Scream if you want to go faster

So, readers, a quick straw poll: in the throes of passion, are you a) a screamer/shouter, or b) a quiet, heavy breather?

Of course, you expect me to answer this, too. I would say that until recently, I probably fell somewhere between the two. But then, I didn’t make a great deal of noise in childbirth, either, not that your chosen way to display extreme pain is any barometer for how you channel extreme pleasure.

Is it better to let it all out when you are going at it, or keep it in? I have stayed in hotel rooms with thin partition walls, where it’s impossible to ignore the moans and screams of a copulating couple next door. I have also lived in a flat, where I heard my portly neighbour giving a lady what sounded like a very satisfying evening.

But for me, early days of intercourse were fairly quiet events. I would breathe heavily, sigh a bit, maybe talk about getting cramp or leg ache, but there was no screaming, howling or neighing. The most noise a person on the other side of the wall would have heard would be the bed creaking, a headboard hitting the wall, or the thud of one of us losing our balance.

Marital intercourse was more of the same, with the added need to do it quietly when the small people came along.

It is only in recent times that I have felt comfortable enough to vocalise my joys. In fact, this is probably proportionate to actually experiencing the inner explosions I had missed out on for so many years.

Being in a position to discover these things a little later in life than other women has been a revelation. Until a few years ago I wasn’t sure I would meet any man willing to put the time and effort into taking me to ‘the big O’. Now I know that there are a few chaps out there who do want to see a woman judder and pop, who will persist until it happens.

So, perhaps my relative silence was just down to being stuck in second gear for so long. Now I have discovered fifth, my engine is fully revved and turbo-charged.  I have heard myself making sounds I never knew were in me – “aargh”, “ooh”, “fuuuck”, “Go-o-o-d” or “ye-e-e-s”.

The downside is that it is almost impossible to ‘make whoopee’ with the kids in the house, as I am now one of those annoying couples who keep other hotel guests or neighbours awake at night.


We have come back early from the party. We just couldn’t wait any longer for the next stage of the evening.

As I fumble about in the kitchen with coffee cups, you go upstairs to the loo. I expect you to come back down for a drink.

What I don’t expect is a naked man in my kitchen with a cheeky grin on his face and not even a blink or shrug of embarrassment. The surprise makes me tremble and tingle below with excitement. What shall we do now?

I glide my fingers over your chest hair and tiptoe to kiss you, softly first, then our teeth and tongues clash wildly, echoing the want in our bodies.

You press against me, so I feel your hard, naked penis prodding me, pushing through my dress and knickers. You guide me backwards against the worktop and kitchen sink which form a right angle corner. My back is pressed into this alcove; your body grinds against me. As we continue to kiss, my hands glide down your back to your bottom while yours are bolder and travel up my dress, onto my knickers, into my knickers. Perhaps I am a little over-dressed.

I thrust forwards, willing you to touch me inside, to tug my pants down. I want you to do it, to show me you want me as much as I want you. I don’t have to wait. You ease them down my thighs and they drop to the floor.

Stepping out of them, I raise my left leg onto the worktop, stretching across the cooker hob, carefully kicking a couple of glasses and mugs back as I go. I want you to move closer to feel you against my already hot, wet vagina.

You eye me hungrily, as you lick your middle finger and slowly move it to the place I want it, as I grab your dick, easing my hand slowly up and down.

But I am impatient. I want you inside me, filling me now and there is no time to move from this spot. So, carefully I raise my other leg, so I am straddling the corner, one leg across the hob and the other now outstretched across the edge of the sink and draining board. Secretly, I am impressed that I can stretch so far, when I am not really that flexible. Now I’m the perfect height and position for you to get inside me with ease.

You briefly glance at my open legs, also admiring my agility, before kissing me softly and easing yourself inside. It feels wonderful and I gasp in relief, excitement and pleasure. You thrust into me hard and deep, again and again as I lean back, trying to avoid pots and pans, raising my pelvis to match your every move. We fit so well together, you and me, and I lose all sense of time and place. At times I forget we are in a kitchen.

While inside me, you twiddle and stroke my clitoris and I shudder and writhe to your fingering, feeling myself ready to burst. Faster, faster we bang against the worktop. I moan and whimper, you swear and purr, then as it feels like I can’t take any more, we both find our pinnacle, firing our own rockets, grabbing each other, embracing in sweat and sated exhaustion.

You take my hand to help me down, then we sit on a wooden chair, me on your lap, my arms around your neck, my face buried in your shoulder, your fingers gently stroking my back. I feel safe, warm, wanted and completely smitten.

Blown off course

Q: Your man is hard at work in your downstairs region, trying his best to bring you to the boil, make your whistle blow. What, at this crucial, almost climactic moment, would be the worst thing to happen?

A: All your muscles relax and you let out the loudest, rip-roaring fart, just inches from his face!

He is then so shocked that he jumps off as if receiving an electric shock while you are so embarrassed/ashamed/mortified that you put your hands over your face and laugh hysterically.

I should know, readers – this recently happened to me.

Bearing in mind that this is a new relationship and we haven’t crossed the passing gas in front of one another threshold yet – in fact, I would say that we need at least another month to reach that point, if there is a socially acceptable timescale for this. But now, I have completely blown it in more ways than one.

I was so mortified that I had to lie face down on the bed, letting out high-pitched, slightly insane giggle that I’ve never heard come out of my mouth before. He meanwhile looked on in stunned silence.

I am not sure whether he felt more awkward about my overwhelming embarrassment or the incident itself.

All he could say was: “When I said I wanted you to pop, that wasn’t what I had in mind.”
While the only thing I could let out between high-pitched squeals and titters was: “I think I need to get dressed and go home!”

I couldn’t actually look at him for ten minutes, just wanting the bed to swallow me whole and spit me out at home.

When I finally caught his eye, he seemed quietly amused, but his smile could have been out of pity or even smugness that he had not been the first to crack (in the flatulence department).

It does make me wonder why we are still so embarrassed about trumping. We are all guilty of holding it in at work or with friends and yes, the noise and smell are not welcome, but is there anyone in the world who doesn’t need to do it? Even the queen must have to guff from time to time, even if one of her footmen has to apologise and pretend the parp was his.

But, this thought did not help my extremely cringe-worthy moment. While it isn’t something that preoccupies me when I meet someone new, surely it’s better that the man breaks wind before I do, then it makes it ok to happen to me, right?

I did the only thing I thought would make him forget about it – something to completely distract his mind and senses; the best possible fellatio. After that, it was never mentioned again…that day.