It is often joked that my gender "never learns." We make the same mistakes over and over again, as if the presence of a soft, dangly organ between my legs negates the ability for me to process new information. They joke, all the girls do, that "men never learn."

And indeed, when you hear of tales about Simon, it's understandable why some women think like that. He was a drinking buddy of mine and as we used the shortcut through the woods he would always need a pee at the same place; by the oak at the side of the path, looking out over the fields with his head resting on the branch of the tree while his bladder was drained. It was his routine.

Until the farmer erected a new fence. A new electric fence. His howls echoed around the valley, his tortured cry as dozens of volts shot up his piss and fried his cock. He cried, begging for it to stop, his hands trembled as his stomach convulsed to bring several pints of England's finest ale onto the woodland floor.

He should have learnt his lesson. Two weeks later, what the silly drunk bugger do? His went for a leak in the same place.

He hadn't learnt his lesson.

His second trip to A&E with his hands clasped around his electrified cock that he simply hadn't understood the lesson from his past.

But then that's not limited to just the men of the species, I present Rainbow. She was a lovely young lady, if somewhat blessed with an unfortunate name. Alas, her parents were undergoing a marijuana-induced hippie phase at the time of my friend's birth and Rainbow Summer Fisher was blessed with a lifetime of sniggering.

It didn't bother her too much; much of her upbringing could be described as wild and anarchic; her life blessed with heavy doses of liberalism. By the age of nine her hair had more colours than I had coloured felt-tip pens in my pencil case. By the age of twelve, her uniform was tie-dyed and by fourteen she was almost expelled for taking the tower block hostage to protest at the crisis in the Balkans and the genocide of Bosnians.

But as she counted down her teenage years, her sense of rebellion was exhibited through a "make love not war" attitude that made her the talk of the college.

I had the privilege on her eighteenth birthday. I don't shag friends, and I certainly don't shag wild friends: I have no idea where their craziness will take me, but that night she wanted to be wild. Her parents had left her the run of the house while they were at Glastonbury, and she invited dozens of her friends to drink, smoke and play.

I may have been her first kiss at twelve, but the young naturist had had many lovers since that moment on the school trip to the butterfly sanctuary: her kaleidoscopic hair was a magnet to the winged creatures then, our tentative kisses broken by the fluttering of wings on her hair.

Her hair had got brighter since that day, now matched by the faint daubs of bodypaint on her naked form running through the garden. She hugged every visitor, squeezing her breasts against their clothed bodies. She squealed drunkenly, flirted obscenely and caressed teasingly. She was the centre of attention and she loved it.

She loved the octopus-like hands of Geoff, the smarmy smile he gave as his fingers delved into her pubic hair as she sipped cocktail from his lap. She loved the feel of his erection poking against her thighs and the feverish attentions of the sex-crazed student. She adored the touch of his fingers against her clit, squealing loudly as her desperate longing overwhelmed her.