and as such, had visions of being dragged off to some grim-looking prison where I’d definitely give birth on the toilet like the girls Just Seventeen magazine wrote about. In my warped teenage mind, my light habit of shoplifting apparently wouldn’t land me in jail, but sex before the legal age definitely would.

So, it was when I’d reached college that I finally decided to have sex. It was quite obvious I hadn’t yet. I’d attended an all-girls school, which meant I wore a look of inexperienced eagerness around boys and was generally expected to be quite innocent, something I was more than happy to play up to in a naive and, quite frankly, embarrassingly desperate bid for male attention.

Initially, I thought I’d chosen well. He was older (by two years), originally from London (fancy) and had a driver's licence. I may as well have won the lottery. It was a brief courtship (cinema trip and terrible, popcorn tasting kiss), but unable to wait any longer, the next day I invited him round my mum’s house during our lunch break. My mum was at work, my younger brother at school and my dad had fucked off with another woman months ago so we had the place to ourselves.

I opened the door in nothing but lingerie, having no doubt seen something similar on some American daytime soap, and so naturally, felt that was the most appropriate way to greet your first-ever lover. In turn, this gave the impression of my having more confidence in the art of fucking than I did, and having never so much been fingered, I was flung onto the sofa with my knickers around my ankles. After a very short while, we moved to my bed because my cat had lazily wandered into the front room and seemed intent on watching.

As with most, it was uncomfortable and over quickly. All I really remember now is him throwing his pleather coat back on and putting the used condom in his rucksack like some sort of jizz-filled souvenir, but it was perfectly consensual, and for a while, I was quite happy with myself. I had a shower, called my friend to chat smugly about finally “becoming a woman”, and got dressed, ready to head back to college.

It was there that everything unravelled. Within an hour, I went from feeling in charge of my sexuality to skulking around shame-filled like some washed-up fallen woman in a Victorian novel. The wanker had told everyone that he’d “taken my virginity” via MSN Messenger (for those too young to know what this is, it was a popular instant messaging platform in the early to mid 00’s).

People weren’t particularly mean; to be honest, most were completely unfazed and presumably too busy trying to finger/wank off/grope the tits of their own crush, but my one playing card was gone and everyone knew it. It shouldn’t have been the case, but because I’d placed so much importance on my wholesomeness, I’d lost my shine. Once interested boys suddenly disappeared because in the space of a lunch hour, I’d gone from pure innocent virgin to slut, and seeing as I hadn’t developed much of a personality at the time and my tits were yet to come in, in their eyes I didn’t really have much else to offer.

A week later, confidence smashed by my apparently whoreish behaviour I left college and got a dull job at British Gas where I was screamed at by irate customers at least ten times a day (the first of many happy call-centre roles). Chained to the phones and hating life, I began saving for my escape to London all because a poorly dressed man had told everyone he’d fucked me.

Strangely enough, I still don’t regret the actual sex. I should’ve been pickier, and I would’ve ultimately got the ick (note the aforementioned floor-length pleather jacket), but compared to most people’s first times, it wasn’t too bad and my best friend did chuck an entire bottle of Evian in his face, drenching him and his shitty coat right through. I do, however, regret letting a week of mild gossip push me out of education. I’d, of course, done nothing wrong, but I was still of an age where I bought into the social construct of virginity and let men (or boys in this instance) dictate how I viewed myself. Even after the MSN crap, I didn’t regret the sex. I was ready and quite glad to be rid of the burden of not having done it at all. Sure, I now hated the person I slept with and wanted to punch his stupid smug face, but I was still quite chuffed with myself sex wise, but not enough to stop that age-old Madonna/Whore complex have me believe I was worthless.

At least there were no camera phones back then, and photos of my baps weren’t bandied about. But, if that’s the case, and someone has shared explicit photos or details, have a cry, report through the correct channels, maybe even take revenge (a public drowning in Evian can work wonders), but don’t drop out of school or work. With your head held high, remind yourself you have incredible tits and proudly stick to whatever it is you’re doing. Study hard, get your qualifications, go for the promotion and smash through those glass ceilings because we all have sex, and at some point, most of us will send pics of our bits.