When a fizz and a bang is actually a ‘ptht’ and a ‘pssh’

Corks are popping, fireworks fizzing and banging, Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture is booming out and you are joyfully revelling in the atmosphere, either on the banks of the River Thames or in Edinburgh city centre. Or maybe you are surrounded by good friends in a cosy old country house you have hired for the night, your insides warmed by whisky and the glow of relaxed camaraderie…

Oh, how wonderful New Year’s Eve is! If you are a living the life of someone in a film, perhaps starring Emma Thompson or Stephen Fry.

In actual fact, or in DSM’s world, it always ends up a disappointing damp squib – the rockets are lit to go, but end up making a “ptht” sound and going out.

I can probably count on one hand, perhaps even two fingers, the number of New Year’s Eves which haven’t been a complete and utter let-down.

I’ve done drunken nightclub tickets-only bashes, house parties, given myself a makeover to raise my chances of getting a ‘happy New Year’ snog with the object of my desire, even engineered a date with someone I didn’t really fancy just so I didn’t have to spend the evening alone. Most times, though, I’ve come home alone and miserable, wondering what the point was to even leaving the house. In fact, over recent years, mainly due to babysitters being short in supply, I haven’t ventured further than the lounge.

But, there is one particular NYE I do hold fondly in my memory – even if it’s my one speck of proof that it can be a successful event. December 31, 1999.

Being a thrifty bunch, my friends and I decide that the millennium will be an expensive night out in any town, so we agree to do a touring party, going from one person’s house to the next, finishing up somewhere with space to stand outside and watch any fireworks in the area without having to buy our own.

Luckily for me, despite at this point most people being coupled up and me, as usual being single, a certain Mr XY, with whom I had fallen into bed a couple of times is there. We both clearly don’t want to see in 2000 without some bangs and sparks of our own.

The drinks had been flowing a good few hours and the house we were at had a couple of empty and spacious attic bedrooms. Wouldn’t it be a waste not to grab such an opportunity? While everyone was chatting excitedly and enjoying the first few fireworks, we crept upstairs.

We frantically fumbled and tugged at each other’s clothes – no one would know we were gone for a while. We kissed wildly, almost clashing teeth, our fingers finding the way to one another’s genitals, masturbating urgently, impatient to be closer. Then he was inside me and we began banging hard and fast. The fireworks outside seemed to reach a climax, their whizzing and popping getting louder while at the same time we moved up a gear and he entered me from behind.

Our friends outside were shouting and cheering. So it seemed we had begun fucking in 1999 and finished in 2000 – the first and last time I have had continuous sex over two different years! We banged until we were both exhausted and lay in a sticky heap on the floor. Eventually we had to slope down to the back yard to show our (slightly sheepish) faces, sip a glass of champagne, smoke a fag and try to appear composed.

Since then, it’s all been pretty downhill – mostly nights in front of the TV, or, when my children were babies, being in bed by ten and missing out on any festivities. I live in hope that there will be another set of fireworks one year or even that trip to a cosy country cottage or traditional Edinburgh Hogmanay.

Happy New Year to anyone who actually reads this – bottoms up!

Watch out, Santa

Dear Santa (or would you prefer Santa Baby or maybe even SB),

I can’t say I’ve been an ‘awful good girl’ – I have probably been an awful bad girl for much of the time, or just plain awful…

But if you can see your way clear of rewarding me for some of the good things I’ve done, such as cleaning my teeth twice a day, always giving my kids breakfast and regular hugs and driving my mum to hospital, it would make my day.

I’m not asking for a lot, just a few simple things – a spare buzzy thing would be great. I don’t mean an electric toothbrush, but one of those special little devices ladies use to make them all juddery and tingly. I always worry that the one I’ve got will die at a crucial moment, so having one on standby would really help. Could your elves make me one in silver or pink?

Secondly, can you get a black satin blindfold that I can use for special grown up games and a lacy, boned special ladies’ dressing up outfit for me to put on while playing these games. I need to look the part and give my playmate something to think about.

Next on my list would be a night away somewhere with a four poster bed strong enough to tie something to it and a big bubbly bath. I wasn’t sure whether you did hotel rooms – not something you can fit on the old sleigh, but maybe being who you are means you can get special deals…

The other thing, SB, is that I have always been very curious about you – a man who has to get so much done in one night must have incredible stamina. How do you manage it and come home to Mrs Claus at the end of the night? I would love to come for a ride in your sleigh and find out!

I have never kissed a man with a long white beard and would be very curious to give it a try. So if you don’t have to rush back to Mrs Claus at the end of the night, you know where I am…

So SB, what are the chances of any of the above? Shall I leave out a big woolly stocking or one of my silky lace-topped ones? I will also leave my bedroom door slightly ajar and try to be a good girl for the next few days.

Yours in anticipation

DSM xxx

A trip down memory lane or Fanny Alley

So, as this year comes to a close, it seems the right time to get nostalgic and misty-eyed about the past.

Today I am looking a long way back to days of innocence, when sex was something everyone else seemed to be doing. In fact there are times, in drought periods, when I still think this is the case!

I am going back to my student days. DSM lost her virginity on Saturday, 2nd November 1991, aged 18 and a bit. Rather late for someone in those days. But I documented the whole episode.

He was a guy on my course who was 25 – certainly not my first love, but he was experienced and made me laugh. We had been round to a friend’s house, watched some videos, drank Guinness, and then walked back to his house which he shared with his parents.

I noted that it was pouring down with rain and his mum had to lend me some of her clothes so mine could dry – maybe it was the sight of me in his mum’s jogging bottoms that got him going…

I remember him asking if I wanted to “make love” which sounds rather archaic now, but I imagine it was his way of easing me into it. There were a few thrusts while I just lay there motionless, not knowing what I should be doing.

My rambly afterthoughts were: “Don’t know if I chose the right time for this to happen. Feel a real slag. I like xxx but I don’t love him. I’m no longer a virgin. It was OK but didn’t enjoy it that much. He probably didn’t either as I didn’t know how to do it right.”

So, what is probably a momentous occasion in any girl’s life, took place in a bedroom with green walls, covered in posters of Sisters of Mercy, Fields of the Nephilim and New Model Army, with his parents sat downstairs watching TV. And the uncertainty afterwards has followed me ever since – except now the questions are different.

It has gone from ‘was this the right thing to do ‘to ‘did he think my arse, belly and boobs looked hideous’, ‘did he enjoy it at all’ and ‘were we so noisy that we woke the kids’.

To my 18-year-old self, who seemed to spend most of 1991 flitting between different men and questioning everything, I would say: “Just get over it – it has happened now and will get better, although with some people it’s never going to be that good. Plus, you don’t think your body is that good now, but you are the most bloody gorgeous you will ever be in your life. When you are thirty-ahem-ahem you will be wishing you resembled your 18-year-old self and not the saggy, wobbly old sack of spuds you will become – so work it, girl!”

My back door is jammed

Or, why am I so rubbish at anal sex?

So, in my last post I confidently gave top tips on how to be a Drunken Slut Mum. But there are some things that I still can’t figure out – in particular, anal sex.

I have never learnt how to get this right or how to enjoy it. One of many reasons why The Man will up sticks and disappear one day is probably because my rear entrance isn’t that welcoming – no flowers around the door, shiny knocker or twinkly little light outside. Instead, it’s splintered, jammed, needs a lick of paint and has a barking dog behind it.

It’s not just technique/enjoyment, (which I will cover later), it’s also lack of confidence in my arse. He has made a few good comments about it, but I always worry about having a bad bum day – when it looks particularly large and has the odd butt-zit break-out (invariably a day or two before I’m due to see him, much to my horror). No matter how vigorously one exfoliates, they will only clear up when they feel like it.

So, the actual activity… My first encounter of anal was when I was a student. A group of us had walked en masse to a house party, then the same group headed home and I somehow ended up walking with a long-haired, big guy who had a rather bear-like quality to him. I had met him a few times and never really fancied him, but hey-ho – a few ciders and things take on a new light.

We ended up in my room in halls and he quickly got regular intercourse over and done with, before moving to the rear. He asked if I had any baby oil, which I didn’t, so I suggested margarine (something rang a bell about them using butter in Last Tango in Paris).

Drunken and fairly chilled, I let him smother the stuff all around and inside my anus – it felt cool and soothing. He then worked his way in. It was not a traumatic experience – it just felt like I was going to the toilet in reverse – a tad uncomfortable. He, however, was moaning in ecstasy so I let him carry on.

I wasn’t in a rush to repeat this and, besides, the bear guy was just a one night stand.

I can vaguely recall some failed attempts in a few relationships after, all rather painful and uncomfortable with the various men admitting defeat and not going there again.

Then, after a friend’s wedding in around 2000, I had an unexpected guest in my room. He was a rather skinny, but somehow very endearing, ginger-haired guy, a friend of a friend. We had above average sex before he looked to my derriere. I was slightly uneasy, but the post-wedding booze binge had left my body relaxed. He was very slow and gentle, easing himself in. He was obviously very adept at it, as there was no pain or discomfort and I bordered on enjoying it.

Maybe the secret to that experience was not over-thinking it. Since then, I seem to have lost my anal mojo. But there was a seven-year gap – largely because The Ex never even spoke of anal, never mind partaking in it.

The Man, on the other hand, is a keen enthusiast. We have had mixed success in this area, but my main motivation is giving The Man as much explosive bliss as he gives me. It only seems fair that I tickle his fancy too.