Artistic licence

When I casually suggested The Man took up life drawing classes, naïve though it sounds, I had no idea that I was going to be his model.

After all, at the time we had not had sex or been alone together for months. I had an eight-month-old baby so had been pretty tied up with that and felt my body was far from ship-shape (although I did feel rather ship-sized).

I had seriously seen a list of courses at a local community centre and life drawing was one of them and as well as his more obvious talents, I knew The Man was skilled in other arts. So, (sadly) having reached the point where I assumed I was no longer a pot where he wanted to dip his brush there wasn’t even a hint of duplicity in my suggestion.

I only suspected my fortunes were changing when he seemed extra interested in ‘doing life drawing’ with me. Even then I wasn’t sure whether someone else was modelling for us and gingerly went to his house armed with charcoal and paper…

The Man threw his clothes off and lay on an old mattress with the plan that we took turns in doing ten-minute sketches of one another. Still reluctant to unveil my post-pregnant body, I insisted he went first and hoped the ten minutes would somehow overrun and the stopwatch would fail to go off.

No such luck. He coaxed me to strip and I slowly peeled off my clothes, feeling like the closer I got to nakedness the more repulsed he would be. Nervous, rambling, stuttering and trying to make jokes about my appearance, I let him move me to the mattress where he wanted me to stand, leaning slightly to one side, with my hand out against the wall. I watched his eyes looking me up and down, taking in every line and curve, without a flicker of repulsion or desire.

We did a couple more sketches, our fingers blackened by charcoal, not showing one another our pictures until the end. But when I saw his, I was amazed, not just at his skilful work, but at the curvaceous, round-bosomed Botticelli-style goddess who graced the page. The Man isn’t excessive with flattery or compliments, so I knew this was how he must have seen me, even if I couldn’t get beyond the cellulite, saggy belly and slightly misshapen breasts.

And as we sat on the mattress, still naked, making our way through a bottle of red, he leaned in to kiss me for the first time in months. We slowly fell backwards as he turned his focus to my breasts and his hands moved downwards. As our movements became more frantic, and our kisses more urgent, his penis made its way inside me and felt as good as it had the many months before, back where it belonged, back home again. He came quicker than usual and we held each other, inhaling the natural smell and warmth of our bodies.

Not in front of the children

When my daughter was about three she walked in on the ex and I ‘in the act’. It was a Sunday morning and as usual she had woken up and wandered into our room to try to burrow under our duvet.

The ex developed a rather strange high pitched voice and said: “Can you get back in your bed now, sweetie? Me and mummy are having special cuddles.” She quietly left the room without protest, as though she instinctively knew she shouldn’t be there.

This was the first and last time this ever happened – which may have been more to do with the infrequency of our intimacies than us being lucky.

But being a Drunken Slut Mum these days means sex at times has to be an opportunist activity, just as some burglars rely on doors being left unlocked and keys left carelessly lying around. If there’s a chance of a quick nibble on my favourite snack (which comes in big Man-sized portions) I will grab it with both hands and my mouth wide-open, so to speak.

And no, I certainly don’t agree with anyone having sex in front of children, but if they are asleep upstairs, surely it’s worth a try.

My creaky bed springs do me no favours, so we tend to explore downstairs options. The Man and I have ended up rolling around on my lounge carpet, crashing into squeaky toys or setting off some brightly coloured plastic object which lights up and plays a tune, especially when it comes into contact with a right buttock. We’ve knocked parts of the play pen over, had to extract pieces of Lego from our behinds and given the stuffed toy penguin in the room more than enough to stare at.

Another recent discovery – something I have always fantasised about being ‘taken’ on – has been the kitchen table. I feared it would be either too cold and hard or not withstand my weight, but was proven wrong on both accounts. I had often talked about being done on the table, but hadn’t expected it to happen. But the mere suggestion of something to The Man makes it something that will happen.

Next time, though, I want the kettle to be boiling, pans of soup and stew to be bubbling over the top and the room to be so hot and steamy that it’s impossible to tell whether it’s been caused by our sexual passion or the over-cooked food. I also want to give the worktops a try, if they aren’t littered with vegetable peelings…

Cheap thrills

Like many girls pre-sexual awakening, I now with hindsight realise I had been turned on a number of times in my growing years, before I could even identify the deep stirring inside me.

We are not entering the sickening and frankly horrific idea of young children being interfered with here – what I mean is something millions of miles away from this.

This is something very innocent and natural that occurs, often when you are alone; those feelings of excitement which you feel again as an adult but can put a name to. I now get them when I know I’m about to see The Man and I also know that at some point within an hour or so we will be enjoying each other’s bodies.

I blame my mum for these early fits of excitement – when I was a toddler she would put me on top of the washing machine (it was a top-loader) during the spin cycle. Its buzzing and juddering made me very giddy and probably set me on the road to complete nymphomania

Later on I experienced the same giddiness – rather like you need a wee, but don’t – when I road my bike on the bumpy, potholed, gravely track about half a mile from our house. Having my legs astride the firm leather saddle just intensified this feeling.

When I was a bit older the same feeling came from horse riding – the saddle again, but this time over a warm, pulsating body. The saddle, with its slightly musty leather smell, would gently rub against my crotch, just enough to stimulate the ‘need a wee but don’t’ feeling which I now know was the beginnings of sexual arousal.

Sitting astride various objects – benches, see-saws, bar stools, etc. would often have the same effect, as did going swimming and knowing some boy I liked was going to be there, being in some kind of a vibrating motorised vehicle like a minibus or older car such as a vintage VW Beetle… in fact a whole number of things – not things I experienced every day, but things which often cropped up at weekends and holidays.

At this age, though, I had no idea about sex, I just had a vague idea that people rolled around in silk sheets, kissing with orchestral music in the background, as they did in ‘Dynasty’. It is only now when these same sensations emerge that I realise I was experiencing some form of sexual arousal from as far back as I can remember. I am not sure if this makes me a freak or if this is within everyone.

During a recent toddler swimming lesson I was required to sit astride a noodle (a long cylindrical foam rubber float) with small child and pretend to be bouncing along on a horse. For the entire time I forced myself to sing the ‘Horsey horsey’ song while in my head saying “focus, focus”! I could only relax when the instructor asked us to put the floats back on the side of the pool.

As a child these feelings would eventually fade away by themselves. Now as a woman of thirty-ahem-ahem, there are three options of relief:

a) Growl, bite the carpet, get very annoyed and sulk off to bed

b) Find my buzzing ‘silver bullet’, finish things off properly and hug the pillow

c) Hope it coincides with a visit from The Man – the only satisfying solution to the problem. If only I could order him as and when needed like a takeaway pizza!

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.

Catch us if you can…

…But please don’t – it’s the risk of being caught that’s so exhilarating. If we actually did get caught, we would probably die of embarrassment.

And what are we doing that we don’t want to get caught doing? Nicking sweets from the newsagents? Writing rude words on toilet walls? Flicking elastic bands at people in the office? What do you think?

A few months ago The Man and I were going through a particularly horny phase and there just weren’t enough opportunities outside working hours to satisfy our hunger. So we thought about how we could squeeze in some extra activity at work, if only there was a secret safe place.

After some exploring, The Man found an empty, slightly dusty room in a part of the building very few people used. We had to pass a couple of offices to reach it and go up a flight of stairs, so it would involve carefully timing our journey and hiding if anyone came out of either office on the way.

Our first rendezvous meant him going up first, texting me and waiting. I snuck out – for all anyone knew, I was off to the ladies’.

I tip-toed upstairs, into the little ante-room, which contained a few empty boxes, a sink, trolley and shelves. It had the musty attic smell of somewhere not entered very often. We kissed frantically. I hoped I wasn’t getting any phone calls downstairs. His zip came down; I knelt and devoured his already hard penis. Then he moved on to me, his fingers finding their way inside me, making me tremble and feel light-headed. I completely forgot about bloody phone calls. We were both now slightly dizzy and on the brink of combustion. He leaned me over the sink and entered me from behind. We fucked quickly and quietly but it was enough to have our fill (and thrill).

We then went our separate ways, heads down and back to our desks. I didn’t have any phone messages and no one had even noticed I had been out of the room for more than five minutes.

On another occasion we found ourselves unable to contain our physical enthusiasm on a train journey home. It had been one of those evenings of flowing alcohol which left everything with a sunny hazy glow, giving the illusion of all being well with the world and nothing seeming impossible. We had both acquired the slightly drunken drive to make things happen, even though we had no place to do it that night. The Man had led me through at least four or five train carriages to find an empty one where no one would see me bent over his lap, my head bobbing up and down.

And we just couldn’t leave it there, after the sheer luck of not missing our stop. My ex was babysitting so there was no way we could go back to my house.

The Man led me to some nearby woods and we clambered up through the undergrowth, until we were a few yards in and reasonably out of sight, but still getting light from street lamps and nearby houses. We then carried on what we started on the train, getting more and more turned on by the setting and the fact that we were only yards from people and the occasional voices and footsteps of passers-by on the pavement below. What if someone else chanced upon our spot?

As the leaves rustled from our movements, I bent over a small, slightly crooked tree trunk as The Man again entered me from behind and our movements became more frantic and rhythmic and our breathing heavier. As he climaxed I pulled him closer and pressed his torso against my back as though we were imitating a large tree trunk with branches made from our limbs and a sticky sap pouring from it.