Between the ages of 12 and 17 I was kissed precisely three times. First after my 12 birthday by my childhood crush (I screamed and kicked him in the legs) then aged 17 at a party where I got so drunk I passed out face down on the grass. The third time was by the person I would later lose my virginity to.

Most of my teenage years had been spent wondering why no-one wanted to kiss me. Ok so I was spotty and had bushy hair, but around age 15 I’d tamed my eyebrows and shrugged off the thick tortoiseshell glasses in favour of contact lenses, and yet offers were still thin on the ground. When I met my first boyfriend 3 weeks before my 18th birthday I realised he didn’t just want to kiss me while I was sloppy drunk. He wanted to hang out, talk rubbish, and watch telly with me. While we’d talked about lots of things on our 3 dates, but we’d not talked about whether I was virgin or not; it just hadn’t come up in conversation. For two whole weeks I thought about whether we would do it soon or not. If I told him that I’d never done it before I was worried he’d want to make it ‘special’ and there was nothing worse in my mind. Rose petals and candles might do it for some girls but even then I knew they’d just make me laugh. Though the majority of my friends weren’t doing it I wanted to. I knew it was going to be great: adults never stopped talking about sex. There was a big secret in the world and I wanted in on it.

Providence was on my side.

My parents inexplicably went to Brazil for two weeks just after I started dating the boy. I called all my friends and told them that I was home alone and having a party. On Saturday night teenagers turned up in droves, clutching corner shop bottles of vodka and Panda Pops, and we drank ourselves silly. Sometime around 2am half a dozen of us were left to sober up and clean the house. After a cursory tidy we decided to heat up a pizza from the freezer. Everybody, minus the boy and I, went to the kitchen to figure out how exactly this would happen. We looked at each other and got down to some hardcore making out. As he scrabbled at my top I suddenly thought to myself “Oh my god, we could do it right now. Here. In my front room. On the sofa.” I pushed the door shut with my foot. We had sex.

For the next few days I wandered round thinking even harder than before. So that was sex. It must get better. Maybe I would figure out what to do, or he would, or maybe something would change inside me and it’d be like all those late night movies: thrashing, hair gone wild, screaming, that sort of thing. I still didn’t tell the boy it was my first time, I didn’t really care if he knew or not. He was my boyfriend, he cared about me and we were still going out. I figured adult life was going to be pretty awesome. I think I was right.

(Picture from Radioactive Lingerie)

Ever since I can remember I have been scared of fish, molluscs, sponges, and basically anything that lives in the sea. I am also scared of people who have really wiry beards. While we’re not here to talk about all my many and varied phobias (rapid motion photography, being touched by a stranger’s hair, photos of bacteria, etc etc) we are here to talk about STIs and whenever I hear about someone catching crabs I imagine their pubes looking like something out of More Joy of Sex, crawling with tiny crustaceans, and then I have to be sick.

Obviously crab lice aren’t crabs they’re just lice that look a lot like crabs, and they don’t just have to live in your pubes, they can also live in your eyelashes. That is the first fucking thing wiki told me. Does it want me never to have sex again? Crabs in your genital area will look like nits, however unlike nits no-one will tell you “They only like to live in really clean places you know?” and instead will gag and wretch when you say you have them. Unless you’re at a sexual health clinic, then they’ll probably be really nice and smile and nod. There are two ways to get rid of them: chemicals and shaving all your pubes off. The latter could even lead to you getting more sex as I hear some people are into that, but most of the time it just leads to ingrown hairs and more scratching…

While crabs are gross and deserve to die a chemical death asap, they don’t do anything terrible to you in the long run, and aren’t preventable unless you turn all the lights on and have a good check before you get down to it which would be a bit of a romance killer. So you, me, and the rest of the world, are going to have to get to grips with the idea that our nether regions may, at some point, be home to a band of merry wandering parasites looking for a good home and deal with it with dignity. Unlike my friend John who once bellowed at me in the street “Have you ever had crabs? Willow gave me them and they’re making my sack itch like fuck!”

Wikipedia article on crabs, photo from Spongebob Squarepants.

Reading Platform’s piece on one guy’s distinctly unsavoury experiences with threesomes got me thinking about how shitty threesomes are. Logistically they’re a total nightmare: who has the time and resources to arrange one with three sane flexible people? And once you’re in the swing of it who’s going to be the facilitator making sure everyone’s having fun? Despite my total disinterest in these sordid situations being someone who is fairly obvious about wanting to have sex, and lots of it, I’ve come close way too often. I won’t go through them all because most attempts were just pathetic and boring, (touching my knee, then my boyfriend’s knee and then grinning like a maniac and saying you’re too drunk to take yourself home is NOT sexy thanks) but here are my worst moments:

• Candy and I had spent most of the night getting totally trashed at The Dolphin when an incredibly good looking bloke came over, flirted ineptly for a bit, then he invited her back to his. For some reason she invited me and soon we were watching the sun rise from his amazing flat. Smoking weed, drinking ice-cold pear schnapps: everything was brilliant. Then he started massaging my foot. Being a fucking idiot I thought I’d let it go as I was so mashed it felt pretty good. He lent over my lap and started talking to Candy then suddenly they were snogging. I watched them while his hand travelled slowly up my leg, totally paralysed with awkwardness. I blinked and saw him looming towards me lips puckered. The next few minutes are hazy,  I remember shrieking “No!” in his face, and Candy shouting at him before running off to vomit. She was adamant that she didn’t want to go back to “the Marquis De fucking Sade’s brothel” and so we snuck out while he looked for my jacket. Annoyingly we ended up trapped in his apartment complex for so long that we resorted to lying on the tarmac in the car park crying until someone came and unlocked the gates an hour later.

• It was my first year at uni and my roommate Brigid had a totally hot boyfriend Gerard. Brigid and I got drunk, made out a bit, and she asked me if I fancied Gerard, which I did. So we walked over to his and tried to get something going. I learned a few things that night: the threeway kiss from Laurel Canyon is totally rubbish, no matter what they say it is never ok to crush on a friend’s boyfriend, and that when your friend walks out saying “I’m not cool with this.” that’s your queue to follow. Thankfully/sadly it all finished rather early on while we were all mostly clothed, I mean I definitely still had my tights on. In fact I think this is my least sexy moment ever: sitting in my undies, ringing Brigid’s phone, and smoking a roll-up as she’d taken all my clothes, my coat, and my bag with her when she stormed out, while Gerard made a cup of tea.

It’s funny isn’t it how in your head the whole thing seems to move so seamlessly from ‘oh look me and my friends are by the pool and it’s far too warm’ to ‘hello!’ whereas in real life things seem, well, so horribly real and much less pretty. Everyone’s hairier and pastier, and boobs didn’t feel like I thought they would. Having said that to counter these two rubbish moments is that time when Sigrid crawled into bed with Evan and I that morning and… ahem. Yeah, maybe I’m not that disinterested in them after all.

Photo of the amazing Lara Stone from French Vogue.

Back in the day, which was a Wednesday if you check, men assumed their wives were virginal, and women that their husbands were super studs, so I hear. Blissful sexist ignorance it may have been, but everything changes with time. These days everyone wants to know what came before them (literally and figuratively) and so the dreaded ‘number’ conversation comes up.

Everything will have been going swimmingly, you might even have changed your Facebook relationship status (!!), and then he asks you, “So, how many people have you slept with?” Maybe it’s just me, but that question always feels like a punch to the gut.

Firstly it’s so open to interpretation. What does ‘slept with’ mean? Are we just counting full penetrative sex? What about if you were naked but didn’t get round to that? What if you had your clothes on, things got a bit heated, but again, no actual penis in vagina action? Why is the term so loosely defined? There should be rules so we don’t have to get bogged down in semantics like this.

Then there’s idea that there’s an ideal number. Unless you are both virgins (and if you are, you’re not having this conversation, duh) it’s unlikely your numbers will match up. Who’s will be greater and by how much? Will telling him change his opinion of you? Should you lie? So many questions!

As for what counts as sex it’s up to you. Sometimes it’s easier just to say that if a genital didn’t go into another genital area then it wasn’t sleeping with someone, no matter how intense or moving the experience was. It just makes everything easier; that’s the scale I’m using anyhow. I mean of course it’s easy for me to say that being a straight girl, but hey, I can’t solve everyone’s dilemmas, sorry! Just decide on something and stick to it. Easy.

Now then, as for the ‘correct’ number? There isn’t one! Come on, you knew I would say that, right? If you’re worried that one of you will be more experienced than the other then remember it’s quality, not quantity, that counts. Whether you’ve slept with three people or three hundred you can still be crap in bed. What matters is listening to the other person, asking questions, and giving a shit about their enjoyment; otherwise you might as well just have a wank.

If the number thing bothers you because you think he’ll think you’re a slag then who the heck are you dating that is so narrow minded? When someone asks you a personal question, and you reply honestly, throwing the answer back in your face is cruel. In fact why does it even matter? As long as you’ve been careful, (or even if you haven’t yet you’ve managed to miraculously avoid any STIs), it just isn’t relevant how many people you’ve shagged. A high number doesn’t mean you’re going to cheat on him, and a low number doesn’t mean that you’re going to get obsessed and turn into a bunny boiler. They’re just fucking numbers!!

You and he are here and mad about each other in the here and now which is all that matters. Sure you are an amalgamation of everything you have seen and done before today but the you that is standing in this moment is the most important one. The reasons someone fell for you still stand true. After all no-one falls in love with someone because they’ve slept with exactly 15 people, so to fall out of it for the same reason is stupid.

There is one minor exception to this rule: when someone tells you a number over 100. At this point I’d be wary. Once I met someone who claimed they had slept with 500 girls. Five. Hundred. I mean the logistics of that alone are mind boggling, the only person I know who’s slept with more (around 600 at the last count) is seven years older than that bloke, and one step away from Sex Addicts Anonymous. Either way both of them have such sketchy dating habits that I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy. But I’m sure there are some people who’ve slept with a thousand (Peter Stringfellow maybe?? Gag.) who are absolutely lovely, just beware of the rest.

Anyway the moral is that it’s just a fucking number! A number which means nothing! A number you don’t really even need to know! So don’t ask the question, and if you do, don’t get upset by the answer. The person answering it is still the same as they were five minutes ago, nothing has changed, so just let it go and get back to making out!

Photos by Michela Heim and Kelley Smith.

Ah syphilis! Catch this and you’ll be in the company of Baudelaire, Wilde, Hitler, Nietzsche, and my number one historical hunk Beau Brummell. Easily treated, but difficult to spot, syphilis is often mistaken for dozens of other ailments, and incorrectly treated due to its relative current obscurity.

It starts with one, or more, small painless sores (chancres) on or around your genitals. Now before this feature becomes regular I want to make one thing clear, sores on your genitals are never good. Ever ever ever. If you see any, even a tiny eeny weeny one, go and get it checked out immediately. Do not wait to pass go and collect £200, get to a clinic stat!

Of course, there’s a difference between an ingrowing hair and a sore, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, and you can always pick up free condoms while you’re there so it won’t be a wasted trip.

Back to the sores. So it starts out with a sore, and stupid here doesn’t notice it, or fails to get it checked. The next thing you’ll be suffering from is either a skin rash, a sore throat, and possibly tiredness and a headache. Aka what most people feel like every damn day. After this your symptoms will dissappear and you will feel well for anything up to years, however the syphilis could return, causing your face to become deformed, open sores to form on your body, and your genitals to look, well, there are pictures out there, google them if you dare.

Ironically syphilis is extremely easy to cure in the early stages, a simple shot of penicillin, and it’s gone. Avoiding it is even easier: use a condom, properly, and every time.

So remember if you see a sore on your vagina you may well be about to die from syphilis so get it checked out! Or die. It’s your choice.

Picture from Wikipedia