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A trip down memory lane or Fanny Alley

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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

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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.

Eight top tips

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So, you have read about my adventures and are now thinking: “I’d like a piece of this. How do I become a Drunken Slut Mum? Show me the way!” Look no further – here are eight top tips:

1. Keep your (lady) garden tidy

In the 1990s it was acceptable to have a big bush – no one ever complained about it. But now things are a little more groomed. It doesn’t have to be a Brazilian, just a tidy, non-cavewoman shape – a little indication that you pay attention to down there.

2. Have a confidante

This is particularly crucial if your situation is secret – there will be times when you need a reliable alibi, someone who you can say you are with when you aren’t and can be relied upon to cover for you if your story is checked out. You may also need her to confide in if things go wrong. Make sure it’s someone who isn’t going to judge you.

3. Underwear

If there is a possibility of some intimacy, whether pre-arranged or spontaneous –  even if you only expect to see him for a brief time, a sneaky quicky could present itself – always wear good underwear. This doesn’t necessarily mean top brand silk and lace. Some pretty bras are a must, but you can get away with less extravagant knickers, as once clothes start flying off, he’s unlikely to pay much attention to them. Own lots of plain black cotton ones – at a glance (which is all they’ll get) they will look passable (ten times more than white or greying ones) and like you have made some effort. And always have a spare pair in your handbag just in case – if you have lots of plain black ones they are interchangeable.

4. Other handbag essentials

Chewing gum or breath freshener sweets, tissues, hair band if you have long hair – just in case you end up in the bath or shower – mini bullet vibrator disguised in a makeup bag or lipstick case.

5. Have some kind of protection for your mattress…

…Whether it’s a plastic cover or just an extra blanket. Secretions and wine or coffee spillages happen, especially if you are rolling round and if they go straight through to your mattress, you then have a stinky mattress.

6. Keep your days sacred

If you have a sneaky day off work for a spot of nooky, don’t tell anyone. Ok, so you will have to arrange it with work, but don’t tell anyone outside work who doesn’t really need to know – you are only setting yourself up for awkward lies, intrusions, unwanted texts or phonecalls and the risk of getting caught. Also, have your story ready for work colleagues in case you are asked what you did on your day off – “Oh, just cleaning the house, catching up on ironing, having lunch with my mum” etc. etc.

7. Smooth things over

Learn the art of meticulous planning and organisation while looking effortlessly spontaneous. Your lover doesn’t want to think you spent two weeks planning what you should wear or how you should have your hair when you get together or that you had to try three different babysitters and pencil in three different dates before you could find one to fit in childcare. He would rather not know when he pops over that you just had to spend two hours dusting and vacuuming, tried on three different “I’m just breezily casual” outfits and an hour trying to make your hair look prettily tousled. All he cares about (generally) is that your bits are clean, there’s alcohol in the house and a small child isn’t going to walk into the room when you are banging on the sofa.

8. And finally

Treasure the moments you have with him and treat every liaison as if it might be your last. That way you can be comforted by knowing you gave it your very best. All you can hope is that he is left wanting more and will come back again.

Any other business

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The day got off to its usual slow, frustrating start – the 20-month-old dawdled over his toast, throwing it on the floor when he decided he’d had enough. The seven-year-old had also let breakfast drag out, gazing at a magazine and occasionally shovelling chocolate cereal into her mouth.

After running up and downstairs several times to get school and work things, we piled into the car and got to the end of the road before having to reverse up it again to dash in for a crucial comfort blanket.

But at last, we were away. I dropped the children off with the child minder and set off for work. Seemingly.

Except today I had an important meeting with The Man instead.

It was a grey, wet November morning, and the rain pelted down. I dashed out of the car and ran to his back door, which had been left unlocked in anticipation.

He got up, kissed me softly, and before I had chance to even remove my coat, he took my hand and led me upstairs. We didn’t even say ‘hello’ as he pulled his trousers down to reveal a solid, shiny erect penis. At this point I was sitting on the bed, just at the right height to lean towards it and guide it into my mouth.

I firmly grasped his upper thighs and stroked them as I licked, sucked and fondled the perfect phallus before me, carefully circling the helmet with the tip of my tongue, occasionally letting my teeth gently touch it.

Then he slowly moved onto the bed and turned himself around as I wriggled out of my trousers and pants so that I was lying under his penis and my over-excited vagina was almost leaping for joy to make contact with his tongue. ‘Yes please, now, now,’ it was almost saying!

And it was not disappointed as he flicked it on, around, up and down my clitoris. Tingling waves travelled up my body as I struggled to keep things going at my end and my breathing became deeper, heavier.

He knew I was becoming impatient to have him inside me, but carried on sending me to the edge of jittery madness before moving on top of me and touching the edge of my black hole with the end of his penis. The Man enjoyed this hovering, teasing, driving me to distraction until I virtually had to use all my strength to push him down inside me. I would then feel instant gratification, like an alcoholic desperate for her first drink – there, there it is at last!

As he fucked me, he licked his middle finger and gently twiddled my clitoris making me shake with him inside me and increasing my appetite for him to carry on even longer.

We rolled over and I climbed on top of him, taking control, leaning back to feel him deeper inside me, then leaning forward, brushing his face with my tits.

He then flipped me over and fucked me deep and hard from behind. In fact so hard that I couldn’t move but gasped at the wonderful force inside me.

As he neared a climax he pulled out and exploded all over my breasts and stomach and I smeared it over myself like it was a luxurious body lotion. We both collapsed on the bed in each other’s arms, listening to the rain tapping against the window.

So far it had been a pretty good day at work. This was the best meeting I’d had for a while. I just wondered what would come up for Any Other Business…

Making out

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Sometimes it’s not the chandelier-swinging, gymnastic-style, heart-pumping sex that one needs.

Don’t get me wrong – being thrown against the wall and screwed within an inch of one’s life, has its time and place, as I have said here many times.

But there are occasions, particularly when one or both of you are tired, a bit under the weather, or just don’t want to menstruate all over the bed (which is sometimes acceptable) and need simple, warm affection.

People in solid long-term relationships take it for granted, but those of us who aren’t place high value on being held, cuddled, hugged. If these things don’t come or aren’t accessible every day, it adds an extra chill to the already cooling winter air.

When it is my turn in The Man’s ‘rota’ I don’t just want to rip his clothes off and have him throw me on the bed. I want to be kissed, cuddled, held and feel his natural warmth against me.

There are times when I am happy just ‘making out’ on the sofa, holding and being held by a solid, strong man, listening to his heart beating as I lay my head on his chest and feeling his breath on me.

Of course post-coital cuddles are a very welcome addition to the whole shagging experience too. They find you both in a state of flushed, sated, inner calm and because you have just been as intimate as two people can be, you feel even closer. It’s also better than someone jumping out of bed, into their trousers and heading for the door quicker than you can say “cup of tea?”

But the non-sexual act of someone just laying their head in my lap, as I stroke their hair and give them the occasional tiny mini kiss on their forehead, can at times be just as satisfying.

I am saying at times! I am not losing my Drunken Slut Mum status, just celebrating physical affection – something many people take for granted when they are with someone every day, probably in the same room as that person every evening, yet they choose to sit at opposite ends of the room and barely share a kiss on the cheek. It’s not about smothering someone or crowding their personal space when they are in the middle of something. It’s about showing you appreciate them and still fancy them, even if you have been together a very long time.

I maybe a self-confessed slut, but like everyone else, I still like a cuddle now and then (or maybe a bit more)!

Our lips are sealed

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My unique situation with The Man means that very few people know what I get up to in my spare time.

In fact I like to think most would assume I enjoy quiet nights in with a cup of hot chocolate, a good book and a spot of needlecraft or baking. But I am not sure how convincing my image of wholesome rosy-cheeked mum actually is…

And I am not about to test it by throwing in any risky (or even risqué) conversational topics.

But even if I was in a position to reveal all, I am not sure whether it would go down well or create a sea of awkwardness, seeing as none of my peers seem to talk about sex any more. There’s gossip about so-and-so running off with thingummy-jig’s wife, but that’s as far as it goes. I am not sure if this is a by-product of being a certain age or of the majority being in long-term, settled relationships.

I go back about 14 years and a friend I hung around with at that time would be asking: “Did he have a big willy,” or “was he good” or even (after a few ciders) “did he do it up the bum?” She was exceptionally nosy, but then again we felt we could freely discuss these things without too much embarrassment.

In my student days, we also shared most things – clothes, shampoo, funny cigarettes, sex stories, even people. A few of us happened to sleep with the same person and compared experiences. “Did he try that thing on you – the one where he squeezes your bum and bites your bottom lip” – for example…

I also remember a student friend agonising with me about a night spent with someone who had strange lumps on his penis and another who was bitterly disappointed that the person she had pursued for weeks turned out to be abysmal in the bedroom.

With most women I know now having husbands or long-term partners, I imagine it is just not appropriate to talk about their sex lives – especially as their bedfellows are not disappearing out of their lives after one night. But in some ways it would be cathartic or therapeutic to have a no-holds-barred, but completely confidential chat with two or three others, even for reassurance that I am not the only person still obsessed with sex at thirty-ahem-ahem.

As for The Man, he is the paragon of discretion. He seeks no one to share with, not even in the traditional bloke pastime of sitting in the pub boasting to his mates that “I’ve had her – goes like a train” etc. The Man is not that sort of man. He keeps his private life private and if he feels the need to share, I can only imagine he converses with inanimate objects, such as his pots and pans or the rubber duck in his bathroom.

However, as a female, maybe I have an innate need to sound off, get things off my chest, so to speak, and at times, even though I have to hold my tongue, I find it very frustrating. Maybe I will have to get my own rubber duck.

Birthday bubbly

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For DSM birthdays are not usually popping corks and explosive climaxes of fireworks.

I prefer to get a year older quietly and discreetly, especially now I’m the wrong side of 35. A table for two somewhere half-decent is the most I aim for.

So my recent annual day was set to be more of the same… until The Man made himself available for a steamy afternoon.

As I walked through his front door I heard water running and he quickly led me upstairs. The bathroom was softly lit with tea-lights and the centrepiece, his roll top bath, was almost overflowing with frothy bubbles. He poured out two glasses of champagne and we swiftly discarded our clothes, sitting end to end.

I stroked his muscly legs and he ran his fingers along my ankles and feet, as we lay back, soaking up the hot bubbles and sipping the cold ones from our glasses. Within minutes the outside world had ceased to exist and all that mattered was the warm suds, the cool drinks and each other.

When we eventually (as our skin was turning wrinkly) prised ourselves out of the bath, The Man turned on the shower, suggesting we rinsed off the bubbles. As the hot water sprayed us, I felt his strong, solid body against my back. His arms first encircled my waist, then his hands moved up to my breasts, massaging them in circular movements. I turned around to face him and we kissed, water spraying into our mouths and everywhere between us.

We clambered out of the shower and, still soaking wet and dripping all over the floor, dashed into the bedroom, half falling, half diving on to the bed. He kissed me keenly, exploring with his tongue, moving down my neck, my chest, pausing to suck and lick my nipples, moving further down my body until he reached my now-ravenous cave. As he explored all the nooks and crannies I felt my entire body tingle and judder. He barely emerged for air as he devoured the pink flesh before him with his skilled tongue and fingers. I was immobilised with waves of spasms until he moved upwards and kissed me, letting me taste myself.

By now his penis was fully standing to attention, reporting for duty and ready for action. I had to get a mouthful so I returned his devotion by licking the long shaft and sucking as much as I could cram into my mouth. At the same time his fingers entered me and played my favourite song.

It had almost reached the point of the second cork of the day being popped when I used all my might to pull him on top of me so he had no choice but to enter me. I said, quietly: “I want you to fuck me now!” Well, it was my birthday! Of course, he obliged, first slowly but firmly, then harder as I slapped his bottom to make him go faster and the bed began to creak. We rolled over so I was on top and made the bed creak a bit more. He then thrust himself into me from behind as I bent over the bed.

Now fully dry, we collapsed on the bed in a heap and I snuggled into his chest, listening to his heart thumping. We kissed softly, sipped more champagne and kept the outside world at bay for as long as we could.

Well, it certainly beat being given the bumps or soggy sandwiches with cheese and pineapple on a stick…

Artistic licence

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When I casually suggested The Man took up life drawing classes, naïve though it sounds, I had no idea that I was going to be his model.

After all, at the time we had not had sex or been alone together for months. I had an eight-month-old baby so had been pretty tied up with that and felt my body was far from ship-shape (although I did feel rather ship-sized).

I had seriously seen a list of courses at a local community centre and life drawing was one of them and as well as his more obvious talents, I knew The Man was skilled in other arts. So, (sadly) having reached the point where I assumed I was no longer a pot where he wanted to dip his brush there wasn’t even a hint of duplicity in my suggestion.

I only suspected my fortunes were changing when he seemed extra interested in ‘doing life drawing’ with me. Even then I wasn’t sure whether someone else was modelling for us and gingerly went to his house armed with charcoal and paper…

The Man threw his clothes off and lay on an old mattress with the plan that we took turns in doing ten-minute sketches of one another. Still reluctant to unveil my post-pregnant body, I insisted he went first and hoped the ten minutes would somehow overrun and the stopwatch would fail to go off.

No such luck. He coaxed me to strip and I slowly peeled off my clothes, feeling like the closer I got to nakedness the more repulsed he would be. Nervous, rambling, stuttering and trying to make jokes about my appearance, I let him move me to the mattress where he wanted me to stand, leaning slightly to one side, with my hand out against the wall. I watched his eyes looking me up and down, taking in every line and curve, without a flicker of repulsion or desire.

We did a couple more sketches, our fingers blackened by charcoal, not showing one another our pictures until the end. But when I saw his, I was amazed, not just at his skilful work, but at the curvaceous, round-bosomed Botticelli-style goddess who graced the page. The Man isn’t excessive with flattery or compliments, so I knew this was how he must have seen me, even if I couldn’t get beyond the cellulite, saggy belly and slightly misshapen breasts.

And as we sat on the mattress, still naked, making our way through a bottle of red, he leaned in to kiss me for the first time in months. We slowly fell backwards as he turned his focus to my breasts and his hands moved downwards. As our movements became more frantic, and our kisses more urgent, his penis made its way inside me and felt as good as it had the many months before, back where it belonged, back home again. He came quicker than usual and we held each other, inhaling the natural smell and warmth of our bodies.

Not in front of the children

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When my daughter was about three she walked in on the ex and I ‘in the act’. It was a Sunday morning and as usual she had woken up and wandered into our room to try to burrow under our duvet.

The ex developed a rather strange high pitched voice and said: “Can you get back in your bed now, sweetie? Me and mummy are having special cuddles.” She quietly left the room without protest, as though she instinctively knew she shouldn’t be there.

This was the first and last time this ever happened – which may have been more to do with the infrequency of our intimacies than us being lucky.

But being a Drunken Slut Mum these days means sex at times has to be an opportunist activity, just as some burglars rely on doors being left unlocked and keys left carelessly lying around. If there’s a chance of a quick nibble on my favourite snack (which comes in big Man-sized portions) I will grab it with both hands and my mouth wide-open, so to speak.

And no, I certainly don’t agree with anyone having sex in front of children, but if they are asleep upstairs, surely it’s worth a try.

My creaky bed springs do me no favours, so we tend to explore downstairs options. The Man and I have ended up rolling around on my lounge carpet, crashing into squeaky toys or setting off some brightly coloured plastic object which lights up and plays a tune, especially when it comes into contact with a right buttock. We’ve knocked parts of the play pen over, had to extract pieces of Lego from our behinds and given the stuffed toy penguin in the room more than enough to stare at.

Another recent discovery – something I have always fantasised about being ‘taken’ on – has been the kitchen table. I feared it would be either too cold and hard or not withstand my weight, but was proven wrong on both accounts. I had often talked about being done on the table, but hadn’t expected it to happen. But the mere suggestion of something to The Man makes it something that will happen.

Next time, though, I want the kettle to be boiling, pans of soup and stew to be bubbling over the top and the room to be so hot and steamy that it’s impossible to tell whether it’s been caused by our sexual passion or the over-cooked food. I also want to give the worktops a try, if they aren’t littered with vegetable peelings…

Cheap thrills

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Like many girls pre-sexual awakening, I now with hindsight realise I had been turned on a number of times in my growing years, before I could even identify the deep stirring inside me.

We are not entering the sickening and frankly horrific idea of young children being interfered with here – what I mean is something millions of miles away from this.

This is something very innocent and natural that occurs, often when you are alone; those feelings of excitement which you feel again as an adult but can put a name to. I now get them when I know I’m about to see The Man and I also know that at some point within an hour or so we will be enjoying each other’s bodies.

I blame my mum for these early fits of excitement – when I was a toddler she would put me on top of the washing machine (it was a top-loader) during the spin cycle. Its buzzing and juddering made me very giddy and probably set me on the road to complete nymphomania

Later on I experienced the same giddiness – rather like you need a wee, but don’t – when I road my bike on the bumpy, potholed, gravely track about half a mile from our house. Having my legs astride the firm leather saddle just intensified this feeling.

When I was a bit older the same feeling came from horse riding – the saddle again, but this time over a warm, pulsating body. The saddle, with its slightly musty leather smell, would gently rub against my crotch, just enough to stimulate the ‘need a wee but don’t’ feeling which I now know was the beginnings of sexual arousal.

Sitting astride various objects – benches, see-saws, bar stools, etc. would often have the same effect, as did going swimming and knowing some boy I liked was going to be there, being in some kind of a vibrating motorised vehicle like a minibus or older car such as a vintage VW Beetle… in fact a whole number of things – not things I experienced every day, but things which often cropped up at weekends and holidays.

At this age, though, I had no idea about sex, I just had a vague idea that people rolled around in silk sheets, kissing with orchestral music in the background, as they did in ‘Dynasty’. It is only now when these same sensations emerge that I realise I was experiencing some form of sexual arousal from as far back as I can remember. I am not sure if this makes me a freak or if this is within everyone.

During a recent toddler swimming lesson I was required to sit astride a noodle (a long cylindrical foam rubber float) with small child and pretend to be bouncing along on a horse. For the entire time I forced myself to sing the ‘Horsey horsey’ song while in my head saying “focus, focus”! I could only relax when the instructor asked us to put the floats back on the side of the pool.

As a child these feelings would eventually fade away by themselves. Now as a woman of thirty-ahem-ahem, there are three options of relief:

a) Growl, bite the carpet, get very annoyed and sulk off to bed

b) Find my buzzing ‘silver bullet’, finish things off properly and hug the pillow

c) Hope it coincides with a visit from The Man – the only satisfying solution to the problem. If only I could order him as and when needed like a takeaway pizza!