Laid in Chelsea

by Ollie Locke

  For starters, it felt very alien kissing someone with stubble. I was confused about Tilly and now to add to everything, was there a chance I liked guys? This was the last thing I needed. It was just a one-off occurrence, and something that Jeff and I never really spoke about again, but by the time my second year at Sibford came to a close I was feeling very confused about relationships in general. So, I did what every 18-year-old boy does (but doesn’t tell anyone about): I went home to Southampton and cried on my mother’s shoulder.

  It was a Saturday night. We opened a bottle of wine, smoked and talked about how shit love lives can be. This is the relationship I have with my mother, and I never want it to change. I also wouldn’t be sat here right now, on my bed in London, writing this book, or even be on Made in Chelsea had it not been for what happened that evening.

  I was slumped on the sofa, post-tears, maybe gay, watching TV with an empty bottle of wine in front of me when my friend Stef called and demanded that I go to our local club, Jesters, with her, which is simultaneously the best and worst club I have ever been to. It’s got a sticky floor and dodgy lights and the most expensive drink you can buy is about £2. When you’re a student, it’s an absolute dream. I was feeling quite down and so I flatly refused to leave the comfort of the sofa and my mother’s arms. But then I realised how ridiculous that sounded, so I got off the sofa, got dressed and headed out.

  I walked in to a rammed bar and could see Stef dancing away to ‘Love Shack’ and getting rather close to a guy who looked like Phil Collins (just your type, Binky). To the right of her I spotted my godmother’s sons, Jack and Tom, who I went on holiday with to Vale do Lobo, where I met Hattie Clark. It turned out they were out partying with two friends – a girl that we shall call Jesters Girl and her friend Seb, who they’d met on holiday in Portugal. Jesters Girl was my age, very pretty and was in the last month of A-levels at a very posh private girls’ school in London. For the first time in ages, I felt a flutter in my heart (and pants). I finally fancied someone other than Tilly.

  It only took five Jager Bombs to build up the courage to try to get a snog, but I managed it as we leant against the bar with the Baywatch theme tune blaring out in the background.

  Jesters Girl told me she had to go back to London in the morning, and in my infinite wisdom (or perhaps drunken stupor) I decided to pretend I had to be in London the following day too, so I could spend some more time with her.

  When I awoke the next morning, it still felt like a great idea, and I was on half term so there was nothing to stop me escaping for the day. I met her at the train station feeling very perky; I’m fairly certain I was still pissed. We talked all the way on the train and I kept wondering how I was going to blag the fact that I barely knew my way around London, let alone had any business being there. I had only visited on school trips or with Slowen’s mum, so I decided to follow her lead and go wherever she was.

  That was the first day I ever set foot in Chelsea. I remember falling in love with it immediately. It was a beautiful day and Jesters Girl and I walked around for hours, sat outside the Royal Court Theatre, talked about life and watched all of the beautiful people walking by. After saying a painful goodbye to my new love I went home and decided that one day soon, I was going to build a life in London.

  Jesters Girl and I stayed in touch and started seeing each other, and a few weekends later I drove my little green Ford Fiesta to Datchet in Berkshire, where Jesters Girl had invited me to meet some of her male friends at Eton College’s annual Fourth of June gathering. This traditional date in the calendar is like an open day, speech day and sports day rolled into one, and all the Eton parents go along and watch rowing, get drunk and eat from Fortnum & Mason hampers out of the back of their Range Rovers.

  When the time came to say goodbye to Jesters Girl I really didn’t want to leave – I felt like I was starting to fall for her in a big way. I was halfway down the M3 to Southampton when I realised that I really didn’t want to leave her, so I turned the car around and drove to London to find her at her school.

  I don’t know what came over me, other than it felt like I had no other purpose in life but to find her and be with her that night. When I arrived at her school, I phoned her to tell her how I felt and thankfully she said she felt the same. She told me to wait in the car while she’d sneak out. It was quite late so she stuffed pillows under her duvet to make it look as though she was sleeping, and her best friend – who we will call London Girl – promised to cover for her if any of the teachers came by after lights out.

  She climbed out of her dorm window, ran across the sports field and got into my car, then we drove off in the direction of my home in Southampton, thrilled to be doing something so forbidden. It was 3am before we arrived home. My mum was out for the night so we crept up the stairs, both knowing and not knowing at the same time how that night would end. With hushed voices, the occasional giggle and a lot of groping blindly in the dark, finally that night – after many painful teenage years praying it would happen – I lost my virginity. The moment that I had waited for for so long had come. So to speak.

  We were both so inexperienced and I had to work very hard that night as it was all so new. I remember having to think about keeping myself erect. My condom was labelled ‘extra small, for the more modest gentleman’ – I have no idea why they were in my house (thanks, Mum), but they made me look like a right dick. I’m surprised they didn’t cut off my valuable blood supply.

  I thought back to my sterile school sex lessons and carefully played back the moment where they taught us how to open the condom packet. We were warned not to bite it in case we broke the condom inside without realising, and to hold the tip so the air bubble disappears. It’s all very technical when you’re in the moment. Then I was good to go, as it were.

  I don’t remember there being any form of foreplay and I won’t pretend I knew what I was doing, but for some reason it seemed to last forever.

  As soon as we had finished Jesters Girl started to hyperventilate. I like to think it was because she’d never seen such a big willy but I think other things were to blame, to be honest. I was terrified I had killed her. I went at it a bit like a wild jack rabbit because I thought that was the best way to do it. ‘Just fucking thrust,’ I told myself. Who knew you were meant to start slowly? I think the poor girl was exhausted. It wasn’t the best start to my sexual encounters.

  Morning came and I woke as a new, sexually experienced person. After a triumphant, post-coital cuddle in bed, and after hurriedly tidying away my virginity condom wrapper into my sex time capsule, Jesters Girl very sweetly offered to make breakfast wearing only a shirt and my boxer shorts.

  Because my mother was working on the BBC Breakfast programme she was usually out of the house until midday. But as luck would have it, not that day. She came home early to be confronted by a nearly naked 18-year-old stranger making toast in her kitchen.

  After some embarrassing introductions, Jesters Girl got dressed and I drove her back to school. My sex life may have got off to a rocky start, but at least there was finally a sex life to speak of and the girl I had lost my virginity to was wonderful, kind, beautiful and very clever. I was happy to say she was my first.

  I went back to school to tell my friends that I had finally become a man. For the first time in my life I could drive, have sex and love and I felt just like Peter Pan must have done when he realised he could fly, fight and crow.

  I told Ed, my best guy friend at school, first. He put his hand on my shoulder and said ‘Good lad.’ Ed was a bit like Jay from The Inbetweeners in that he always made out that he’d had loads of sex in loads of different places, so he acted very nonchalantly as if it wasn’t a big deal.

  Of course, I also told Tilly, who was distinctly unimpressed. Even though she was in a relationship herself I don’t think she liked hearing about my sexual exploits, no matter how few there were. I even told my mum, because I’ve always told her everything, and she was terribly unfazed and congratula
ted me but just told me to be careful.

  My mum was all about promoting safe sex. Tragically, her brother Mark died of AIDS when I was two years old. He was very much a part of the 80s gay club scene and used to go out with a famous 80s pop star, and it was around the time when AIDS was constantly in the press but remained a much-misunderstood disease.

  As a result of his illness Uncle Mark was never allowed to hold me, and the thought of that breaks my heart. I wish I’d had the chance to get to know him better.

  I thought of him a lot around the time when I came out as being bisexual because he’s someone I would love to have spoken to about it. Losing Uncle Mark like that has made it really important to me that I support HIV charities and help people understand the illness more.

  Losing my uncle so young and amongst the hysteria that surrounded AIDS at the time, I always assumed that it was much easier to catch than it is. Every time I cut myself I used to panic that I had HIV, and between the ages of 15 to around 18 I convinced myself that I was HIV positive. To tell you the absolute truth, that’s the sole reason I didn’t let Lucie go down on me in the hallway that night. I used to research HIV constantly because it absolutely terrified me. Every time I got a small rash I thought it was a sign that I was dying. I’m not making light of it in any way, because it was a truly terrifying time. I was young and I believed the misinformation.

  As I got older I came to my senses and found out the truth about HIV and AIDS. I guess I just got more educated and less scared.

  My mum had such a militant attitude to condoms as a result of her brother’s tragic death that she delegated a drawer in the bathroom of our house exclusively to condoms so that my sister and I had access to them at any time. This was before I was even having sex! Come to think of it, my first STI check was before I had even had sex – that made the nurses at the clinic scratch their heads a little! I think I was only about 13 when Mum came up with the idea of the condom drawer. She obviously had high hopes for me.

  Much like a sweetie drawer, the condom drawer wasn’t just for our use either; all of my friends were allowed to come round and help themselves when they needed to. When you’re a teenager, going into a shop to buy condoms is one of the most mortifying things you can do, and Mum’s view was that she would rather provide them and know that my friends were safe, than have them act irresponsibly.

  Although Jesters Girl sadly didn’t end up becoming the love of my life, our relationship was an important milestone in my love life and she will always have a special place in my heart. There wasn’t a big drama or break-up, we just spoke and texted less and less, and it became obvious that neither of us wanted to be in a full-on relationship with the other.

  I will always be proud to call her my first, and grateful for the educational experience that she gave me. But it wasn’t to be, and I was ready for the next chapter in my sexual adventure.

  When it comes to losing your virginity, I have eight simple pieces of advice:

  1. When you do it, do it slowly; don’t act like you’re speeding towards a finishing line.

  2. Do it nicely; then they might want to come back for more.

  3. Don’t boast about it to your friends. There’s no way he/she’ll want to see you again if you’ve made him/her sound bad.

  4. Try to do it somewhere nice with someone you care about. Don’t do it in a bathtub drunk at a party with a stranger. I know one girl who lost her virginity when she was at a fancy dress party dressed as one of the Jackson 5, and although it’s a funny story to tell, it wasn’t exactly a beautiful moment.

  5. For all you men, always have an image in your head that will prevent you from finishing early. I always think of David Dickinson. Never use your mum as an image. There is nothing more horrific than seeing your mum’s face when you’re having sex and you’re past the point of no return.

  6. Also, I cannot stress enough the importance of condoms. It’s not just about protecting yourself from pregnancy, STDs can ruin your life. I can’t tell you how many of my friends have had chlamydia, and unless you get tested you don’t know you’ve got it, so you can pass it on to other people.

  7. A tip for girls, don’t pull a willy too hard. I have had to ask a few girls to be a bit gentler over the years. It’s not a Shake Weight.

  8. You’re best to stick to missionary for your first time, just to be on the safe side. You don’t have to throw each other around the room in order to have a good time. You can save all of that for later!

  After Jesters Girl and I drifted apart, I was ready to get back on the dating scene. It was fairly obvious that Tilly wasn’t going to leave Finn and I rather liked the idea of going on a proper date for the first time ever.

  I would imagine that 99 per cent of the time it’s the guys who are doing the asking when it comes to dates, and in my opinion, men should always pay on the first date. It’s nice if a girl offers to go halves, but I think that if you make the effort to ask someone out, you should also find a nice venue and treat her to dinner. Don’t even get me started on the girls who don’t say thank you – that is a deal breaker – nor on the etiquette of gay dating and who pays. Who’s meant to know? I’ll go into more detail about that later.

  If you are going on a date always, always make sure you have a back-up credit card with you. Imagine if your card gets declined when you’re paying for the meal or drinks. Could there be anything more mortifying?

  First dates can either be amazing or hideous. There is one date I went on that I am still mortified about. It was way back in my Tilly-obsessed sixth form days, pre Jesters Girl.

  Every Sunday night I had to travel from Southampton to Banbury to go back to school, and on one such evening I got off the train to discover a group of girls, who were about 17, waiting on the platform. I could tell from their enormous blonde hair and pashminas that they went to the girls’ school nearby.

  We all used the same cab driver, an incredible guy called Ritchie, who looked like Chris Moyles. He used to pick us up from the station and drive us to our respective schools. I was first in line for Ritchie to pick me up when I got talking to the five Sloaney girls, and I offered them the cab before me.

  When Ritchie got back 10 minutes later he handed me five phone numbers the girls had given him, and told me to take my pick. It was by far the coolest thing since the foursome! I felt like Ryan Reynolds.

  There was one girl in particular that I liked – we shall call her McFly Girl. Ritchie told me she was definitely single because she’d just broken up with Harry from McFly (hence the name), who happened to be my hair icon Charlie from Busted’s best friend. We were a match made in heaven. She was clearly the coolest girl in her school, so I plucked up the courage to text her and we engaged in some light flirting. After a bit of banter, I asked if I could take her out on a date, which she accepted. The only trouble was, Banbury wasn’t the coolest place to take out someone who had just broken up with a rock star. There was either a McDonald’s or Abrakebabra, a kebab shop boasting the best doner in Banbury. So I decided to take her to a pub in Oxford called The Goose.

  She turned up at the pub in a brand-new convertible mini with her best friend Jemma, who it has to be said had the biggest boobs of anyone I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Forget Candy or Tiffany, these were bespoke bra stuff. Unfortunately, the drunker I got, the more I kept staring at them. I thought I was being quite subtle about it and in my head the date was going really well. But McFly Girl sadly wasn’t thinking the same thing and kept on catching me staring. Now, I got pissed, really pissed, like two-bottles-of-wine-at-18 pissed.

  She offered to drop me off at school as she hadn’t been drinking, and on the journey back I put my hand over hers as she changed gears and slurred, ‘I really like you.’ It seemed the kind of gesture a girl would want. She smiled weakly, dropped me off and we never saw each other again. Hot tip: if you’re going on a date, don’t get so pissed that you stare at your date’s friend’s enormous boobs.

  Funnily enough, I bumped
into McFly Girl recently at a party and she gave me a kiss and said, ‘We were the relationship that never happened.’ I think she was drunker than I was this time. I was tempted to ask her how Jemma was but I thought I might be pushing my luck.

  On the whole, I would say that getting really drunk on dates can be useful, but only if they’re not that attractive. It can of course lead to disaster too, but at least you can blame it on the alcohol. I’m actually really quite a good drunk because I generally know when to stop and I don’t start slobbering over people, but I certainly wouldn’t have snogged some of the girls I have had I not had a few drinks first. Some of them I would rather forget about too.

  With only eight weeks to go until the end of sixth form at Sibford I became increasingly rebellious with my newfound dating and mating confidence. We were the oldest pupils in the school so we felt like we ran the place, as any sixth former does. We wanted our last summer schooldays to be as enjoyable as possible.

  I lived in the sixth-form house, where the girls slept on one side and the boys on the other. There was just one door in between us that kept us apart. Clearly this story could only end in disaster …

  The connecting door was locked at 11pm each night; we all saw it as a barrier which prevented us from getting any form of action, so it was aptly called the ‘Sex Door’, even by our teachers.

  My friend Astrid’s dad had previously been a pupil at the school, and after a few glasses of wine over Sunday lunch one week he told us about a key that had been passed down through generations. It was the key that opened the Sex Door. It had existed for decades but the year before we started at the school the key was lost and apparently that was the end of that. No one had dared to replace it. I have no idea how he knew this; it certainly wasn’t on the newsletter I got.