I was maybe 7 or 8 years old. Certainly at primary school. Too young to really know about sex. This was well before any kind of sex-ed I was to receive, by around ten years.
Unlike some, my childhood was a happy time, my memories are full of sunshine, parks, ice cream and the beach. I knew boys existed, fancied them even – but had no idea of the pleasures of the flesh.
Until, bizarrely “story time”. The whole class would sit cross-legged on the floor in a circle around the teacher, and we’d be read to for an hour or so. I can’t recall the kind of books we were subject to, my memory isn’t that good.
What I can recall is that sitting cross legged meant I had easy access to my pants and what lay beneath. I discovered that if I touched myself there, it felt nice. So I’d save it for “story time”, make sure I sat at the back and be lost in a world of my own.
One beautiful summer afternoon, the teacher led us outside to the playground for our ritual. The sunlight danced off the trunks of the silver birch trees that surrounded the school and we settled down amongst them for our story.
I assumed my usual position. Except this time I was spotted. Disgraced and sent inside. Which when I think about it now, was probably the most ridiculous thing to do…..
It wasn’t until many years later that I resumed my appetite for danger.