Out with the new

DSM is moving into a new phase in her life: ‘new man’ is going to have a name change.

I felt that after six months, ‘new man’ probably does not qualify as ‘new’ anymore. I was going to use his initials, as I have with previous male ‘characters’ but this also didn’t seem right. No, instead he has earned himself a pseudonym. Feeling playful, but forgetful and often uncertain of spellings, I am going to experiment with Asa. Don’t laugh. It’s very obviously not his real name.

So, Asa (apparently it means ‘doctor’ in Hebrew) and I are still together and can still stand the sight of each other which hopefully means he’s sticking around for longer than just a quick bonk and a cup of tea before he slings his hook.

We actually miss each other when we are apart for a few days – a concept I had forgotten, being more familiar with the being-glad-to-get-my-space-back kind of vibe. He even worries about me getting home safely at night (when predecessors wouldn’t even see me to the front door and would have only found out I’d fallen under a truck on my way home if they had tuned into regional TV news). And he’ll labour away down below for however long it takes to get my orgasm because it means so much to him that I get my rocks off as much as him.

So, after years of indifference or shouting and stress, this attentive love and compassion thing is a little alien to me.

And where do we go next? The logical thing would be to consider moving in together, but when you’re in your 20s with no kids or complications, this is much easier; find house/flat, discuss rent and bills, move in.

In middle age, divorced, in possession of two kids, a house filled with junk etc. – not so easy. There’s the practical problem of crap he has accumulated over the decades (books, CDs, furniture, bicycles, motorbike…) plus my crap (books, CDs, furniture, toys, kids…) Do we build a giant shed for all our stuff, toss a coin to decide what to throw out or bury it all in a hole in the garden?

Then there’s him having to get used to living with two kids after years of peace. He has a 23-year-old daughter who lives elsewhere with her boyfriend, while my two are primary school age, so we have around 13 years at least before we’re on our own again (if it doesn’t all drive him out before then). That means 13 years of shouting, fighting, spillages and generally trashing the joint.

There are also those things one doesn’t like one’s partner to know about – those private habits or self-prettifying secrets. The things that will shatter the illusion of loveliness before him. Some of you will understand what I mean. For example, that annoying single coarse hair that appears just under my chin every now and then which I pull out with tweezers late at night, the greyish white knickers I reserve for that time of month or comfy days when I’m alone with a good film and Kettle Chips, the days when I can’t be bothered washing my hair so I screw it up in a scrunchie (heaven forbid!). He may not approve, either, of all the rows of washing I hang in the dining room (we only ‘dine’ there at Christmas) or my addiction to eating peanut butter straight out of the jar…

How about long-term sex? I know everyone says you just have to have lots of variety to keep things alive, but how easy is it to build this into hectic lives? The way some of my days go, he’ll have to give me a quick hump from behind while I wash up, grope me as I fetch a shovel from the shed or ambush me upstairs as I change the sheets.

So, moving into the next phase will take a great deal of thought. I have a couple of female friends who swear that they will never live with a man again. They are both in long-term relationships, but happily living in separate places to their menfolk. And clearly, their menfolk are happy with this arrangement too – there has not had to be any compromise or argument over whose vacuum cleaner works the best or which toaster will be tossed.

But, on those cold winter nights their beds won’t warm up, there’s no one else to take out the trash and if they have an attack of the horn (or does this only happen to me?) and only a male member will satisfy, they are kind of high and dry.

Please please me

Happiness is often something you only know you have experienced retrospectively. The only time, in DSM’s view, that you know you are happy in the present tense (and omitting anything chemically induced) is either when you are laughing out loud or during an orgasm.

Otherwise, it’s only after the event that you think: “Actually, that was a really fantastic night” or “that time I spent chatting to my friend was perfect.” DSM has recently had one of those days which she can honestly say afterwards was one of the best she’s had in a very long while, but that’s something for a future post…maybe.

So – how can a man make a woman very, very happy in the present tense? He can start by looking at his fingers and thinking less about his penis. In DSM’s experience, too many men focus on their own mission to ejaculate and completely forget there is another person with them. This is such a waste of the sexual act when they may as well have stayed home alone with a couple of beers, watched some porn and ‘spanked their own monkeys’. In the past, I have felt like an inflatable mattress, pinned down under a large weight while I am rhythmically pumped. Maybe if I had swapped myself for a lilo he wouldn’t have even noticed.

So, men – women like unselfish lovers. We are people too who need to enjoy the ‘getting jiggy with it’ experience too. If you help us orgasm, we will also enjoy the penetrative bit a lot more too.

Sluttish as I am, before The Man I had experienced very few orgasms. This was because very few of the men I had slept with had even bothered to try and give me this special gift. Yes, they would clumsily rub their fingers up and down the right region and poke my insides, but only a handful (excuse the pun) of them had attempted the delicate, precise action of pin-pointing the right place and either finger-stimulating or deep sea diving for some oral action.

The Man is the least selfish being I have known in this particular area. It sometimes feels like he would rather please me than himself. I can only assume he gets pleasure from giving me pleasure. He would happily fly me to the moon and back without looking out of the rocket window once, or bake me a delicious cake without being tempted to dip his finger in the icing for a sneaky lick…

His care and attention only makes me want to fly him to the moon (and maybe Jupiter and Mars) and back. Oh, and also to ride him like a wild stallion until we both collapse in a heap, exhausted and physically incapable of doing anything afterwards.

So, men, look at your fingers, check your nails are short (not bitten) and clean. Practice nimble-fingered activities – if you play the piano or guitar, this could be useful. Otherwise, try your hand at threading a needle, finger-painting, making plasticine shapes, popping bubble wrap… anything requiring gentle but precise positioning of the fingers. Next, buy an ice-cream or lolly and eat it entirely through licking – no cheating by biting off chunks – purely tongue work alone. Complete these tasks and you may, just may, get somewhere.

From mediocre to magic

So, how was that? Did I go too far in that last post? Time to move on, pull your trousers up or wrap the duvet around you and assume the slightly more demure post-coital position of someone not sure what they have just done and how they got there.. Have another glass of wine or cup of tea.

You may think Drunken Slut Mum is a woman lacking any conscience or morality, without any feelings or care for anyone else other than herself. She likes to pretend this, especially in front of the man, but sorry, this isn’t the case.

DSM feels, hurts, loves and laughs just like any other woman. I love my children so much it hurts and sometimes ask myself if it’s possible to kiss those soft, plump cheeks too many times and bury my face in their Honeysuckle hair. I cry at really emotional love scenes in films and if I stub my toe or cut my finger it’s very hard not to say “cunty-bollocks” and cry out in pain.

You may think DSM is a vision of beauty with a perfect body with all the carnal pleasure she is enjoying, but you would also be wrong here – although if this helps your fantasy, please carry on picturing Angelina Jolie or Beyoncé. The reality is I am mediocre, could do with losing a few pounds (especially off the baby belly) and am thirty-ahem-ahem. I don’t even have any talents to boast – mediocre again – although The Man seems to enjoy my blow jobs. My headstone epitaph could read ‘Here lies DSM – she was pretty mediocre but did reasonably good blow jobs’ but then again I may be old when I cark it and have false teeth, so a blow job by then could be a risky undertaking…

So, as you come with me on my journey, remember I am just like you, a normal, non-specific person.

I am not here to corrupt or moralise – I have done these things both married and separated. I served seven years of inadequately sexed married life before The Man came along and reminded me what it was like to have a libido – I thought mine went missing somewhere in the Mediterranean before the ex and I even tied the knot.

The power of The Man is that he helped me find my missing libido, that once-mystical concept of the orgasm and multiple orgasm and for the too-brief snatches of time we have together made me feel like I was no longer mediocre, but a sexy, special and desirable woman – me on the inside but an airbrushed, toned and gorgeous temptress on the outside.