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About me

S o at some point, inevitably, your parents give you The Talk. The Big Talk. The one awkward, sometimes upsetting talk that initiates you into adulthood. Unfortunately for me, as the child of hippies, The Big Talk wasn't about the birds and the bees, but what we would do in the case of total nuclear annihilation, instead. It was a sunny day inand we were in the back garden, mending a puncture on my bike. I'm thinking B through Claverley.

But once we get past Telford, we'll be fine.

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I was glad we would be fine, once we got past Telford. There won't even be any screaming. Not that you'd hear, anyway — because anyone within the mile blast radius will instantly go deaf. Just keep watching the news, love. If the Soviets start getting arsey, pack a suitcase. Keep it under your bed.

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Best to be ready. We're only ever three bad days away from the start of Armageddon. Right, that's done," he said, standing up and looking at the bike. While it's still there," I said, women want sex catlin. I'd got the new Terry Women want sex catlin reserved, but it seemed rather futile to go and collect it now, given that I might die before I finished it.

Perhaps I'd just reread Jane Eyre instead. For another two years after this Big Talk, I fully expected the other Big Talk — The Sex Talk — to follow: either my mother or my father finally taking me to one side and telling me about sex. What it was, how to do it, and how I mustn't do it until I was 33, and happily married.

But the talk never came. There was total radio silence. I even tried to start it once: "So! Now, 20 years later, I can only p that this was because they pd that a I already knew what it was — perhaps, indeed, because of Bergerac — and they didn't want to patronise me, or b they'd looked at me — fat, in NHS glasses, wearing an old tartan dressing gown instead of a coat, and apt to say "Forsooth!

Either way, I never got The Big Talk. But whatever your parents find too difficult to talk about, popular culture will invariably find fascinating. Mum and Dad may not have wanted to talk about sex, but telly, film, literature, newspapers and pop music did.

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As my hormones staged a coup over my life, I abandoned all other activities to became a full-time seeker of all the filth information out there. Thank you, world! Thank you for being full of rudeness!

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I'd already grasped the basics, thanks to the joyous, posh fucking in Jilly Cooper 's Riders and Rivals — generally very useful, albeit they made me believe champagne was an absolutely necessary part of copulation: either drunk, deployed in blow jobs, or just sprayed all over some hot nymphet splayed on a bed, who clearly didn't share a bunk bed with her sister, or have to worry about her only pyjamas polyester, BHS, with a fetching teddy-bear print having to be put in the wash afterwards.

However, all the information in Jilly Cooper novels was something I was just going to have to wait to deploy, when I got near some men. As a very self-motivated girl — I had, only the other week, made myself a poncho out of a tablecloth — I wanted to find out something about women want sex catlin that I could get moving with. I wanted sex homework, essentially.

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Something I could practise, in my spare, man-less time, so that, when one finally got near me, I could spring knowledgably into action. And this came when Women want sex catlin Peaks was shown on British television in Although David Lynch 's cinematography and meta-narrative yadda yadda… what I found truly interesting was the scene where the sexy teenage Audrey Horne Sherilyn Fenn applies for a job as a prostitute at Twin Peaks's spooky, high-class brothel, One Eyed Jack's.

The owner asks Horne if she can prove she would be a good potential employee. Other sexy teenage would-be prostitutes might have replied by bringing out their CV, or perhaps talking about their Duke of Edinburgh's award.

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Or, frankly, just saying: "I have a vag. She took a cherry from her cocktail, popped it into her sexy, red mouth and, 10 seconds later, carefully removed women want sex catlin the tip of her pink tongue the stalk, now tied in a perfect knot. This scene made an enormous impression on me: I pd that tying a cherry stalk into a knot was something all teenage girls had to master — up there with algebra, and how to fill in the paying-in slip on a Nationwide building society savings — and decided to dedicate myself to learning this vital craft.

I feared being at a party, some years hence, where all the other women were assiduously crocheting fruit stalks with their tongues, while I stood in the corner going, "So! Anyone know any great recipes using leftover mince?

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As cherries were far too luxurious an item to be on our family's shopping list — the only cherries I'd come across were the ones in tins of Del Monte fruit salad — I improvised with a piece of string, and spent long hours in my room, alone, quietly gurning as I tried to tie it into a knot with my tongue. Within a week I'd mastered the art, and was utterly triumphal — only to find that, within my house, there was a very limited audience for my sex skills.

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When I exultantly spat the knotted string out into my hand, she looked at it and said, horrified, "Is that phlegm? There's what looks like a bit of lung in it. I think you have tuberculosis," and left the room with nose and mouth covered with her jumper sleeve.

A younger sibling stared at me, then started to cry. I would like to report that knowing how to tie a cherry stalk in a knot with my women want sex catlin did, one day, pay off — bagging me a handsome lover, who subsequently blew my mind. As it turned out, the only time I performed the trick with a man around was 20 years later, at the aftershow of an Eddie Izzard gig in Manchester, where I was with my sister Caz, standing by the buffet. One minute later, I proved my point admirably, as I ejected into my palm a piece of knotted lettuce.

At that point, Eddie Izzard came up to us.

Caitlin moran: my sex quest years

And I had to admit that today, and for more than 20 years, the answer had been, very much: "No. Not really. I mean, like, never at all. So, by the age of 17, my interest in sex was still unabated.

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You know in memoirs by boys about being, say, football fans, where they talk about being captivated by the game at the age of 11, and by the time they're 17, they're travelling across the country dedicatedly to see York Town at every away fixture? I was like that — but with shagging. By the time I was 17, I'd decided I wanted to be a great lay. A really amazing lay. She's a legendary piece of ass," I wanted people to say at literary parties while pointing at me. This is women want sex catlin point where you might expect me to say, "But it proved very difficult — if not impossible.

But that's because traditional narratives are written by boys — who do find it difficult to get laid. If women want sex catlin a girl, on the other hand, you can get laid any time you like. Fat, badly dressed, shy, awkward — not even actually in a room with a man at all — there is nothing that can be so "wrong" with a woman that she can't have sex any time she wants, merely by uttering this infallible, magic spell to a man: "Would you like to have some sex with me?

And this is one of the things I like about men: they're uncomplicated. Sex is fun, they think, so I would like to do it whenever I can. Why not? It was certainly how I felt about it. Yes, sex can be a potentially risky activity for women want sex catlin woman, but I was in a fairly closed social circle, shagging colleagues and friends of friends, and for me, at least, it was less dangerous than riding a bicycle around town: I was still very shaky on the difference between "left" and "right", didn't understand the Highway Code and often got distracted if a pigeon flew past.

I was much safer on top of a man than on a bicycle. I quite liked the idea of gaining a lot of experience, and I was piqued by the fact that sex is the only skill where experience can be seen as a bad thing — for women, anyway.

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You would women want sex catlin denigrate a lady-plumber for having fitted over a thousand toilets, or a lady-pilot for having landed a thousand planes. Why, then — in a world of contraceptives, cheerfulness and feminism — was landing a thousand penises apt to have you titled a "slag"? So I decided not to care about being called a slag — as a writer, I simply pressed "delete" on it in my head, knowing how easy to remove words ultimately are — and embarked on a two-year quest around London.

And I have to say, it was all very interesting. It wasn't romantic, and the sex was often quite bad, but it definitely was — as all ardently pursued hobbies are — fascinating. Also, confusing. During my Sex Quest years — I used to refer to myself as a Lady Sex Pirate or Swashfuckler, in my head — I was given a lot of bewildering advice by men.

One man told me that the secret of being a good lay was: "Never let a hand lie idle.


Always keep them both busy. Another man at a party noticed I was fat, and proceeded to explain to me what fat girls are "like". Swimming, because they don't like any other sports, which make their boobies all jiggle around, and they like being weightless in the water. And blow jobs, because you don't have to take your clothes off.

I elegantly declined his later offer of "a poke" — "Soz, aqua-aerobics at 6am!

As seen in

In a bad way. Dinner parties can be enlivened with the story of the pop star who passed out in my bed, leaving me confused as to what to do next. Eventually, I rang his tour manager, who sounded like he'd dealt with this situation before: "Just drag him into the corridor and leave him there," he said.

And then there was the time I was with a man, and we decided to bring food into our "love-play", but all there was in the hotel mini-bar was a miniature packet of Pringles. This initially stumped us, until he remembered reading in a survival handbook that Pringles, due to their high fat content, make amazing firelighters.

Utterly distracted, we then set fire to them one by one, marvelling over their steady, potato-y light, before just having some normal sex, without any food in it at all. When I told these stories, my female friends started chipping in with their tales of being dirty teenage girls, too: how they were not shy, or tremulous, or scared, but bright, witty, horny girls going out and absolutely choosing to get about a bit, having sex with a man who made balloon animals, masturbating dementedly, trying out every perversion women want sex catlin the sun, and exploring the world women want sex catlin their genitals.

And I thought, I'd like to write a novel about a girl like this.