Back when I was 15, like every other boy of the same age since the day those gross little fish crawled out the sea and grew legs, I was obsessed with anything relating to girls, their vaginas and their boobs. I was a virgin with a fast internet connection and a lust that forced me to keep multiple packets of tissues on me at all times. The girls in my school were pretty hot, which made matters worse, but lucky for my friends and I, they were also mostly very easy.
There was one particular girl in geography class who took my eye. We were allowed to choose our own seats in class and I always made sure we sat together. She was extremely flirty—as in, taking my hand and placing it on her crotch in the middle of class flirty. So I obviously loved sitting next to her and spurring out an average of eight gallons of pre-cum every single time. Anyway, we started to get more adventurous. I’d cover my crotch with a jumper, she’d play around; she’d drop a pencil on the floor, I’d have a grope when she was crawling around under me, and we’d basically jam in as much restricted depravity as was possible without giving ourselves away.
One hazy summer afternoon, while the teacher was drawling on about coastal erosion or something equally dull, she grabbed my hand and slipped it up her skirt. The initial shock of that got me past the unusually wet feel, until my brain caught up with my fingers and I pulled my hand away. Either this girl had come on as soon as she put my hand in, or she just had a thing about bleeding on people, but whatever the reason, I was disgusted and angry. I rose my arms rapidly, sending a stream of period blood up the face of the guy next to me and all over a graph about fault lines.
Sitting in the principal’s office with the girl, my parents, and her parents was single-handedly the worst moment of my young life so far.