Category Archives: Uncategorized

Not been getting any lately

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Lately, I have been going without – without food, without sex, without much alcohol. “Is there a point to life at all, then?” I hear you ask, and: “Shouldn’t you just be boring old ‘mum’ instead of Drunken Slut Mum, in that case?”

Don’t worry, readers, I haven’t joined some kind of a strict religious sect where all the above are forbidden. I am having a go at ‘that diet’ which requires one to fast two days a week and simply going through a shagging dry spell.

And it’s pretty tough – maybe food without sex would be bearable or even sex without food – if I get to lie down for some of it – but neither is not a good place to be. How does one cope with enforced chastity? Not in the sense of becoming a nun and making a lifelong commitment, just if things aren’t happening in that area at the moment?

And masturbation is off the table too – either because one’s batteries have died and one cannot be bothered going ‘manual’ or because one is testing willpower. Is it possible to divert attention away, entirely, from genital pleasure?

I thought I had found the answer in going for a run – using up pent-up energy, getting sweaty and out of breath and reaping the benefits of a good cardio workout. But no, I have discovered that after a run, despite feeling tired, I get a raging horn and would ideally jump on The Man or perhaps pleasure myself. Apparently this is because exercise increases testosterone levels, which in turn raises our libido.

So how about eating vast quantities of chocolate and drinking wine while lying on a sofa watching a film? Good on the surface, but each cancels the other out – chocolate is good, as it releases the happy drug serotonin and apparently gives similar levels of pleasure as sex (but I would probably need a ginormous bar of the stuff), but wine makes one relax and feel a bit randy if not enough is consumed and, depending on the film, one may feel a little bereft if it ends with a loved-up couple.

Another alternative could be a frantic spring clean of the house. Surely all that scrubbing, dusting and vacuuming is enough to stay busy and keep levels of desire right down. Well, it certainly takes the mind off anything fun, but motivation to actually do it tends to wane. It may be just me, but if I have spent an hour or so cleaning the bathroom, I really can’t be bothered moving on to another room and cleaning it from top to bottom. Maybe I’m a filthy slut, but cleaning the house when no one is coming round to help me mess it up again seems pretty pointless. I also live with two small people who soon return it to a dishevelled mess.

So how to cope with a neglected lady hole? Lie down and stare at the ceiling? Cross one’s legs and grit one’s teeth? Rock back and forth in foetal position, humming quietly? Bake some cupcakes? Get real! Thank God for the invention of vibrators and dildos!

I’m talking pants

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It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of his vital parts must be in want of a good pair of undercrackers…

And that’s about as close to Jane Austin as I like to get. So, David Beckham is popping up in commercial breaks showing off his perfectly formed physique in a pair of snug-fitting pants and leaving many men feeling a little inadequate.

And pants are merely the outer casing of the centre of their universe, so why should it matter if they are greying, loose at the seams and the elastic is coming away? Yes, the contents are more important, but good pants mean a man can dress himself without his mum still buying his stuff, he has some pride and dignity and he is clean.

It may be that in the heat of passion clothes are thrown off at the speed of lightning, but there will be a point when you are both getting dressed again – whether it is after a couple of hours or the next morning. So the undergarments will get a ‘tah-dah’ moment, even if you have forgotten what you were wearing or have to search under the bed, down the side of the sofa or reach up to the light fitting to retrieve them.

While we ladies tend to choose carefully what we are wearing on such occasions, men can be a little more lax. I can recall at least a couple of chaps who have encased their bits in what can only be described as hideous rags – boxer shorts which have been so full of holes that they are merely a gusset dangling from a thick piece of elastic. I don’t know whether it was poverty, laziness or general not-giving-an-arse that led to this.

I have also seen one or two hideous pairs of off-white y-fronts which, however clean they are, always give an air of manky sweatiness.

I think my most joyful recollection of panted male butt was on a guy I actually never had sex with – maybe why I had chance to take lingering glances at his kecks. We dated briefly (excuse the pun), but something was lacking. Luckily, though, he stayed over at least once and I got to see his small, perfectly pert Italian posterior framed in blue Calvin Kleins. Other brands of similar shape and style are available – and should not be a reason why men can’t wear decent pants. Of course this style of pant doesn’t suit everyone anyway.

As for The Man – he manages to avoid this debate, as he chooses to never wear underwear. I didn’t even notice this for a couple of years, which shows just how long we stay in clothes when we get together…

But, men, if you choose to go commando, bear in mind that you should probably change your trousers more often. Even if you shower twice a day, it can get a little musty down there. And if you get a hole in them, there is nothing between you and the wind.

Ode to Valentines Day alone

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So your Valentines Day is poor.
You don’t have a lover no more
Everyone else gets a card
For you it seems very hard

All you hear is giggles and sighs
It may bring a tear to your eyes
They all have love but not you
So what is a sad girl to do?

You are gorgeous, I bet
The man just hasn’t noticed yet.
Most men are rarely aware
Of what’s sitting right there.

So just for today
You should find a way
To treat yourself well
And make your heart swell.

Buy wine, chocs and flowers
Bathe and relax for hours
Switch on your buzzing device
And tingle your bits once or twice!

*Rubbing him up the wrong way

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Even though I am a self-confessed slapper, there are many things I still haven’t mastered (e.g. see my 7th December 2012 post on anal sex) and perhaps never will.

Hand jobs are another of sex’s great mysteries, not helped by the fact that all men want it done differently. How someone wants their penis rubbed can vary as much as how they take their tea, do their hair or cook their eggs.

This is not to mention the interminable wrist ache one has to suffer, no matter how many times left and right hands are swapped. Maybe a wank wrist-strengthener needs to be invented.

I have had men who want it ‘faster, faster, faster’, others who have asked me to ‘slow down a little please’, occasionally ‘just do the top bit like this’ or ‘keep it down at the bottom, just there.’ How is a girl ever going to get it right?

One man in a very brief relationship had the added problem of an over-tight foreskin (medical term is para-phimosis) so I could barely touch it without him wincing in pain and any sex had to be very slow and careful – subsequently it wasn’t much fun, but that wasn’t the only reason the relationship ended…

My early experiences of jacking people off have usually taken similar routes –
1.Start stroking his inner thighs on the outside of his jeans (I never got posh blokes who wore anything other than denims), working up to his crotch and gradually heading for the fly and the thing itself.
2. Go for the kill – the best wrist action I can muster and try not to show when it starts to ache.
3. He gets impatient and moves my hand up and down, because as usual, I am not going fast/slow/high/low enough.
4. Defeat, which inevitably sees one of two conclusions: a) He nudges me away and ‘finishes’ the wank himself (leaving me wondering whether I should stay or get my coat), b) He brushes my hand away and roughly pushes my head down on his cock (virtually giving me whiplash) – the words ‘suck it, bitch’ may as well be said at this point, as this is how it feels.

I do stress these are early experiences in my teens – when I actually got as far as this on many occasions without having any actual penetrative sex.

Later sex suggests that most men realise that oral sex is the better way for partners to help them get into a lather and we still have the wrist strength to make a cup of tea or open a bottle of wine before, during or after.

They can save the monkey-spanking for those nights in alone, when they have to entertain themselves.

*I once had a boyfriend who was a masseur. He rubbed me up the wrong way.

If you can stand the heat, stay in the kitchen

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The kitchen is steamy and the windows are opaque with condensation. Two pans bubble on the hob – one with a winter stew, the other with vegetable soup. Even though it’s cold and damp outside the room is warm with activity and my excited heart-thumping anticipation.

I shuffle around the table straightening cutlery as I play for time, waiting for the knock at the door. I know he’ll be late as usual. Looking discreetly out of the window won’t make him arrive any sooner, but I still do it – ready to duck if he sees me, looking desperate.

Eventually, the knock, thankfully when I am back in the kitchen. He mumbles that something smells good, but not whether it’s me or the food, and steps into the steamy room, peering into the pans.

He moves closer and, before I have time to think, kisses me long and hard, his tongue softly dipping into my mouth and his hands moving down my back, over my buttocks, lingering slightly over my groin, before moving up to my breasts. He now has one hand over each, moving them round in circular motions, before he lifts my top up and simultaneously yanks my bra below each one – The Man never feels the need to undo bras.

He is about to stoop to direct his mouth over a nipple when he stops, moves away quickly and begins opening cupboards. “What are you doing?” I ask, somewhat bewildered and disappointed.

“Just wait there – don’t move.” He says, still looking in every cupboard, as I feel a little awkward, boobs out, top hitched up, glancing over at my pans. “That will do!” He exclaims, pulling out a jar of chocolate spread.

Unscrewing the lid, he dips his finger in and smears a little on my left breast, then more boldly plunges in four fingers and slaps on a large splodge. It feels cold and gloopy, and my nipples tingle and firm up at the change in temperature. He eases me back so that I am sitting on the table and leans in to lick, nibble and devour the gooey mess as I wrap my legs around him and stroke his head, enjoying the excited tingles I am starting to feel inside my jeans.

As he slows down I lower my hands to his trousers, tugging at his belt and zip, urgently retrieving his solid penis. The chocolate spread is nearby and there is only one thing for it – on it goes, creating my very own tasty lollipop. I slide off the table and on to my knees. He steadies himself against the table as I gently devour his chocolate coating and he moans with pleasure. I lick it from top to bottom and bottom to top until it is all clean again and we are both bubbling in the same way as the two pans.

He pulls me to my feet, kisses me hungrily and pushes everything off the table – knives, forks, spoons, mats – luckily I hadn’t got round to getting the glasses out. Everything crashes to the floor and he hitches me up on to the table, laying me back and whipping off my jeans and knickers in one fluid move. Within seconds his mouth and tongue are in contact with my clitoris and his fingers are on the edge of my vagina. His tongue works its magic, gently lapping and sending writhing waves through my body, turning me into a shaking mess.

The table feels cold against my back but also stronger and safer than I imagined. I can’t wait any longer I have to have him inside me, so I pull him up and closer and he stands to enter me as I lie spread-eagled. He fucks me hard and rhythmically and I moan with exhilaration. By now both pans are boiling over, liquid spilling over tops. I am beyond caring but my body is echoing them, as The Man sends me past boiling point. If I was a kettle, something in me would be whistling by now.

He pulls me off the table, so I am standing in front of him, and turns me round so he can enter me from behind. I clasp one of his thighs as he pumps me until he reaches a climax, then reach back to hold him close to share his closing moments and feel the warmth of his body against mine.

Soup and stew totally ruined, me totally ruined – but what a beautiful way to go! I take a few moments get my bearings – as he always leaves me light-headed and dazed – before opening a bag of nuts and pouring two glasses of wine.

Surrender your weapon

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“Baby, it’s cold outside,” sings Tom Jones in his throaty, soulful tones to a rather breathless Cerys Matthews as they flirt and tease through the classic song.

And it certainly is a touch chilly, but I am not here to discuss the weather – that would only disappoint you.

But Tom Jones does lead me to my point – or maybe his point – as rumour has it that he has been generously ‘blessed’ in the trouser department. Internet gossip pages cover an encounter he had with American TV presenter and ‘Mistress of the Dark’ Elvira, very early in her career when she was a dancer. She alleged he was so ‘big’ that she had to go to hospital for stitches.

Other rumoured big dongers include Errol Flynn (11 inches!), Jimi Hendrix, Harrison Ford and Daniel Craig. But of course only certain people would know the truth and does this roll of honour really mean that such men are skilled shaggers?

DSM’s view is that to be a talented artist you don’t need a full set of pencils and oil paints – if you have the ability, it doesn’t really matter what tools you possess.

But there is a bare minimum. I recall in my 20s, in my first proper job, having a flirtation with a married guy from work. We met for secret drinks and sneaky kisses over a period of months. The anticipation of going further had reached unimaginable levels. When he finally did visit my flat I was practically ripping his trousers off in eagerness. Then…’oh, is that it?’ I almost said out loud.

It must have been about four or five centimetres, fully erect. We tried a couple of times, but it just wasn’t going to happen. Luckily, I could blame it on having a few ciders. But we never tried again.

On the other hand, having a lot to play with does not always mean success. I have been in a long-term relationship with someone with a good length. Unfortunately, he was quite a selfish performer and was always in a hurry just to ram it in and do very little first, which would often leave me sore and rather empty.

Mr Athlete, though, brings back fond memories of how a man should use a large loaded rifle. As a runner with a six-pack, he remains to date the most toned man I have ever been involved with, leaving me feeling rather dumpy and inadequate next to him. He also had the largest cock I have ever encountered – a good 8 inches and somewhat intimidating on first sight. But he knew exactly how to prepare his prey so that they would happily and comfortably succumb to the rifle. His fitness and flexibility also meant he was prepared to try many different angles of attack. Just a pity that he had the personality of a brick.

Mr Athlete’s rifle had a largish girth to match. But I have also learned not to underestimate the long and thin variety – something supplied by my Millennium Man (see earlier post dated 30 December 2012). This shape can often reach and touch areas not so accessible to the big and broad.

The above are exceptions. Most of my ‘conquests’ have been of average size and shape and I have enjoyed lip-smackingly delicious sex with a good few of them. Totally average, abysmal and forgettable sex with others too. Some have even whacked me in the face, sprayed stuff into my mouth, over my boobs or on to my derriere.

In an empty room

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The Man has been working day and night fixing, cleaning, redecorating and restoring an old house.

It is dusty, bare and there is no furniture. He is dishevelled and tired, wearing paint-splattered clothes and probably has splinters and flakes of paint up his nails. But still, he retains the inner glow and magnetism that leaves me a defenceless, gibbering wreck.

I have persuaded him to let me come and see his work but as soon as he comes to the door, I know I will be putty in his hands and let him do to me whatever he wants.

There is nothing in the house, not even a box to sit on, yet The Man has spent days here, labouring in every room.

After a quick tour and a cup of coffee he leads me back upstairs to what was once a large double bedroom, but is now a floor-boarded space with a gapingly wide window.

I know what is about to happen, but feign innocence and confusion, asking him what he is doing. He knows he doesn’t need to respond and gently presses me against the wall, kissing me keenly. He fondles my breasts and finds his way inside my jeans while I tug and fiddle with his belt and fly.

The wall is cold against my back, but my front is smouldering hot, getting hotter as I finally have hold of his excited penis. As I stroke and rub, he does the same to my hungry, salivating vagina.

He finds his way inside me and, with one of my legs out of my jeans and wrapped around him, he screws me against the wall at the same time as using his fingers to make me spasm and tingle.

I hold on to him as I am close to falling over and he is turning me to a wobbling jelly.

He then suggests we move to the window – which happens to overlook several houses, but it is the middle of the week and no one is visible outside. I still worry that this is a big window and we would be very easy to spot, but he tells me the trick is to look like we are not fucking…

He enters me from behind as I prop my chin on my hand, lean on the window sill and pretend to admire the view. But my serene pose is a little jerky as I am rocked back and forth and there is a man standing very close behind me moving in the same way. Unless we are attempting to master some very odd dance or both sitting on a very large, headless rocking horse, I am sure no one could think we were doing anything else. But hey-ho – I don’t live around here, so if anyone did see me, I can avoid any embarrassing exchanges in the corner shop.

As we resume normal trouser-wearing respectability, I feel flushed and fluttery. I later discover mottled paint marks all over the back of my cardigan.

Trying it on for size

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If there is a sure-fire way to shatter the dregs of one’s self-esteem, it has to be trying on a pile of clothes in various shop changing rooms.

And in the January sales, many of us have probably taken this reliable route, as DSM did today. Think you are getting a little too self-assured and big for your boots? Try going into a tiny cubicle with three-way mirrors and harsh lighting to magnify any imperfections you didn’t know you had or hadn’t thought were that bad. That’ll bring you crashing down to earth.

I also remember the 1980s when a number of fashion outlets had open plan changing rooms so everyone else could share the horror and I would inevitably find myself trying on a pair of stone-wash skin-tight jeans next to a tall, willowy goddess. As I wriggled and sweated to even pull them over my thighs and at least cover my off-white knickers the goddess would stand, resplendent in a long black dress which looked like it was tailor-made for her. At least now, clothing retailers have seen sense and given us poor normal folk some privacy to recoil and groan at our reflections.

And what is the antidote to this? What is something everyone can do which isn’t discriminated against by one’s body size? And I am not talking about ten-pin bowling or a game of Scrabble.

As far as I am aware (and I admit I am no biology expert) a woman’s vagina size is not proportionate to her dress size. Good sex doesn’t make you feel like you are forced into a cramped space surrounded by aggressive lighting and mirrors (unless that specifically turns you on). Good sex doesn’t make you worry about your belly or bum size. Good sex doesn’t cause you to leave the building shame-faced and wishing you hadn’t tried it on at all. Good sex doesn’t leave you concluding you are fat old bint with too many wobbly bits. Etcetera, etcetera.

But this is where it gets a bit sexist – for a change in favour of us ladies (if I can still label myself a ‘lady’). This is something I plan to cover in more detail in a future post, but briefly here, it is still arguable that size does matter when it comes to penises.

Poor men, eh? But the suggestions that its size can be predicted by shoe size or even the size of his hands or nose don’t always follow. I have seen examples that both prove and dispel these theories. I will save this for a penis-themed post, however, and for now enjoy the fact that The Man has size 11 feet and a wonderful, solid, tall and robust penis to match.

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

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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

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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