Does it count twice if you lose your virginity to two different women on the same day?
This is the tale of how I lost my virginity, it happened a long time ago, long before the world of the Internet, mobile phones and the X-box.
I set off with Simon, an old school friend and his family, on a last minute skiing holiday in the week before returning to school one Christmas. His father had been called away on urgent business and I had been volunteered to step in at the last minute, to keep Simon company and make up the numbers.
I jumped at the chance to miss an extra week of school. I had known Simon since nursery school, although at that time we went to different schools. He didn't go back until later and so wouldn't miss anything.
His father had done well and could afford to send him to private school. I had gone off to the local comprehensive at the age of eleven.
Simon had turned out posh, although he only lived a few doors away he was in a different league. We had seen each other less and less as we grew older and as the near twenty four hour coach trip loomed, I wondered if I was in over my head.
Wet set off to meet the coach on a cool and grey Saturday morning. My mum had packed me off with a hastily packed suitcase, a few francs and the temporary passport we had queued for at the post office the day before.
There were eight of us in the travel party, all stood in a line with cases at our feet as the luxury coach approached. Apart from me and Simon, there was his mum, his sister Wendy and four of her friends making up the group. Wendy and her friends were a few years older than us and in their last year of university, a women only college in Yorkshire, some thirty miles from our home town.
All of them were experts, each of them having done this trip for a few years, and then there was me - a complete novice.
Simon and I chatted throughout the long journey. We both soon realised that we had little in common and we would have to work at things to keep it going. The girls were aloof, it seemed that talking to me was well beneath them. Simon's mum kept up the conversation, she had kind eyes and was as nice as I had remembered from the time Simon and I were best pals.
At last we arrived at the resort, high in the French Alps around Sunday lunch time. I was tired out and as stiff as a board.
The resort was a mixture of the quaint and the modern, typically alpine and luckily for me all the nursery slopes were only a short walk from the centre - no need for me to queue for the cable car and ski lifts.
There was not as much snow as I thought there would be, brown bare patches dotted the slopes around the village and the tarmac on the roads had a thick white powder of salt rather than snow. Thick and shiny pockets of ice persisted in shaded pavements and doorways.
The sky was dark and angry and we were told a heavy snowfall was expected.
After a late lunch we sorted out our ski gear and passes, it took longer than expected and by the time I had been kitted out it was snowing heavily and getting dark.
Whilst we waited I tried to lark about but the snow was no good for snow balls, but perfect for skiing, or so Simon told me. The girls turned their noses up at me trying to slide about on a plastic bag -- it just wasn't chic!
We were met outside the ski shop by our chalet maid, Pascal. She had sought us out as the weather had closed in. She was small and slightly built, almost boyish. She was around my height, had short fair hair cut into a bob half way down her elegant neck. A small and tasteful pair of silver earrings glinted and advertised the outline of her soft ear lobes. She only spoke a smattering of English and had a thick French accent.
She ushered us back to the lodge a short walk away, at the edge of the village, each of us shuffling through the worsening blizzard towing our heavy bags and ski gear.
The lodge was nice, had three stories, was pine clad and very alpine. Simon and I were in the small attic room opposite the room shared by his mother and sister. The main floor had a spacious kitchen with a large table, a spacious and cosy lounge, complete with log fire, and the two bedrooms where the rest of the girls were sleeping.
There was no television but it had a radio cassette player and a telephone, the latter for use in emergencies only. There were a few board games and books but the girls expected to be out doing après ski each evening.
Downstairs in the basement were Pascal's quarters, the laundry room, a small office and a sauna, complete with a shower room and changing area.
The bedroom was warm and cosy, just enough room as the roof pitched for two beds with a small bedside table separating them. The lodge was warm, the log fire in the main lounge was welcoming and each of the rooms each had a radiator fed from the boiler in the basement.
We ate a hearty meal, Pascal was a very good cook and knew her way around a kitchen despite her tender age. I took her to be around twenty, three or so years younger than Simon's sister and her friends. She cleaned and kept the lodge neat, warm and comfortable. She was not big on conversation but was on organisation. Our meal was ready by seven on the dot, the washing up rota was posted and dishes were expected to be done by nine, Pascal's clocking off time.
At least the girls seemed to be as aloof with Pascal as they did with me. At the meal Simon's mum again lead the conversation, trying to put everyone at ease.
All of us were tired from the journey and one by one we drifted off to bed much before ten.
Monday, the first full day, I awoke cool but comfortable in the small room. The light outside was clear and bright, more snow had fallen and the village looked like the picture on a biscuit tin lid as I peered through the sloping skylight. There was a high cloud base and the weather was expected to be grey and cool with frequent snow fall for the next few days.
