Not on the same page?

So you’re having fun in a no-strings, explosive sex type of situation and everything is tickety-boo. Or is it?

Well, it was for the first few months – it was great getting those naughty texts and smiling to yourself at the saucy secrets you both shared. But there has gradually been a shift, a cloak of sadness has been thrown over proceedings; you feel lonely and empty when you aren’t in his company, you have to restrain yourself from texting or emailing him.

Of course, nothing has changed for him – he’s carrying on in his own merry way, chatting to you about nothing deeper than the latest film he’s watched or new apps on his phone.

It’s like you’ve both walked through different doors and are now separated by an invisible wall. To him you are just a hole to stick it in but to you, this has grown into something rather more – the feeling that dare not speak its name in this cynical, ‘we’re all bright and breezy, but never deep’ predicament.

So here’s DSM’s guide on how to tell if you’re just a fanny hole and a pair of boobs while he has unwittingly, but ever so sneakily become the centre of your universe.

1. Him: He never asks how you are, ever, even if you have your leg in pot, puffy red eyes or have broken out in hives.

You: You ask after his wellbeing every time you see him. You buy him cold remedies even if he just has a sniffle.

2. Him: You get together for an evening which will end in sex. But before you can even have a drink or discuss the state of the economy, he starts pulling your top down to get to your boobs and putting his hand inside your pants.

You: Spent an hour getting ready, styling your hair, perfecting your make up and hoped you could talk and sip some wine first so you can at least build up to the passion.

3. Him: He would never dream of any public displays of affection and would probably attempt to halve his body size just to avoid touching as you brush past him. If you ever happen to walk down the road together he is at least two feet away from you all the time.

You: While you don’t want an all tongues and buttock-groping snog in full view of the world and his wife, you would quite like a little absent-minded touch, perhaps a hand on the waist or a squeeze of the arm…

Him: After sex, he farts, rolls over and you seem to become invisible.

You: Exhilarated, sated, blissed out, you just want to be held close and listen to his heartbeat.

5. Him: It’s the first time you have seen each other since your night of passion. He says ‘hello’ but seems to be in a hurry so can’t stop to talk.

You: You want him to come over, hug and kiss you and ask how you are and when you are next getting together.

6. Him: He knows nothing about you, wouldn’t have a clue about what music you like or your favourite book.

You: You know what all his interests are, from his love of comic books to the name of his childhood pets and have made a mental note of the fact that he can’t stand capers (just in case it crops up in the future).

7. Him: He never makes any arrangement to do something with you any further ahead than a couple of weeks, claiming he’s just too busy to think that far ahead.

You: End up dropping everything if there’s an opportunity to see him and yearn for him to suggest a weekend away together, just so you get that extra time with him.

Dear, oh dear. This is the road to pain and heartache when it was supposed to be slap and tickle. There are only two options:

a) Be cruel to be kind (to yourself) and stop it now. Very painful, but saves even more pain in the long-run and frees you to either have a no-strings thing elsewhere or meet someone who can fill that emotional void.

b) Carry on as you are, feel the pain, but convince yourself that at least you get to be with him, even if he’s only there in body, not spirit.

Teat total

They are the focus of nibbling, twiddling, squeezing and clamping. They also act has barometers, provide food and can be very sexy. Aren’t nipples amazing?

The majority of men focus their attention on them after you have passed ‘second base’ in your affections and will at first tentatively slide their hands up your top or down your dress. This is followed by gentle stroking, frantic groping or misguided twisting, seemingly in an attempt to tune into BBC World Service. In The Man’s universe it’s a case of forcefully tugging down any clothing in the way, and diving straight in for a combination of nuzzling and nibbling which swiftly has a tingling impact on my lower regions.

So then the nipple changes from a pale pink velvety rose bud to a hard pointy button, surrounded by darker pink raisin-like skin, as it does when the temperature drops, making it a barometer for ‘ooh yes – please carry on’ and ‘ooh, it’s a bit nippy’.

I generally enjoy the things my nipples can do, but this relationship came under strain after the births of each of my children. I could handle them turning a darker brown colour during and after pregnancy and my boobs expanding, but when they went from being a portable sex toy to human udders, all the fun evaporated.

While the areola retained its browner hue for a while longer, the nipples became a deep pink nucleus of soreness, chapped skin, pointing upwards or forming an odd square shape when hard-gummed sucking time was due. And babies are not gentle little things that just give a tickling sensation as they drink from mother nature’s taps; they suck with the super-human strength of a vacuum cleaner, sometimes causing shooting, stinging pain.

I am not wading into the big debate on breastfeeding and the benefits or otherwise – I am not looking to write for a mums’ mag or website. But the experience, whether good or bad, made me see my nipples/boobs/the whole lot feel rather ugly and certainly not sexy. Particularly when baby sucked so hard that, on removing his/her mouth, milk sprayed out of my boob, hitting the wall on the other side of the room.

So it took a reunion and life drawing session with The Man (see my Oct 27, 2012 post) for me to learn to love my nipples again.

And what of men’s nipples? There is no obvious reason why men even have them. But some men’s nips seem to be just as sensitive as women’s. I recall one bedfellow who asked me to squeeze his nipples as hard as I could when we were in the throes of intercourse. So much so was this obsession that he would call out ‘nipples, nipples’ when we reached crucial moments.

Biologically, female nipples are more sensitive and are apparently connected to the ‘genital area’ of the brain, which explains why proper usage can lead us to feel tingly sensations and sometimes even orgasms.

A pubic inconvenience?

It is usually coarse and wiry, looks like a pet ferret, sticks out like spiders’ legs from under bikini bottoms and knicker legs and gets stuck in ones teeth at passionate moments…

So why would anyone want pubic hair? It seems that no one these days does want it, including the men. There’s all-off waxing, Brazilians, or just modest bikini waxes, depilatory creams, ‘sugaring’, electrolysis and even the option of vajazzles, if you wish to decorate your newly naked lady bits (but how anyone can ‘go down’ on a jewel-encrusted peacock or unicorn is a mystery).

As a self-proclaimed slut with a curiosity over most things sexual, I am no stranger to the smooth mound. In fact, the act of shaving off all my plumage in the shower is strangely arousing, especially if it’s been growing there a while. The Man also likes to strip down to a pair of smooth plums from time to time. There is the added benefit of the newly shorn area being hyper-sensitive to touch and arousal being heightened (even if the flip side is that it can be a bit sore and prone to a rash).

I do, however, normally stick to a now almost ‘the-least-a-woman-can-do’ bikini wax as I like the way it means everything fits neatly away into my underwear.

But waxing has its side effects – ingrowing hairs which to the untrained eye look like horrible big spots, bright cerise sore bits, tiny rashes and generally ouchy skin. Often this is even less tolerable than the ripping, stripping and stinging sensation that goes hand-in-hand with the waxing process.

According to a recent medical article I stumbled across, all this messing with nature, which has become almost essential to many, is not doing us any good.

It has apparently been medically proven to cause microscopic open wounds, creates a breeding ground for streptoccus, staphylococcus aureus and MRSA (methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus to its friends). Boils and abscesses can also pop up.

Pubic hair protects our privates from friction that can cause skin abrasion and injury, bacteria and other nasties. Medical professionals are said to be so convinced by this that they now believe shaving a body part before surgery can actually increase, rather than decrease infections arising from operations.

I will probably continue to carry on as before, but it does suggest we pause for thought before taking to the razor, wax or sugar.

In the 1990s, as I remember it (through a haze of cider and funny cigarettes), no one, apart from the rich and famous or page 3/porn models bothered about their pubes. We were all happy and proud to have big bushes, unless we were going swimming or away somewhere hot when we’d give it a bit of a trim. I even remember a guy telling me I had a ‘fantastic pussy’. Surely the word ‘pussy’ derives from a woman’s furry bits, or at least it should.

I am not about to suggest we all go au naturel, letting our bushes grow down our thighs, plaiting them and adorning them with ribbons and beads. But maybe we go a little easier on them. Maybe just stick to the bikini wax and do the big shave off as a special surprise… Well, it’s Comic Relief soon – do you think they would broadcast a sponsored fanny and balls shave?!

For pity’s sake

The Man took pity on my ‘no action’ lament last week and put me out of my misery.

“Poor old bint,” he must have thought. “Stuck at home with no one else to look after her kids. I’ll pop round and do my good turn for the day.”

So there I was watching TV on a Thursday evening after a day of doing housework, wearing a scruffy fleece and old jeans, feeling a little grubby, hair scraped back in a ponytail. I certainly wasn’t prepared to face the outside world, never mind entertain visitors. But of course, The Man can always be counted on to be unpredictable.

There is a knock at the door. I won’t patronise you with any false suspense here, as obviously, after the above, there is no mystery or build-up to the identity of the ‘gentleman caller’.

He sits down next to me and I offer him a drink. He declines but says: “I’ll have this, though” and leans in to kiss me. “I hear you aren’t getting any, you poor little mite,” he adds stroking my breast on the outside of my top.

“But I’m all manky,” I reply suddenly conscious that I look a complete mess without make up, slightly greasy hair and wearing my glasses.

“I don’t care,” he says, quickly pulling off his clothes and grabbing my boobs, bottom and sliding his hands under my jeans.

It is fast and frantic and I have no more time to contemplate how awful I look. Before I have a second to try and remember which bra I put on this morning (oh dear, it’s the old grey-white one I use on ‘no-action’/period days), my clothes are strewn across the floor and he is inside me as we writhe on the sofa.

He sits up and I straddle him, sliding up and down his pole before I end up kneeling on the cushions as he enters me from behind, then we lie down again. Hard and fast, hard and fast, he climaxes and I hold him tightly against me as we squeeze one another in a post-ecstasy embrace – the kind of position you don’t want to give up for a few minutes, as it says more than any words at that awesome moment just after sex, when you are both perfectly sated.

Any thoughts of my appearance have completely evaporated. I don’t care about anything other than lying here for the few precious minutes I get to hold him close, breath in his essence, smell his hair, his sweat and feel his hot breath on my chest.