I remember very clearly my dad coming into the house one day and announcing that my brother was no longer a virgin. I wondered how he could tell—I mean how did you know when a guy’s had sex for the first time?—but I was clever enough to bite my tongue even though I was desperate to ask. I actually never did learn how my dad found out. I can only assume my brother admitted it or threw it in his face (more his style at the time). I certainly told no one when my turn came but I was always more careful than my brother. He was always getting found out but then I guess a part of him yearned to get discovered; kids are queer that way or maybe not just kids.

I’ve only taken one person’s virginity and I couldn’t see what the fuss was all about assuming she was a virgin; I was never a hundred percent positive but it wasn’t important to me. It’s not as if the first time’s better or anything. In fact as far as sex goes it’s usually the other way around; it gets better with practice. So I have no idea where this nasty wee poem came from because one thing I’ve never been called is nasty. I have hurt people and known beforehand I was going to but I can’t say I ever relished it. That’s not me.