Man up!

‘Guyliner’, fake tan, excessive waxing, preening and coiffuring seem to have become the norm for many men in their 20s and 30s these days.

But ask most women, at least of Drunken Slut Mum’s generation (let’s say those born roughly before 1980) and they won’t be overjoyed/impressed by any of this nonsense.

How are you supposed to get anything done in the bedroom if he spends longer than you do putting creams and potions on and waxing his chest hair? I also don’t want to be competing for mirror space if I wake up with him in the morning and have to get my face on.

I am not broaching this topic as an onlooker, either – I have done my share of narcissistic self-beautifying men. My first experience was a Robert Smith from the Cure wannabe who loved the shade of cherry red lipstick I wore at the time and borrowed it so much I ended up giving it to him.  Kissing got a bit messy if we wore different shades. It ended badly with me cheating on him with someone more manly while on a residential school trip.

There were then two guys at college who were in some ways interchangeable. They both had long hair and were fans of ‘glam rock’ – by this I don’t mean Slade and Wizzard, rather Dogs D’Amour, The Quireboys and vintage Rolling Stones (google the ones you haven’t heard of).  This somehow required the wearing of ridiculously dandy shirts, tight trousers, eyeliner and occasionally a velvet baker boy hat or bandana.  I now wonder why I didn’t run a mile on seeing someone in this ‘get-up’ but I suppose it helped that both were pretty boys and ultra-confident.

I also had a brief fling with a guy who liked to cross dress a bit – not frilly frocks, false nails and a long blonde wig – just the fishnet stockings, fetish-style pvc basque and a touch of lippy and eyeliner. However, because he was stunningly good-looking, charming and funny, he somehow got away with it without seeming ridiculous. I did his makeup one night while straddling his lap which was an oddly arousing experience until I applied some of that clear strong smelling stuff that is supposed to help lipstick stay on longer. He objected rather forcefully nudging me off his lap and shouting “aargh – that’s horrible – get it off!” You see, men are actually too soft to endure what we women go through to look good…

So, I do approach this from a qualified perspective. What puts me off being a lesbian is the lack of difference between myself and other women. Apart from the obvious ‘boy bits’, I like to sometimes feel men’s stubble rubbing against me (but not so often that I end up with a red flaky chin), to stroke their chest hair, to occasionally get a slight (only slight, mind) whiff of their natural sweat and to feel their stronger, bulkier bodies against me.

Which brings me to another personal turn-off: skinny men. There are few things worse than feeling his hip or pelvic bones digging in as he grinds away on top. Ouch! And any kind of cuddle afterwards lacks a little warmth. You can’t bury your head into a xylophone. Skinny men must have an appeal to some ladies – many are attached and often to larger ladies – but not me. I don’t want a bucket of morbidly obese lard, either, or someone rippled with muscles to rival the Incredible Hulk. I just want a solid, three-dimensional man, who does good hugs, has good bonking suspension and is stronger than me.

The Man more or less covers all the above. He doesn’t mess about with all that metrosexual stuff and uses his strength to occasionally take control in ‘the act’ by pulling me by my legs to manoeuvre me into optimum launch position or initiating our next move. Try getting a skinny, feeble man to do that. I don’t want to be dominated all the time, but see nothing wrong in a man exercising his masculinity now and then. Just like us females sometimes use our tits and arse to our advantage when the need arises.

So, men – wipe off the fake tan and leave my eyeliner alone! I don’t care if you haven’t just straightened your hair or sprayed yourself with half a bottle of some over-priced scent. Set your natural pheromones free and lead me upstairs or take me over the kitchen table!

Saying something stupid like…

…”Am I wobbling  a lot?”

I often think our whole lives are led by what we say – “I do”, “yes, I’ll take the job”, “Ok – I’ll put on the gimp mask”, “go on then – I’ll stay for another drink” etc. etc.

Drunken Slut Mum has many moments when she wishes that, rather than letting the words escape from her mouth, she had fallen down a big black hole. And there are occasions when there would be no shortage of volunteers to help push her into it.

There are times in life when one is on perfect form – when wit is at an all-time high and banter and timing are just perfect – a person is a gold standard, top notch version of themselves. It happened to DSM in her 27th year on a memorable walking holiday in Europe, which not only involved trekking up steep rocky hills, but also some extra-curricular activity with the guide… Every night we drank cheap local wine, which instead of making me sleepy and slurry, seemed to give me the super power of one-liners and a witty answer to any question I was asked. I sometimes wonder whatever happened to the thing that possessed me then, as it never returned.

This version of me could have really gone places. Unlike the early teenage me who daren’t even speak in front of boys, the student me who said ‘yes’ to almost everything and the last decade of me who has just committed gaffe after gaffe.

The times when the worst things escape have been either just before, just after or during sex.

Here’s a selection of my worst moments which broadly fit into one of these three categories:


  • “Have you been circumcised?” on feeling someone’s particularly smooth end.


  • “You have turned me into a swamp – a frog is going to jump out soon then Magwitch from Great Expectations” – At least if I was going to use a literary character I could have got the setting right. Magwitch emerged from the marshes while swamps were probably more common in Mark Twain books.
  •  “Vroom vroom” on top of man below while shaping his arms into motorbike handlebars. He looked a little confused, but then again it was my student days and other substances may have come into it.
  • “That noise didn’t come from my bum – honest” – adding ‘honest’ only adds doubt and commenting on it at all only draws attention to it. Maybe a loud cough would have worked.
  • “There’s a crack in the ceiling and did you remember to empty the kitchen bin before we came upstairs?” This shows how mundane this particular shag was but opens the debate on whether one should hold a normal conversation during sex or is this just an indication that the sex isn’t exciting enough to fully focus one’s attention? If you haven’t seen each other all day there’s sometimes a lot to catch up on…
  • “Is it in?” One particularly disappointing evening in my early 20s.


  • “You’re all sticky”. From the ‘Stating the Bleeding Obvious’ handbook.
  • “Are you sure you’re comfortable in that chair?” In a room full of half-asleep 17-year-olds after a party in a desperate attempt to get the guy I fancied into my sleeping bag. All the more desperate as everyone heard me and all he wanted was a quick fumble.

Another thing that I have never understood is men wanting me to say certain things during sex like “tell me how much you want it” to which they want you to say something like “I really, really want it” or “I fucking want it now”. If you didn’t want it, you wouldn’t be doing it at all. Or “do you want me to fuck you” while they are actually doing it. Of course I bloody do – why am I sitting on your penis in the first place – oops, sorry, no – I just fell and landed on it while naked – thought I felt something hard poking into me.

This is a totally different thing to ‘talking dirty’ which on occasions can be very arousing, especially if you have spent the entire day with children trying your best not to do this.
On the whole, it’s good to talk, but there are also times when things are best left unsaid.

Ode to my buzz / Protest song

My buzzer’s like a ‘zz zz’ noise

That’s perfectly in tune

Oh, my buzz is like the ecstasy

That turns me to a lune


As great are you my buzzing friend

So much in bliss am I

And I will switch you on, my pal

‘Til all your power has died


‘Til all my thrills tire me, my friend

And my body takes no more

But I adore you still, my friend

Even when you make me sore


So in the drawer, my lively friend

Save your juice for later

When we meet again, my friend

For more buzzing, I wager.

Apologies to Robbie Burns and anyone who admires his work!

Protest Song

My silver bullet is my special friend

She knows just what to do

She touches me like nothing else

And turns me all a pinkish hue


My silver wand of magic power

Takes me away from here

Soaring high like a bird of prey

Over snow-capped mountains we steer


The ground so far below, it looks so small

I want to stay this high,

And not return to this body,

As the sparks from top to toe fly.


Oh, silver bullet don’t fade away, please

Stay strong for me, my friend

I need your special touch below

To feel the great tingles you send


But four nights in a row – is that too much?

Does it really all say

That I’m addicted to your buzz?

Other pleasures have gone away


So I don’t have a choice in this pursuit

I lie alone in bed

With just a pillow by my side

And my hunger needs to be fed.




Shaves in toy land

Q: What do scallops, gin, spanking and olives all have in common? (This isn’t some kind of surreal joke, by the way).

A: They are all things that Drunken Slut Mum would not go near with a barge pole when she was 18 but now she enjoys them all.

I thought scallops looked too odd, that gin was a mum’s drink that smelt of bad perfume, spanking was for naughty children (not that I spank mine) and olives were yucky. I have yet to be convinced by Campari.

So when The Man offered to get out a hairbrush, lay me across his knee and spank my bottom, I was a little uneasy, but the sharp, quick impact of the bristles after several strikes felt oddly warming and arousing. Somehow being a naughty girl made me feel giddy and eager to please.

As well as a hairbrush (which, with his shaved hair, is clearly reserved for naughty girls) The Man has a small collection of toys. When he first unveiled this one evening, in his bedroom, I felt a little out of my depth, wondering what I was getting into. Was he going to tie me up and put spikes in me while I pretended to enjoy it, just to keep him happy?

I gulped, seeing from the other side of the bed, parts of the items in the box – something spikey, something big, long and cerise-pink, something knobbly and rubbery – all rather alien things I had seen in magazines and late night TV but nothing I had actually shared a room with. What a sheltered sex life I had led!

He got out a leather and metal thing which I thought may mean I’d end up on all fours wearing a saddle and bridle while he told me to giddy up. But no, ignorant woman – these were nipple clamps. He put them on me – a little squeeze, but no real discomfort, especially when I’ve breastfed two babies and been squashed out of shape by their hard gums. Next he got out a leather studded dog collar which he wanted me to wear. Not a problem either, although I felt like some kind of strange naked punk woman.

His next toy was more interesting – a ‘vibrating cock ring’ – which does exactly what it says on the tin! Arousal and penetration all in one leaving his hands free to explore other areas.

This was my first foray into sex toys. I was also at a later date introduced to Mr Rabbit, Mr Very Scary Looking Dildo and Mr Whip. I know there are handcuffs in his toy box but these have yet to surface and are something I would like to use one day…

Another previously-unknown territory was the shaving of pubic hair. When one day The Man suddenly revealed a pair of freshly plucked testicles, I was stunned into silence. But they felt like soft very high quality Italian leather – the stuff you would pay a fortune for in a handbag! But their baldness also made it easier to involve them in a little light fellatio as they became an extra attraction I was drawn to explore with my lips and tongue as The Man groaned with pleasure.

He was very grateful when I returned the gesture and stripped away all covering of my ‘area’ which I was surprised to discover heightened my responsiveness to all forms of contact and stimulation, as I felt even closer to his body and touch. The downside is the itching of it all growing back which leaves all underwear feeling like sandpaper…

For now I think I will keep my clothes and (pubic) hair on and tuck into some scallops, gin and olives!

Let there be light

As the hours of daylight start to dwindle, light and dark spring to mind as today’s Drunken Slut Mum theme.

Before The Man, just the thought of sex in the light – be it daylight or with the light on – made me want to put on an extra cardigan. In the early years with The Ex it was rarely suggested, but then any hint of it was largely supressed by me, quickly turning the light off or saying I was too busy with the ironing. Even though it had happened with other people before him, I suddenly seemed to not want to be seen – I’m not sure whether I was trying to hide the disappointed look on my face ‘in the act’ or if I just didn’t want him to see my wobbly bits wobbling even more than usual. Or maybe it was being married that suddenly meant all fornication had to be unseen…

But this all changed with The Man. The light was always on and doing it in the daylight became a sought-after opportunity (well, doing it whenever in fact).

Our daytime fun was at its peak when his luck, in landing a regular few days a week working from home, happened to coincide with me having some leftover holiday I needed to take. How handy that I could just drop the kids off at the childminder’s at 8am then pop round to his without anyone knowing! Morning coffee and ‘morning glory’ all under one roof!

Time was precious so we would go straight upstairs and make the most of a couple of hours. I remember one morning getting sticky and slippery in more ways than one as he drizzled baby oil all over me and slid up and down my body. We just had to follow this with a warm, steamy shower together – what else could I do?

The only awkwardness was afterwards when, with my hair still limp and wet, I had to go to the Co-op for milk and saw one of the school mums there. It wasn’t raining outside. In such situations, I should blatantly shout ‘hello’ and give a ‘what are you staring at’ look as her eyes scroll down me. Instead, I can’t help looking slightly sheepish as I keep my head down and scuttle away.

A daylight seeing to was probably on my imaginary to-do list which made me also think about what else would be on my bucket list of must-do shags. Here’s 10 to start with:

  1. On a washing machine on spin cycle – neither of you would have to move too much – just slot the toad in the hole and let the machine do the work.
  2. On the roof of a very tall building. Not near the edge – I’m not a complete nutter – but just open, exposed to helicopters and planes, but no one else, which is why the building has to be very tall.
  3. In the sea or swimming pool – I’ve yet to master how this can be done well, but must try as water turns me on for some reason. Maybe I was a fish in a former life.
  4. In a stationery or cleaning cupboard at work – I know this is a total TV/film/sitcom cliché but I’d like to try it, even if a broom handle was getting in the way.
  5. With two men – but not like in porn footage where there’s an arse man and a front bottom man. The arse man always seems creepy when he turns up late to the party. Plus I’d want to do it differently anyway.
  6. In a really expensive hotel room with a Jacuzzi and lots of plush bedding and rugs – God knows how this would be funded, but I fancy being holed up in a room for a few days like that Robert Redford film – ‘Barefoot in the Park’. Not that I’d want to be in there with Robert Redford – not these days, anyway.
  7. In a car in the middle of nowhere – some rugged countryside somewhere and in a car with seats that recline, of course – I don’t want to set off the horn with my bum. Well not that kind of horn, anyway. For some reason, never done it in a car.
  8. Very messy, covered in cream, chocolate, syrup, whatever, rolling around somewhere that can get dirty without involving me washing it. I just love the thought of sticky bodies sliding together, inside and out.
  9. In a lift, just going up and down for as long as we need to and still being able to press the button to shut the doors on each floor we land at.
  10. In a zero gravity simulator – this would be a challenge I’d happily take on – the only worry would be what would happen to the semen if he came – would it just float in the air like a milk cloud?

There are probably many more floating around in my subconscious, but other ideas are welcome…


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.

On the (school) run

I walk briskly through the school gates, my head down, trying to avoid eye contact with any of the parents waiting outside. I also try not to stand too close to anyone, just in case they smell that I’ve recently downed two or three glasses of red wine. I tuck a bedraggled strand of hair behind my ear and try to appear normal, in control, sensible mum.

Does anyone suspect? Do I have a scarlet aura of sluttiness which only the virtuous and well-behaved can see?

Not ten minutes ago I was naked, my body shaking from top to toe in waves of bliss.

The Man had invited me over for lunch after a hiatus of several months. I wasn’t even sure if this was just lunch or ‘lunch’ but curiosity and a gaping hole inside made it impossible to turn him down. Even though it was one o’clock and I knew the two hours before the school run would melt away.

We ate, we talked, we drank red wine, his sky blue eyes drawing me closer and completely eradicating any resolve I had to keep my clothes on. As he took me upstairs, I ached for his already hard penis. By now it was already two o’clock…

He eased my breasts out of their wire and fabric cage, gently but firmly kissing and sucking my nipples as I stroked his solid erection and frantically unfastened his jeans wanting to feel it in my mouth.

I sucked and licked and nibbled from the smooth, shiny end to the harder, rougher trunk, trailing my tongue down the shaft, feeling him pushing it further into my mouth, wanting more and more… I briefly paused, searching the room for a clock – 2.15, forty-five minutes left…

As I slowly lay back on the bed, he followed me, kissing me, pulling off my jeans, finding my clitoris with his fingers, moving, lightly, faster, faster, faster. I closed my eyes as waves of a beautiful sea engulfed me, first little shallow peaks, then bigger waves, higher, crashing and lifting my body. ..2.25 – I needed him to enter me now, my hungry inner beast craved it and time was running out.

As he went in, I gasped with the satisfaction of someone having a drink after being thirsty for a very long time. Everything fitted together so well. His penis was like a hand in the right glove, the lid clicking on the pen, the missing jigsaw piece slotting into place.

We moved in harmony, as I felt him deeper inside me. As he flipped me over, I saw it was 2.35 – 25 minutes and so much still to do!

He pounded me harder, faster. I made him even faster as I rocked my hips backwards and forwards. My mind drifted as my insides yearned for him to never stop. But it has to! 2.45! I could barely speak, but managed to say ‘we have to stop!’

We rolled over and kissed softly. I was now on top of him and his lips felt so soft that I couldn’t tear myself away and I felt his still erect penis slowly slipping inside my now soaking-wet vagina. 2.55.

I jumped up – quick decisive action was the only thing for it. And a picture in my head of a tearful little girl, all alone after everyone else had gone. I quickly pulled my clothes on, not even checking a mirror to see what state I was in and ran down the road to school.

The birth of Drunken Slut Mum

Of course, I am not going to start with the gory details of my entry into this world – I’m all too familiar with this from the other end to give a biology lesson here.

I wasn’t always a Drunken Slut Mum, though – I was once a very naïve teenager, then a Drunken Slut student, a Drunken Slut twenty-something and a Very Faithful Wife for about seven years.

My slutty days started late when I moved away and went to college – before  that I was a good girl! My wild abandonment started with a guy eight years older than me, who I was convinced was in love with me, but whom I discovered a couple of years later – long after we split – specialised in ‘breaking girls in’. Student days highlights included sex on LSD, sex in a car park, first ever anal sex assisted by margarine, sex with someone very good at it and a seven hour sex marathon with a tall, muscly blonde. Well, between the ages of 18 and 21, most girls are at their physical best so it’s surely a waste not to enjoy it. And when there wasn’t sex, there was ‘slam-dancing’ to Nirvana which entailed mostly sweaty male bodies shoving and throwing themselves against any females who got in the way. So guess where my favourite place on the dancefloor was?

My twenties in some ways are hazier – maybe because by then I could afford wine and gin – the Drunken Slut staples. Ports of joy in a sea of errors include number one in my top ten list – Mr Very Well Endowed With the Body and Stamina of an Olympic Runner who could do amazing things in a vast and colourful array of positions. Sadly the conversation got as exciting as him talking about his favourite cheeses… I also got to see the new millennium in with a bang in the attic of a friend’s house with a gentleman with Duracell-like stamina who never seemed to come…

Marriage happened all too fast. And didn’t live up to expectations. The above episodes were all more exciting than any intimate moments in seven years with the ex.

But then I discovered The Man. The Man who after several drinks (gin for me, thanks, then some red wine) took me back to his house, kissed me softly, eased me out of my dress nibbled my neglected breasts and was the first person to touch me in seven years. To touch me properly, I mean and awaken the sleeping pink cushioned cave within me.

And this is where Drunken Slut Mum’s adventures began.