I sit on my front porch as the rain starts to fall. A gap in the guttering lets one large drop splat on the wall next to me.

It is dark and the rain is only visible as passing car headlights briefly illuminate it, like sparkling shards. But the roaring spray, after days of scorching arid heat, shouts that yes, the rain is here, falling hard and fast. It gushes and hisses from the sky.

You have just left, so I come outside to feel the downpour, to smell it bursting from the sky on to trees, plants, gutters, potholes, and stare into the night, lit by a few twinkling lights down my street.

I pull a cigarette from my pocket – naughty, I know, and not something I normally do, but it’s my emergency supply and you are not here to lecture me.  I turn from the wind and click my lighter. The nicotine rush leaves me light-headed for a second, but I am already woozy with red wine. Only the cooler air and rain keep me upright.

Things are different between us now. And I made it so.

You never asked for it to change. It was down to me. I had my doubts.

But as I sit here and suck and inhale, watching the wisps of grey vapour rise before me, I feel the cold shiver of solitude rise up my spine, the space from my waist to my shoulders, where an arm could have encircled me, a warm and loving embrace.

But here I am, alone again. Plunk! Another large drop hits the wall next to me.

As I press the cigarette between my lips, I think of your lips when they used to press against mine, soft and warm. But I made this choice.

I cross my legs as the breeze gets sharper and blows up my dress. But the breeze is the only thing to get this far.

I long for a warm head laid on my lap, fingers caressing my legs, as I gently stroke the head. Plop! The drop shakes me from my reverie for a second.

The wind rustles through the Magnolia tree over the wall and it moves, in this light like a sea of a million dark green leaves. Between the drifting clouds of smoke I inhale the smell of wet leaves, grass and nature aroused by the down pour. Will I ever be aroused again?

Plunk! There it goes again.

The wine haze and nicotine fuzz do not allow me to answer the question – do I just want to be desired and touched by someone, or do I still crave your heat, your kiss, your sex.

But you have gone. I made you go. So I am alone again. Splat! The drop seems to be coming more frequently now.

And I do not want to ask the question right now. It will only plague me when I awaken from my heavy alcohol sleep at around 4am and struggle to close my eyes again. I have argued with myself for some time now on this point. Right now I call a truce.

Flump! That drop is now mocking me. The cigarette is down to the butt and I don’t want another – the bitter taste and dry mouth remind me why. I turn my back on the wet night, turn my back on my thoughts – just for now. Time for the empty bed, one pillow not used. Time to snuff out thoughts and feelings. Until tomorrow.

Carry on, doctor

The young female doctor looks at me expectantly: “So, how are you?” She asks, politely. Obviously this is her signature opener. At least it’s better than “well?”

I’ve seen her before. She’s probably only been qualified a couple of years and hasn’t yet acquired the world – weary cynicism of some of her colleagues. She is cheery, good-natured, patient and always takes time to investigate your problem, rather than rushing you through the allotted 10 minute appointment slot.

“Hmm, well, I’ve been having thrush- like symptoms on and off for a while now…” I try to find a change in expression or tone, but her clear blue eyes show no reaction, her eyebrows don’t twitch with an “oh shit – looks like I’ll have to do an internal examination for this one.”

Last time I saw her it was for dizzy spells. Bet she was hoping it was the same again.

The conversation advances in a direction I hadn’t prepared for.

“When was the last time you had sexual intercourse?” Sexual intercourse? It always sounds so odd to me – like some kind of board meeting or negotiations with a potential buyer.

“Over a month ago,” I reply. Yes, as long ago as that. Things aren’t really happening down there for me.

Anyway, it moves on to whether it was unprotected etc, etc and before I know it I am up on the leather bed/couch thing, legs akimbo with that awful speculum thing inserted. Doctor is looking down the tunnel, but cannot locate my cervix and is prodding around. And, as with any other internal examination, I’ve ever had there is the inevitable “sorry, I can’t find it. I’m going to have to use a bigger speculum.”

I try to stare at the fluorescent light above my head, but feel like a car being jacked up. More prodding and poking as she takes some swabs – I think I am being tested for all manner of things.

Finally, my airlock closes as I can finally bring my legs together.

“Would you like to have some blood tests for HIV and other STIs?” I suddenly feel like a promiscuous woman in her 20s. She also says something about talking to “other partners” if any results are positive.

I open my mouth to say “look, I’ve actually only had sex with one person since 2010. I don’t really see that much action.” But I close it again. What is the point? I feel like I have already disappointed her, the sweet, kind doctor, with the smart blouse and ponytail. Before now I was the stressed and tired single mum with dizzy spells. Now I’m a middle – aged strumpet with a ropey vagina and questionable morals.

I agree to the tests, anyway. Just in case my one sexual partner in the last four years has been secretly seeing more action than I have.

Sports day

Summer sports. You can’t get away from them – once the World Cup gets underway, there’s tennis, the Tour de France, cricket and golf. So, there’s plenty to keep us all sweating on the sofa with a few cold beers.

And am I going to be joining in, cheering on my favourite cyclist, tennis player or footballer? What do you think? The only reason I would even flick over to any sport with my remote would be to admire the stunning physique of an athletic man.

So in the shallow, non-sporting tradition of these pages, I have penned my guide to sportsmen and how their particular sport could affect their prowess in the bedroom department.  Please note that for this guide, absolutely no research was carried out; it is based purely on my warped imagination.


Best positions: Standing up and thrusting you against the wall.

Areas of strength: Fantastic stamina – could go on for at least 90 minutes if you have water and orange segments for half-time.

Worst positions: Footballers are known to get dodgy arthritic knees when they finally hang up their boots, so probably best to avoid anything involving kneeling, such as doggy style.

Most likely to say: “Ooh – can we move, love, my knees have seized up” and “He shoots and he scores!”

Tennis players

Best positions:  Anything requiring good arm strength – if he’s particularly adventurous, then not try the ‘wheelbarrow,’ involving him holding up your legs while you do a virtual headstand to allow him entry from behind? He may also have more patience and stamina for finger stimulation.

Areas of strength: Stamina – all those extended games will build him up – and upper body/arm strength.

Worst positions: While he is good at lifting, there is a risk of overdoing it, so if you ‘wheelbarrow’ too much, he may suddenly drop your legs out of exhaustion.

Most likely to say: “My ball was in! You cannot be serious!” and “It’s Love all!”


Best positions:  Preferably somewhere you can admire their amazingly tight buns. Knees are generally in good condition, so doggy style would work, but in a way that allows you to reach behind to feel his rear.

Areas of strength: Stamina, very strong leg and thigh muscles (quadriceps), so all the better for sitting on or grabbing.

Worst positions:  With all the legwork, it’s uncertain how strong cyclists’ upper bodies will be, so maybe best to avoid him carrying you upstairs or across any thresholds, or dragging you along the bed caveman style.

Most likely to say: “This is an uphill struggle!” and “Come on, come on, just a little further, sweetheart!”


Best positions: Anything involving being struck with a flat-ended object – so a riding crop or hairbrush may come in handy for a touch of spanking. You could even bring in some ‘runs’ by allowing him to chase you around the bedroom before he ‘catches’ you.

Areas of strength: Running short distances, hitting things with a bat and polishing balls on his trousers.

Worst positions:  Anything that requires stamina and doesn’t involve stopping for tea halfway through proceedings.

Most likely to say: “That’s a sticky wicket, darling!” and “Is that my box or yours?”


Best positions: More whiplashes here, but with his swing action, you may be able to start with some fifties-style rock’n’roll  dancing . Also, being a golfer, he could probably go for a bit of a walk first.

Areas of strength: Strong shoulders and upper body and a high level of patience, so he probably won’t complain if you spend half an hour ‘freshening up’ in the bathroom before you start.

Worst positions: His muscular strength probably isn’t as good as the other sports guys so he may have trouble carrying or lifting you.

Most likely to say: “My God, it’s a hole in one!” and “Let’s try not to get it stuck in a bunker this time.”

So, study well, readers, just in case you run into one of the above professionals on a night out and are not sure what to do with him, if you get lucky. This guide could be printed, folded neatly and carried in your handbag, just in case…


Liam / memory block

He rescued me from a situation which probably would have ended with me being punched by another girl. So it had all started off rather strangely.

I had been out with a group of people I barely knew. I had just got back in contact with an old school friend, Anne, after several years, and they were her friends. She had invited me to come out with her and her ‘gang’ – three guys and two girls. One of the chaps had taken an interest in me (not my fault) and, after a few drinks we shared a snog. I was about 24 and single, so it was no big deal.  But it was a massive deal for Anne’s mate Carol, who was his ex-girlfriend, and trying to get back with him. But how was I to know all this history? As I said, they were virtual strangers. And she did that repressed ‘angry bitch’ thing, telling me to ‘fuck off’ with a smile on her face, and to leave her friends alone.

Liam showed up in the background somewhere in the middle of this altercation. He looked familiar, probably because he had been in all the same cheap, scruffy pubs I frequented in the mid to late 1990s. He asked if he could buy me a drink and we got chatting after I walked away from Carol and co.

He was kind and sensitive and the way he looked reminded me of the type of guy I went for in my student days – dreadlocked dark hair, pierced nose, new age hippy/punk. I was beginning to believe the entire incident was fate.

Liam had a slightly odd existence. He worked in a factory and lived in a house on a very low rent in exchange for allowing his landlords, three Sikh brothers, to store crates and crates of lager, that they sold on the side, in his kitchen. They even allowed Liam to consume some of it. (But it was the super-strong metallic-tasting cheap stuff favoured by street-drinkers in the UK, so this wasn’t exactly a great perk.)

I remember lots of details about Liam, such as the various tragedies suffered by members of his family, his strange tattoo that looked like a black blobby ghost, his penchant for The Stranglers  and his rather scary dog which looked like a mastiff/pit bull cross and snapped at most people (luckily not me). In fact, I also recall that the dog got stolen after he left it tied up outside a pub.

But, for some reason I have no recollection of sex with him, apart from two occasions. I remember sex with people before and after him, but for some reason, very little about what Liam and I did – maybe I had sunk a couple of cans of the acrid liquid stockpiled in his kitchen. Or maybe, it was just not memorable or remarkable sex.

So, my lasting memory of him was the summer evening we went for a walk in the woods and came across a bent over tree. Its thin trunk came out at a right angle, almost like a bench and was just wide enough to sit on. Within minutes we were kissing passionately and his hand went down my jeans. There wasn’t much foreplay, as it became rather frantic. I took one leg out of my jeans and pants while he unzipped and reclined on the tree. I climbed on and we frantically bonked, keeping one eye open for dog-walkers. It was exciting and exhilarating, as this was my first tree sex (I know I’ve covered this topic several posts back). I did not orgasm, but was very aroused by the closeness of his lean body, the smell of the wood and sensuality of the tree.

We quickly adjusted ourselves after he shot his load and carried on walking, saying ‘hello’ to passers-by.

The other occasion was when we had sex via me sitting on his lap, facing him, as he sat on my toilet. Why this stays in my mind is a mystery to me.

The relationship didn’t end well. I recall him becoming increasingly depressed and demanding and me not knowing how to cope. Seeing him became a chore and I was starting to fall for one of my male friends. So, it ended and rather messily. I told him it was over; he left and stood below the window of my apartment shouting out my name, so my 200 or so neighbours also knew it was over. There were then a series of drunken phone calls at 3am, until I unplugged my phone. Still, it was preferable to being punched by another girl.

The sculpted man

He was so perfect that it was almost as though he had been sculpted from the imagination of someone wanting to create the ultimate male Aryan specimen. Six feet tall, blonde, tanned, with broad shoulders and well-defined, but not over-bulging biceps. When his pale blue eyes fixed on me, I felt myself purr with anticipation.

The only down side was that whoever sculpted him did not have much clay or bronze left for his brains. Poor Garth (we will call him) was not the sharpest tool in the box, but he knew how to hunt and gather – hunt down female prey and gather what treats they had down below. His words were few but not wasted. And it turns out that I was 20 and in an unhappy relationship at the time i.e. looking my best but feeling a little low.

Wearing a white t-shirt, just tight enough to show off his pecs, he flashed me a dazzling smile, came over to me and whispered in my ear: “Your boyfriend doesn’t deserve you. If you were mine, I would treat you like a princess.”

What he said was of little consequence to me – I was quivering at the mere sensation of his warm breath in my ear.

He walked back to his mates and I watched the pert rear end encased in denim as it retreated. He looked over his shoulder with a cheeky grin.

“Who’s that?!” Asked my friend, Molly, who hadn’t failed to appreciate the stunning view. “Just Garth,” I replied. Just Garth? Just the most beautiful man in the room. That was our only exchange that night, but it ensured I thought about him regularly for the next fortnight.

Then I had a Friday night out with friends in a local pub I knew Garth often visited. After an hour or so, sure enough, he walked in. I played it cool and didn’t get up to acknowledge him until I needed to walk past him to use the loo. Then, I flicked him a quick sultry glance. On my way back, he beckoned me over.

As I stood before him, I felt small and feminine next to his solid muscular frame. But he looked a little agitated and concerned.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, but I know it’s wrong,” he said. “But why?” I had at this point totally forgotten I had a boyfriend. Garth, his presence, his form, his smell, completely filled all my senses.

“I want you so much, I’m crazy about you, but I know you are with D.” He looked genuinely anguished and put his head in his hands in a slightly dramatic way. I squeezed his arm and felt him shudder. It was the first time I had touched him. We were silent for a moment, then he composed himself and said: “Do you want to go back to my place and listen to some music?”

Without giving it much thought I found myself with him on the train back to his house. We were sitting opposite each other, not having made physical contact since the arm-squeeze.

Neither of us spoke more than a couple of words between getting on the train and going to his bedroom where he went through Bjork and Kate Bush records – his two main musical obsessions. He had said I looked a bit like Kate Bush, but this was largely down to my long dark hair (I didn’t flatter myself in thinking it was any more than that).

He then sat on the floor in front of me while I was on the bed. He still seemed a little tense. I just wanted to touch him again. The conversation was not exactly flowing, but his soft blonde hair, his broad shoulders, muscular torso were all crying out to be caressed. I shuffled to the edge of the bed, moved my legs so that they were either side of him and started stroking his shoulders and back with my fingertips. He leaned back closer and my strokes became firmer.

After five or ten minutes, just as my hands were beginning to ache a little, he turned around, held my hands and climbed on to the bed next to me and kissed me softly. I felt his perfect smooth lips and his firm body against me. My heart was beating so loudly that I thought it would jump out of my chest.

The kisses turned frantic and he had by now climbed on top of me. He was solid and throbbing and I was almost exploding with the excitement of him being this close to me after weeks of wanting. He must have felt the same, as within seconds he was tugging off my jeans and pants and sucking and licking my inner thighs all the way up to my quivering labia and clitoris. I had barely had chance to grab his penis.

As I writhed on the bed, I was in total bliss and just wanted to taste him and feel him inside me. We had barely spoken; everything had just happened through a mutual want and synchronised body language. When I finally summoned up the strength to pull off his jeans, I was grateful that the sculptor had saved a generous amount of clay for his dick. It was thick, long and beautiful. “Oh yes!” I almost cried. I was living in a moment that I wasn’t in a rush to put behind me.

I licked, sucked, stroked, rubbed and licked, sucked, stroked and rubbed again. And again. And again. I kissed his taut stomach and all the way up to his solid chest, his perfect mouth, his eyelids, his forehead and tousled hair. I wanted to drink in every inch of him.

When he entered me, I let out and involuntary gasp. This was the most stunning specimen of manhood I had ever lain with. For a while I forgot I was me and imagined I was someone spectacular and worthy of this experience. My skin was a creamy white next to his tanned body.

We rolled over and I went on top before he took me from behind. Still he was firm, showing no signs of exploding. We did it sideways and reverse cowgirl, standing up against the wall, back on the bed, then all over again. In fact we had sex solidly for over four hours, just with a few cuddles and kisses in between. We would probably have gone on for even longer if daylight had not interrupted us. And my worries about getting home.

I walked out into the cold, stale morning air – dishevelled, happy, bewildered and shell-shocked at what had just happened.