Chapter 1

Villiers-sur-Seine, the place where I was born and grew up, is a medium-sized town, roughly 50 kilometres southwest of Paris. Visitors might describe the place as sleepy; the adult population considers it peaceful, but most of the younger people would call it outright boring.

The town is not close enough to Paris to be considered a suburb, but too close to develop a worthwhile cultural life of its own. In consequence, those who don't have the means to go to Paris - and that covers most adolescents - don't have much choice of what to do in their spare time. There are a few cinemas, an open air swimming pool and a couple of discos. There is also a park, the Municipal Park, near the town centre. It tends to get very crowded, particularly on Sundays, and young people with their irreverent, noisy behaviour usually feel they're not welcome. But it has a few benches which are hidden from the general public's view, and young people are keen to use this chance for a little privacy. The main drawback is that the gates are locked at sunset.

My parents belong to the group of people who would call Villiers peaceful. They would also be quick to point out that it isn't as peaceful as it used to be. High-speed train connections and the fact that most people now can afford a car have brought the town closer to the 'city of sin'.

Particularly my father was one of those who decry the decline in moral standards which the closeness to the capital had brought to our town. His criticism was specifically aimed at women, mainly from the younger generations, whose behaviour did not measure up to his strict standards. The sexual permissiveness of today's women as manifested in clothes which he considered too revealing was his prime target. His favourite word for such women was slut, and he left no doubt that he would not hesitate to apply this word to me, should he ever find me guilty of wantonness.

My father always made it clear that my education was a strain on the family's budget and that he would have to continue making sacrifices if I were to go on to university. He never missed an opportunity to point out that he himself had never been given the chance to study. But, he then always added, he was quite willing to carry that burden to provide for my future.

However, if my behaviour indicated that I wasn't taking my studies seriously, he would stop financing my idleness and I would have to find a job to earn my own keep. He used this 'not taking my studies seriously' ruthlessly to prohibit anything he didn't approve of: listening to the wrong kind of music, wearing make-up, coming home late, being dressed 'improperly' and having a boyfriend.

Although I did not agree with my parents' opinions and the strict control they exercised over me, I had no choice but to endure it - at least until I would be able to pay my own way.

I studied hard and never lost sight of my goal to pass the final exams with flying colours. I did not just want to achieve the necessary marks to gain entrance to university, I wanted to be in the top ten percent of my year in order to qualify for a scholarship and achieve at least some independence from my parents.

My story starts some time in August of the year 2002. We were in the middle of the summer holidays, the time of year when I hated Villiers most. The fact that there were no lessons to attend made it even more obvious that there is absolutely nothing to do for young people. The only relief from boredom was the open-air swimming pool.

The town was almost empty. Most people had gone on holidays to the Atlantic coast or the Cote d'azur. The girls in my class which hadn't gone away used the small gardens behind their houses to work on their suntan. Most of them wouldn't think twice about sunbathing topless; the more daring ones would look for a spot that was hidden from the public's view and take off their bikini bottoms as well to get a seamless tan without any white patches.

I, on the other hand, didn't even dare to sunbathe in my bikini in our garden, for fear of incurring the wrath of my father. Instead, I went to the public swimming pool but never took off my top because I was too worried that my father might get to hear about it. Most of my schoolmates didn't know the reason behind my apparent prudery and my dedication to my studies. They thought of me as a prude cram and weren't very interested in making friends with me.

I don't know if my father's attitude had anything to do with this, but I noticed that my physical development as a woman was happening slower than with my class mates. When the other girls were already proud of their fully developed breasts and exchanged stories about their first adventures with boys, my breasts were only two bumps on my chest and there weren't any boys interested in me.

One day, in the open-air pool, lying belly-down on my beach towel, I decided to undo the catch of my bikini top. That way I would at least get an uninterrupted suntan on my back. I must have dozed off in the warm sunshine because I didn't notice Thierry, one of my classmates, approaching. He had seen me lying there and had gone to fill a plastic bag with water for his idea of a joke.

I was up like a rocket when the cold water hit my back, and told Thierry in no uncertain terms to get lost. And, of course, I forgot all about my bikini top being undone. When I noticed that my breasts were exposed to his eyes, I quickly covered myself.

He just laughed at me. "Look around you Jacqueline! There are plenty of beautiful breasts, waiting for me to look at them. Why would I want to look at your titties?"

I decided to ignore his insult and returned to the position I had been in before he arrived without saying a word. He would probably tell his friends what had happened and his story would reinforce their opinion that I was sexually retarded.

But that wasn't my main worry that day. What really made me uptight were things which I didn't understand that were happening to me on a physical and emotional level.

The hormonal changes had finally started to happen and they arrived with a vengeance. I could notice almost daily that the size of my breasts had expanded a little more and a few more pubic hairs had grown. I wasn't completely ignorant; I picked up information here and there, from books, magazines and the conversations with other girls. It was no mystery to me when my body started to change and develop into that of a young woman; the shaping of my budding breasts, the growth of pubic hair on my mound, all these things happened the way I had learned to expect.

What I was completely unprepared for were the feelings which accompanied these changes. I couldn't concentrate on anything because I was constantly aroused and couldn't stop thinking about sex. It disturbed me greatly and I was convinced that there was something wrong with me. Had I been religious I would have come to the conclusion that the devil had taken possession of my body. But, as I didn't believe in the devil or any other supernatural power, I tried desperately to find a more rational explanation. I was convinced that I was the only person in the world experiencing these sensations and that I needed professional help.

I didn't have any hope that my mother would be able to help me. She hadn't even prepared me for my first menstruation, because the subject was just too embarrassing for her to talk about. I had to find out about 'the curse' from other girls.

There wasn't any teacher or doctor I trusted enough to ask about such a deeply personal matter. The few girls with whom I had some sort of friendship at school had gone away for the summer holidays. I felt I was completely on my own. Then I thought of Charlotte.

Charlotte

I had become friends with Charlotte during the relatively short time when she was my classmate. Charlotte was a full year older than the rest of us. She should really be one class ahead but she had been in hospital for a long time after a car crash - the one in which her mother was killed. When she returned to school she joined my class to make up for the lessons she had missed.

I guess what attracted me to Charlotte was that she was also a bit of an outsider and didn't quite fit in with the 'normal' pupils. She was a self-proclaimed lesbian and men-hater. She called herself Charles and wanted everybody else to also call her by that name. It seems that I was the only one who did her that favour. We accepted each other for what we were and this mutual acceptance turned us into friends.

But then Charlotte moved to another part of town and transferred to a different school. I missed her company, but the feeling wasn't strong enough to make me continue our friendship. Also, with her being a lesbian, I was worried that I might give the wrong signals if I continued to see her once she was no longer my classmate.

Charlotte was older than me and in many respects more experienced, more down to earth. Her body had already fully developed and she seemed to know a lot about the female body and sex. I trusted her enough to tell her about my problem. I was sure she wouldn't laugh at me, even if I asked stupid questions.

I decided to ask her for advice. I took my courage in both hands and phoned Charlotte, telling her that I needed to talk to someone I could trust about my developing sex drive. She seemed really pleased that I had contacted her and asked me to come 'round to her place the next day. Just hearing her cheerful voice on the phone made me already feel better.

The fact that a girl of her age was living on her own in her own apartment gave rise to a lot of gossip. Her father had not waited very long to remarry after his wife, Charlotte's mother, had been killed in that accident. What set the tongues wagging was the fact that his second wife was much younger than him. In fact she was only a couple of years older than Charlotte.

Many said that her father had raped and sexually abused Charlotte. Some neighbours believed this had started already while her mother was still alive; others were convinced that it was the death of his wife that made him use his daughter as a substitute. There were even some who were convinced that the remarriage had resulted in a 'ménage à trois'. All were convinced that it was the abuse she had suffered from her father which had turned her into a lesbian and an outspoken critic of everything male. The story was that she had threatened to go to the police unless her father allowed her to move out of his house. He had no choice but to agree and was paying the rent along with a generous allowance.

Charlotte's version of the story was that she didn't get along with her step mother. "She's only a few years older than me. How could I let her act as if she were my mother and order me around?"

Also, she said, the two were constantly 'at it', often starting their games right in front of her, before disappearing into their bedroom. He couldn't keep his hands off his new wife and she provoked him by walking around the house with a minimum of clothes on. "I explained to my father that this environment was not suitable for bringing up a respectable young lady, and he eventually saw my point."

Later, when we were intimate friends, I asked Charlotte if any of these rumours about her and her father were true.

"These stories," she answered, "are spread by people who cannot accept that a woman is a lesbian, simply because she's a lesbian. They need to find some terrible event, preferably a male misdeed, in order to explain why a woman doesn't want to be screwed by men."

When I arrived at Charlotte's apartment, she asked me what exactly the problem was and, with some difficulty, I explained.

"The problem is this: I know that my body is changing into that of a young woman, but there are some things happening to me which I don't understand. I'm almost constantly aroused, my nipples harden for no apparent reason and I can't stop touching myself. When I do touch myself, especially my breasts and my sex, it feels so good that I want more and more. I think there is something wrong with me."