Everything in this sad, sad tale is true, and it’s about teenage sex so expect some graphic content and don’t eat before reading. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

“Can I feel your tits?”. Not the greatest chat-up line, admittedly, but as a young lad growing up in Blackpool in the early 80s it became a standard greeting when faced with tourist girls. It worked once. Just once, and it cost me my virginity.

‘Her name was Lola’ but, unlike the girl in the Copa Cabana, she wasn’t a showgirl, she was a tourist. It was almost certainly a lie, but I was in no mood to question it because, as she said it, she was already thrusting her chest towards me and even looked away to give myself and her breasts some privacy. There was an embarrassing pause and she added, “go on then!” And there I was, stood outside the Wurlitzer on the Pleasure Beach, in the middle of the afternoon, with thousands of people milling about. Faced with boobs I had never expected to meet.

Careful what you wish for, they say. I bottled it. It had never come to this before and I wasn’t prepared. I’d been found out. My bluff had been called, like I’d just gone ‘all-in’ on ‘nine high’. After a few seconds I just grabbed them like they were screw-in light bulbs and gave a functional twist. It was pathetic, like watching Boris Johnson trying to break dance. To make matters worse I added a loud, forced ‘Hmmmm’ groan of appreciation that I hoped would convey some experience. As if I was thinking, ‘oh, yes! These are excellent breasts! Some of the finest I’ve sampled!” In fact, these were only the second and third breasts I’d ever touched. I’d spent a good half hour, a few weeks earlier, with another tourist, slowly gyrating her one available breast in a clockwise direction like a washing machine on ‘delicates’, until she shrugged, complained I was biting her with my attempts at French kissing, and walked off. I never even got to her other one, still trapped in her half-pulled-down bra, because that would have involved ‘undoing the clasp’ and I was nowhere near that kind of Fonz-like dexterity.

“Thanks” I muttered as Lola winked and walked off, smiling. I called after her, “I’m Ian, by the way,” because she’d offered me a name and I felt I owed it to her.

I was 13 and Lola was 17 (she said). I know this because, later that afternoon, she found me and asked me if I wanted to feel them again. I know what you’re thinking, ‘Like that would ever possibly happen’, right? It makes Weird Science look like a documentary, but there I was, gob-smacked and slightly dizzy. Standing before a cocky, tall, attractive stranger who had missed ALL the memos, that every other girl I’d ever met had memorized, about not giving dirty little boys the thrill of their lives.

It was clear that she was willing to supply those dirty little thrills as reward for a local lad getting her and her mates onto some of the rides for free, which I did, as well as free waffles, expecting them to all just bugger off once they’d had their fun. I was wrong.

We ended up under South Pier. It was the go-to spot for locals to have their gropes and giggles, plus it was near the Pleasure Beach. Lola had decided she was actually going to have sex with me as promised and I, still very light-headed and feeling like I’d been plucked from the audience by a stage hypnotist, was a willing, if baffled, participant.

It’s at this point that I’d love to regale you all with a tale of passion and sexual prowess at the hands of this mysterious holiday goddess, so memorable that it became a hit song, tee shirt and tattoo. After all. The chance of a lifetime had fallen into my lap and my lap was more than happy to get to return the favour.

If only. It was SO bad that it put me off even trying again for another three years.

I blame the sea wall. Hear me out. The sea wall under the pier was sloped at an angle of about 30 degrees where it met the sand. Anybody lying back, legs on the beach, would be reclining, not lying flat. That’s fine if you’re the one reclining, back to the wall, arse on the sand. It’s very comfy. But, when you’re the one on top, trying to fit into that angle facing forward, it’s back-breakingly difficult.

That, however, was the least of my problems. My main one was my naivety. I had it in my mind that the vagina was on the front of a woman. Well, the face, breasts, nipples- all the good bits were, and I knew there was a hole down there that my front-fixed willy was meant to go inside, so it made sense that there would be a hole, facing out, right behind the zip.

Lola lay back against the sea wall. I fumbled with her shrink-fit, stretch-denim jeans (it was the 80’s) and got them down to mid-thigh. She was literally unable to part her legs even an inch. I lay on top, bent backwards at 30 degrees like a drawn bow, my stiff little todger pointing out like a drawing pin. I’d pulled my own jeans down, also to mid-thigh, so the rolled-up, stone-washed denim of both our jeans acted like fenders between two moored boats, stopping any skin contact and keeping my bottom half a good three inches from hers. I REALLY needed those inches!

After a solid minute of trying to pierce her abdomen, she wriggled her jeans down a little further and wiggled me into a better position and I finally thought I’d found the hole I was prodding for, so I slid in as deep as I could.

It was just the gap between her thighs.

Unfortunately for me she had slim legs, so I was horrified to feel the warm, soft skin suddenly end with cold, wet sand. I was, effectively, shagging the beach behind her thighs and now had grit-like sand in my foreskin and crammed into my pee-hole like a popcorn chicken taco.

I instantly pulled back, ready to wash myself in the sea, apologize and run away. I thought I was having my worst nightmare but Lola, ever helpful, decided it was time to take the wheel and REALLY show me what nightmares are made of. She took me in hand and placed me where I was supposed to be. I fell inside her like Kermit trying on Miss Piggy’s wellies! The only part of me that touched the sides was my foreskin that was stuffed with a thousand tiny rocks. Lola started to squeeze and gyrate. I moaned, hiccupped (no idea why) and came- in AGONY (I was 13, I could come going over a speed bump) but Lola didn’t notice. She carried on for another dreadful few minutes until I realized what she was waiting for and faked an orgasm.

‘Don’t come inside me!’ she said, five minutes too late, and gently shoved me away until I lay there on top of her, my face now at chest height but not in the least bit interested in the perfect breasts that had got me into this mess. My poor little chap, red-raw and soft, dangled between her thighs as grains of wet sand dripped from it like undissolved sugar granules in the dregs of a tea-cup. I immediately worried about pregnancy until I rolled off and squeezed the unspent contents of my urethra onto my rolled-up underpants like under-milked garanola.

“Thanks Lola” I said, though tears.

“Did you enjoy it Colin?” She asked.

“Yes, thanks again” I lied, not bothering to correct her.

Lola got up, pulled up her jeans, lit a cigarette and left. Never to be seen again.