I've been reading since I was three, and I would read anything on which I could get my hands - the usual back of shampoo bottles, instruction leaflets, whatever I could find.
My father's cupboard was also the first aid cabinet, and on the top shelf, next to all the bandages, ointments and salves, were several books that I assume he figured no one would ever take out because they just looked so dull. Ha! Little did he know.
Naturally, at first I didn't really know what I was reading - after all, I was only six or seven years old - but it didn't take me long to grasp the concept - especially with a sex scene on virtually every second page.
Consequently, I may not be a full-on cherry fudge mint ripple with caramel raspberry swirl and chocolate shavings, but I'm no plain vanilla, either. And finally coming to terms with it.
And yes, after the first book, which took me a while to read, what with sneaking it out and sneaking it back in (I was fully aware that I wasn't really supposed to be reading them), I deliberately sought them out. And made up sex scenes using my poor, innocent toys. Defiled!
It was ironic, therefore, that I was severely punished two years later for reading "Where did I come from" by Des and Dawn Lindberg - but I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.
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