Or writing bright red lies on toilet walls.
With – admittedly insincere – apologies to Fiona, Louise, Lynne, Rose, Kimberly, and of course, Emma.)
It was when I was at university that I became a pervert. Not just a general all-purpose pervert, but a pervert of a very particular kind. I engaged in things which I still remember fondly to this day…
I admit I was a very diligent student, I was organised, hard-working and… frustrated. I spent a lot of hours in the library. Whole days, whole weekends just working away. I was ambitious and wanted to do well.
I spent more time there than in my tiny room on campus. It became a kind of second home for me. I had my favourite places in there, the quieter areas where I wouldn’t be found or disturbed. I loved it. I was always one of the first ‘in’ every morning and stayed until six at night when I went for dinner and then out of the town to let off some steam.
But as much as I loved the place in its entire, the area that I loved the most were the toilets. They were a kind of refuge for me from the work, even from my sensible, hardworking, studious self. Only in there did I shed my student-skin and allow my inner slut/bitch/cow/whore/cunt to emerge.
There were six floors, a pair of toilets on each floor. I would use them each in turn in case the amount of time a cubicle was occupied drew suspicion. Perhaps I was just paranoid.
So, what did I do in these toilets?
Well, one thing I did was masturbate. God, did I masturbate? I estimate at least – at least – twice a day. Think about that, maybe three hundred days a year. Six hundred orgasms a year. Minimum. It sounds a lot and it was. It provided me with relief and entertainment. And it killed any creeping boredom that might be emerging.
I never wore jeans or trousers, it was always, always skirts (and it’s the same today). It was easy to just hitch up drop my knickers and sit on the ‘pot’ legs all akimbo and attend to my rising needs. My fantasies were many and various. On occasion, my imaginary fucker would be somebody I had seen in the library that day, or perhaps a lecturer or somebody from some pub. But more often my phantoms were faceless, nameless strangers who would never take no for an answer or excuse.
Sometimes it would be all of the above…sometimes one at a time, sometimes all together.
But masturbation wasn’t all I got up to. Now, it can be told.
So here is my confession. Another one I am not especially proud of. But if `I am to reveal myself warts and all…
I wrote graffiti. Not just any graffiti, graffiti or a very particular kind.
Well, the first girl I wrote about was Fiona.
I didn’t especially dislike her (unlike some of the others), she was harmless really, just a bit of a goody-goody who took herself excessively seriously and was so ‘up’ herself. She was in my seminar group and was always better prepared than anyone else, and inevitably held up as an ‘example to you all’ by the lecturer.
I sensed Fiona didn’t like me; in some sense looked down on me. It was nothing that I could exactly put a finger on, but I would often catch her eye around campus and she always seemed to have a disapproving look on her florid East Anglian features. I used to imagine what her sex life might be like. No, that’s a lie. I was sure it would be far too tedious to spend time on. So, I invented a secret Fiona. A Fiona who attended lectures and seminars with no knickers on, a Fiona who haunted the student bars each evening and was ravaged by all the campus perverts each night. This was a Fiona so desperate to get good marks she was passed around the male members of the department like a hot potato. I liked my secret Fiona, far more than I did the real one. I liked her so much I wanted all the world to know all about her.
This is where the graffiti came in. I can still remember the nipple-hardening thrill of writing that ‘Fiona (surname) sucks cocks in (location) college toilets on a Friday night.’ I wrote it in slutty red lipstick. I stood and looked at it. Yes, I knew it was mean and bitchy. But then, right at that moment, I felt mean and bitchy.
The thing that I really liked was imagining other girls reading it and imagining the scene. I loved the feeling of putting those images into all those heads. And you can only guess at how gratified I was when another of that seminar groups quietly asked me, during a coffee break, ‘Have you seen the writing in the toilets about Fiona?’
‘Oh no,’ I said all innocence. ‘Do tell…’
Of course, I updated her adventures on a regular basis. Fiona didn’t just suck cock, she was also letting all the most unlikely academics fuck her in exchange for better marks. I deliberately made them the least likely to indulge in such behaviour.
The funny, the really funny, thing… (well, if you have a warped sense of humour, like I don’t – lol) is that only one year after graduation Fiona was living with the most senior professor in the department, a man more than twice her age.
And yes, his had been one of the cocks she sucked in my imagination!
Who says that the words of the prophets aren’t written on the toilet walls….?
I did the same with the other girls too, but Fiona was my masterpiece. My creation.
But the strange thing was that as time passed, I had another urge. This time the girl I wrote about on the wall, the girl sucking this cock and that to the root, the ball licker, the deep-deep rimmer….wasn’t another student, or even a member of staff.
That time ‘she’ was me.