But. This the week the story isn't about me. Hey, I know this column is called "Girls I've Had Sex With" and it's only the second one I've written and I've already gone off topic. But you know what?  Fuck off. Go and write your own B-grade column for a semi-successful website if you want. This one is mine, and I'll do what I want.

So it all happened in like, I don't know, I think it was February of last year. It was a Friday evening and a group of friends and I were out drinking along a pretty seedy string of strip joints / gay bars after a hard week's slog at the office. It was also somewhat of a welcoming for another friend of ours who had just moved down to the big smoke from a small coastal fishing town up the coast. A regular larrikin, he was far from a homophobe but still staunchly heterosexual. And he was in awe of the place – the bright lights, the hustle and bustle, the loads of women – the whole deal. In particular, the local residents of this particular strip of clubs were of amazement to him. Just the day before, he had seen his first transvestite!

Anyways the night progressed, with beers flowing in to scotch flowing in to shots flowing in to God knows what else, and our attention made its naturally drunken progression to the dancefloor. As I mentioned earlier, the area we were drinking in was a mix of gay bars and strip joints – not a fully blown homosexual epicentre but definitely an environment that buttoned its blouse to the left. And the mix of clientele in our chosen bar was particularly eclectic – drag queens bummed smokes off bar flies, punks picked fights with drunks, and rowdy regulars like us ducked and weaved through the whole stinking mess. It was a minefield, but one we were used to.

Except for our greenthumb from the country, that is. He'd had a head start on the drinking that afternoon, and was the first of us to hit the floor- an excited little bundle of energy tearing strips off his new found environment. In the big bad city, busting out moves like a regular John Travolta, and even catching the eye of a few of those blondes had spotted in the corner earlier on.

In a word, he was absolutely killing it.

But disaster was about to strike…

Let's cut forward ten minutes in this story. Our friend, we will call him X, swans back over to our table after ripping it up on the dance floor, a swing in his steps and what looked like the first signs of pash rash developing around his mouth.

X: So how'd you like that one boys? I was going off. And how's that hotty I was making out with?

None of us answer. We've all been laughing to the point of tears, but are now just shaking our heads.

Me: Dude, you know that wasn't a chick?

X: Aww get fucked, yes it was.

Mate 1: X, It wasn't. There is no way in the world that thing was female. I'm better looking than it was!

X: You guys are full of shit. It was a chick, I'm certain of it.

Mate 2: You're tripping! It looked like a short fat bloke wearing a wig… did you even see it in the light? Look over at the bar now, it's getting a beer!

X turns to face what he thought was the best conquest of his sexual career but what is, he now realises, a poorly camouflaged gay guy with a voice box bigger than my dad's. X is looking like he is going to be sick.

X: Oh god, oh god, oh God. I thought it was a chick. I knew it was a chick. It had to be a chick. I'M FUCKING POSITIVE IT WAS A CHICK!

He stares off in to space for a while.

X: …Cos otherwise I wouldn't have done what I did with her.

Me: And what exactly did you do?

X: I fingered her…

BAM. Suffice to say, that was the first time I ever vomited from laughing so much.

Next time, I'll go back to telling one about me. Promise.

 But I digress. I was still in high school at the time, and had been seeing this girl for a month or two and getting all sorts of exploratory shit marked up on the board. But still, we had not Done It. So one boozy night we were out in a playground (probably with a backpack full of Bacardi Breezers and a few beers stolen from Dad's fridge), and shit started getting heavy - for myself at the time. As we were amorously panting away, swept up in our naïve infatuations falsely labelled as love, those little phrases teenage boys pray to hear started being thrown about: "Do you want to?" "I think I'm ready." "We have to make it special."

Fucken giddyup, sister.

So a decision was made. It was going to happen. I calmed myself, steadied my breathing. Stealing a line from Kevin McAllister in Home Alone, I repeated a mantra that has served me well over time: "This is it. Don't get scared now. This is it. Don't get scared now. This is it. Don't get scared now." Next, a suitable venue had to be found. As in-the-moment as I was at the time, I couldn't bring myself to have my first sexual encounter in a playground that housed so many childhood memories. The swings my nanna used to push me in. The see-saw I nearly broke my arm on. The cubby house in which I smoked my first bong. No, this wouldn't do.

So hand in hand we took off in to the night, looking for an appropriate place.

After a drunken stumble / search around the neighbouring 'hood, I found what I then thought, and still think now, was the perfect setting - the front steps of my local council swimming pool. A bit more exciting than the spare futon in your best friend's lounge room, right? Right. As an interesting side point, I would say a good 40-50% of my nightly dreams are now set in this very spot. It could just be a mere coincidence. Or perhaps a subconscious, Freudian obsession with the place that symbolised my becoming a man. Heck, it could just be glitch in the Matrix, I don't know. What I do know, though, is that if I were the self- analytical type I could delve rather deeply in to the choice of setting for the act – had I at last reached the 'final step' in my conquest to enrich the 'gene pool' with the fruit of my loins? Was I finally going to get myself in the 'deep end'? Heavy stuff! But of course at the time I was not grappling with such existential questions. I just wanted a root.

And root I did.

The sex itself was pretty inglorious. She produced a condom that looked and felt like it had been fashioned from a giant sheet of perspex; I didn't reach any dizzying heights of pleasure and nor, I'm sure, did she. As T.S. Eliot would have observed, the whole thing ended not with a bang, but a whimper, and to be brutally honest I wondered what all the fuss was about. All I'd discovered was that condoms to enjoyable sex are what non-alcoholic beers are to drinking, and that my girlfriend had a weird habit of pinching my back mid-coitus. It seemed like the whole thing was a giant cop out, and I very nearly considered going back to hitting the tennis ball by myself against a brick wall.

But, it was a rookie mistake. As I eased myself in to it over the next few occasions, it did start to get better. I enjoyed it more, and so did she. And before I knew it, the shit had me hooked in like a crack fiend.

It was an unassuming start to what would become quite an enjoyable career - and one that you're going to be hearing a lot more about over the next few weeks. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

Like a gun to the head, sex brings out somebody’s real character. It’s an animal instinct, and something that can’t be hidden. And my golly gosh sometimes you would never in your wildest dreams expect the results.

Except, dear reader, we won’t be examining me. I’m much too smart for that. No, the sexual spotlight will be shifted directly to my left, to my right, to my underside and my up, and when I’m really lucky right in front. Yes, this is going to be a column about Girls I’ve Had Sex With, and The Funny Stories That Accompany Them. It may be sexist, it may be masochistic, and it will most probably be completely made up, but hey, it’s the internet.

So grab a comfy chair, some light refreshments, and a bottle of lube, and prepare for some fun.

Of course, for the sake of privacy all girls names have been changed… to different spellings.

'Girls I've had Sex With'  is a weekly column starting any day now @ RHUM online.