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“She’s too young.”
Gibsie snorted. “Says the eejit who’s been sticking his cock in anything with a pulse since first year.”
Gibsie hit the nail on the head with that statement.
For Christ’s sake, I lost my virginity in first year to Loretta Crowley, who was three years older than me—and had a lifetime more experience than me—behind the school sheds after school.
Yeah, that was some clusterfuck of disaster.
I was all nerves and clumsy movements, well aware that I was too young to be sticking my dick in anything but my hand, but I must have done something right because Loretta happily joined me behind the sheds most days after school for several months before I got too busy with training and called time on our meetings.
If I had to say what type of female I was interested in, it wouldn’t be blonds or brunettes, curvy or skinny.
My type was older—with every girl I’d ever been with having at least a couple of years on me. Sometimes many more.
It wasn’t a fetish or anything.
I simply enjoyed the drama-free aura that older girls brought to the table. I enjoyed them when I was with them, and then I enjoyed it even more when I wasn’t. That wasn’t to say I didn’t fancy the shite out of the girl I was with when I was with her.
I did.
And I was loyal, too. I didn’t fuck around.
If a girl wanted exclusive, no strings, then I was more than happy to oblige. I didn’t enjoy the hunt or the chase that appealed to most of the lads. If a girl was expecting me to chase her, then she was looking to the wrong guy. I wasn’t in the position to be boyfriend material right now. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a girlfriend; I just didn’t have time for one. I didn’t have the time for consistent dating or any of those demands.
I was too busy.
It was another reason I preferred older girls. They weren’t expecting miracles from me.
Right now, for example, I was fooling around with Bella Wilkinson from sixth year and had been since April last year.
In the beginning, I liked Bella because she didn’t breathe down my neck. At nineteen, she had a couple of years on me, she didn’t hold me to some invisible standard I couldn’t or wouldn’t meet, and afterward, I could walk away and concentrate on rugby while she left me to my own devices.
But after a few months, I quickly realized that it wasn’t me that Bella was interested in. It was the bullshit that came with being with me.
It was all about status with Bella, and by the time I realized it, I was too comfortable and too lazy to do anything about it. She wanted my dick. That was it.
Well, my dick and my status.
Now, I stayed because she was familiar and I was lazy. Bella had one expectation from me, one requirement that, up until a couple of months ago, I was more than capable of providing.
I hadn’t been doing much of anything with Bella since before my surgery—I hadn’t laid a finger on the girl since early November when it had become too painful to even contemplate it—but my point was that before it happened, it was just sex for me.
A steady release.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I acknowledged that this was an unhealthy attitude toward life and relationships with the opposite sex, and that I was probably deeply jaded, but it was hard to remain a boy when I was living in a man’s world.
It also didn’t help that I was playing rugby at a level where I was surrounded by men much older than me.
Conversations that were meant for people much older than me. Women that were meant for men much older than me.
Not girls but women.
Jesus, if my mother knew the half of the woman who’d offered themselves to me—grown-ass women—she’d pull my arse out of the Academy and lock me in my room until I turned twenty-one.
In a way, my childhood was robbed from me because of my ability to play rugby.
I grew up very quickly, taking on the role of a man when I was little more than a boy, coached and pushed, pressured and championed. I didn’t have a social life and childhood.
