Rosie Dixon - Confessions of a Physical Wrac

However – and there always seems to be a however, these days, doesn’t there? – it is important to understand what I mean by virginity. Basically, it is intending to give yourself to someone. There are occasions in any girl’s life when things happen over which she has no control. She was intoxicated, or subjected to emotional blackmail, or trying to protect a dear friend from a similar fate – there are many circumstances in which the event can take place. What is important is that if she did not want what happened to happen then she did not lose her virginity. Virginity is purely a state of mind. I mean, you can lose your virginity riding a horse but no one would suggest – no, the very idea is too painful!

I hope all this makes my position clear and explains why I can view the unsavoury attentions of Superintendent Gary Nuttley with something approaching a relaxed mind. Goodness! He may be devious and underhand but nobody could call him a bent copper. His night stick is stiff as a ramrod and only slightly shorter. It has occurred to me before in this kind of situation that Mother Nature is very haphazard with her gifts. It is often the most unprepossessing men who carry the largest armaments – not of course that size has any relation to satisfaction. That resides solely in the mind of the receiver – at least, that is what I imagine to be the case. In order to protect my principles I have always shut myself off from sensation when impaled upon the end of an uncalled-for jolly lolly. I try to think about freshly mown grass or something wholesome and British. My friend Penny supplies most of my information concerning sexual matters – both by example and description. Regular readers will not need reminding that she is rather fast and outspoken though I think she does it mainly for effect. I have concluded that she is the product of an unsettled home life and that underneath she is little different from me. She is also rather upper class, which makes a difference. They seem to want everybody to know about things the rest of us would like to keep private, don’t they?

Anyhow, what I am trying to say is that Superintendent Nuttley has a big one. It is also a very naughty big one and it is pushing itself up underneath my skirt like one of those embarrassing dogs that always appear when you are having tea with the vicar – they usually belong to the vicar, too. In fact, Nuttley is rather like a big, clumsy Airedale and I wonder whether it is altogether wholesome to proceed with the thought as he slips his hands round to the back of my panties and begins to force them down.

‘You’re taking advantage of me,’ I say. ‘You’ll regret this afterwards.’

‘I doubt it,’ says the crude creature, puffing as he bends to help my frillies over my heels. ‘I’m just trying to do what’s best for both of us. You help me and I’ll help you. After all, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?’ He looks around for somewhere to put my panties and ends up by draping them over the peephole. ‘That’s better. Now we can be nice and private.’ So saying, he rips the threadbare, grey blanket off the bed and spreads it out on the floor with a flourish. For some reason the gesture reminds me of Sir Walter Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth – though obviously not in similar circumstances. She would hardly have granted him the patent to make all those bicycles if he had been about to do what Superintendent Nuttley is clearly about to do. ‘Come on, there’s a good girl,’ he says. ‘Lie down and enjoy it. Think what it would be like if you were on probation and you had to come round here every week.’

The remark is presumably meant to offer me some comfort but it fails miserably in its objective. It is with heavy heart and bra lightened by the removal of my breasts that I reluctantly allow myself to be drawn down to floor level. Nuttley continues to snuffle amongst what many consider to be my best feature and again the unhappy analogy with the Airedale invades my mind. I reject it and bite my lip as I feel my skirt being tugged upwards and crude hands forcing my thighs apart. ‘Right,’ says my attacker. ‘Let’s see if the fuzz can tickle your fancy.’

‘Please!’ I say. ‘Suspend your jocularity.’

‘I haven’t worn one since I gave up playing rugger for the Metropolitan Police,’ says the stupid fool. ‘I was a scrum half in those days. Always putting it in. Stand by: “Coming in left, police. Coming in now !” ’

I close my eyes. Why does it always have to be me? I’m certain other girls don’t go through what I go through. Flashers hitchhike half the length of the country to expose themselves to me. If there was a sex maniac on the loose he would end up hiding under my bed. There is clearly something about me that attracts the wrong type of man – and, I fear, vice versa. I do have a habit of falling for rotters. There is obviously something not completely above board about Reggy, or whatever his name is, and I know that he deceived me with Penny. You don’t seem to be able to trust anyone these days.

The only man who has always played the white man with me is my old boyfriend, Geoffrey Wilkes – well, when I say ‘always’ I mean nearly always. There was that occasion behind the heavy roller at the Eastwood Lawn Tennis Club dance but I don’t think that anything happened. They don’t come much whiter than Geoffrey – in fact, he is almost slug-like. I know that he wants to marry me. He told me so after he had made love to me at Penny’s house – oh yes. I suppose there was that occasion as well. Though, of course, I was drunk and did not know what I was doing. I probably imagined it in fact. Perhaps I should settle down with Geoffrey?

It is strange, but no sooner has the thought occurred to me than the gross organ straining inside my narrow love channel becomes the harbinger of something not totally unakin to pleasure. (You can tell who got the form prize for creative writing, can’t you?) It is as if some outside force is trying to tell me something. Every probing thrust is saying ‘Geoffrey Wilkes! Geoffrey Wilkes!’ I have noticed something like this happening before but never in association with a specific name. Fate, taking pity on me as I lay writhing beneath the onslaught of some unwanted love lance, has allowed me a taste of the pleasure that will one day accrue when I am cohabiting with my Mr Right – a sort of trailer for the big feature to come, so to speak.

‘How are you liking it?’ pants Superintendent Nuttley. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it?’

I hurriedly remove the careless hands that have been guilty of pulling Nuttley’s power unit closer to me. I would hate him to get the wrong idea. This depravity has gone on long enough and even though I am transferring my feelings to the distant Geoffrey they are too strong for comfort. I tap Nuttley on the shoulder and pretend to see something behind him.

‘Someone’s coming!’ I hiss.

A long shudder passes through the Superintendent’s body and emerges in a region I would prefer not to to mention. ‘Too true, darling,’ he groans. ‘Too t-r-r-r-r-ue!’