To avoid disappointment…

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There are two types of angry teachers – the ones who shout and rage and the ones who tell you they are very disappointed in you.

The shouty ones tend to have the impact of striking a match – their spark of rage is strong and bright, but it fizzles out quickly while the disappointed ones are like a large candle, burning through you slowly, leaving a lasting, lingering trail. I always found the disappointed teachers were the best ones, too, who didn’t need to raise their voices and left me feeling terrible for ages, that I had let them down when they had put so much faith in me.

Disappointment is such a lingering feeling – it can take years to die down. The same can be said for disappointment in the bedroom.  It’s an old friend of mine, though, whom I first encountered in my student days.

The second person I ever had sex with was a hunky blonde guy I thought was completely out of my league. But somehow we ended up in my room in halls after a night in the student bar. He talked his way into my pants, which wasn’t hard when I had been trying my best puppy dog eyes on him all evening. But then it was quick in and quick out, literally. And I was left wondering if it actually happened at all. The only proof was the way in which he completely ignored me the next day and never spoke to me again.

Then there was Mr Para-phimosis (see my post of 4th February 2013). I had fancied him for weeks and even engineered meeting him (I got oddly bold about things like this in my mid-twenties) by shoving a note under his door – this sounds like a stalker, but he lived on the floor above me in the flats I was living in at the time, so I wasn’t staking out his house or anything…

Things went reasonably well until we found ourselves in his bed. Too tight foreskin meant painful, slow, agonising sex for both of us – his pain physical and mine mental. I sometimes wonder if the poor guy ever got his problem sorted out. .

Then, what is traditionally supposed to be the most important sex ever – the big wedding night. I was totally exhausted after what seemed to be two days in one and my ‘up do’ seemed to contain more pins than the average sewing box which meant I was in the bathroom of our hotel room for half an hour trying to pull them out. The end result was something like an old witch with over back-combed hair and running make up.

By this point my husband had fallen asleep waiting for me to re-emerge so I had to jump on the bed, shouting ‘oi!’ Not very romantic or lady-like, I agree, but I was so tired I had lost all decorum but was determined to consummate our nuptials in the traditional way. A half-hearted effort followed.

But it is disappointments that stay as strong in the memory as the spectacular rip-roaring shag marathons. The not-so-bads and okays are quickly forgotten.

So I have learnt to enter proceedings open-minded and see what happens. High hopes are too often dashed.

Of course with The Man, I was open-minded but hopeful – I had hoped something would happen with him for a long time and when it did, it exceeded expectations. He is largely to blame (or maybe to thank) for the Drunken Slut Mum on your screen.

Oops! I did it again

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When I was about five and on holiday with my family in the Lake District I fell, bottom first, into a puddle. I can still vaguely recall everyone around me laughing.

I also sneezed so violently at a school concert that the entire row of children collapsed like dominoes and fell off my chair at work. On one slightly tipsy night out with a boyfriend, I tumbled down some external cellar steps while trying to find a secluded spot to pee. He laughed uncontrollably for at least half an hour afterwards.

Strangely, most of my embarrassing mistakes seem to involve falling. But nevertheless, they are all things I would prefer not to have happened.  Just like those times I have ended up sleeping with people I would never normally even look at, if I hadn’t drank so much cider/wine/vodka* (*delete as appropriate).

There was the slightly overweight geeky bore my friends barely tolerated, who had a soft spot for me. I remember he would ramble on about a comedian who was famous at the time and constantly try to impersonate him. But he always had a compliment for me and I felt a bit sorry for him being the ridiculed one.

He came back to my flat with me one night. Being a big clumsy oaf, he stumbled and fumbled and even fell over backwards knocking over the thin wicker screen I used to divide my bed off from the rest of the room.

Then there was the monosyllabic dimwit who looked quite cute, but could barely string a sentence together. I was out with a female friend who introduced him to me, but she fancied him herself. Rather shamefully and knowing this full well, I still set my sights on him. Being brazenly obvious about my desires after a few drinks, I triumphed at the end of the night. I still regret this a little now, even though it was around 15 years ago. But I cringe more at my lack of judgement in choosing him – to cap it all, he had the word ‘fuck’ crudely tattooed on the inside of his bottom lip.

The other closet skeleton I will confess to is bedding (if women are allowed to use this verb for themselves) my best friend’s little brother on her wedding night.

It was a case of “blimey – he’s grown since I last saw him” as my eyes scanned a six-foot tall blue- eyed vision of gorgeousness instead of the annoying and rather cheeky little boy who used to always muscle in on whatever we were doing, even if it was looking at Smash Hits magazines.

We were all very, very drunk, the married couple had retired to their room and we were the only two left standing. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. In the end, he was too drunk to make a real go of it and passed out.  In fact, only last year, I came clean to my friend about this.

I could never say ‘je ne regrette rien’ as all these (and other) episodes still make me cringe today. (And there was the time when I was taken in the back of a Ford Transit van while dressed as Morticia Adams at a Halloween party…)

But I cannot be the only woman on earth to have embarrassing memories and maybe some of you will find solace in reading this that you are not alone. Mistakes make us human and if we lead virtuous, error-free lives, where is the fun in that? Do these people actually exist and if they do, do they not get bored of ironing their crisp white sheets and looking down on us mere mortals?

Save it ’til the morning after

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My eyes are closed, but I am drifting in that limbo place between sleeping and waking. I am not sure where I am until I feel something soft, wet and warm on my right breast, playfully nibbling and sucking.

The stubble on his chin gently tickles me and I open my eyes to see The Man has started without me. His sky blue eyes meet mine and he realises he’s achieved what he set out to do – roused me from my slumber and aroused my body.

Our bodies are still slightly tainted from the night before, we probably carry a carnal odour of sweat and pleasure, our breath of wine, coffee and morning and I dare not look in the mirror lest I see black crusty clumps of mascara. But somehow ‘morning after’ lust is purer, more primal and warmer than the electricity-charged, alcohol- fuelled night before.

The Man traces the journey from my breast up to my mouth with tiny soft kisses as he slides on top of me and his hand moves in the opposite direction, down to my warm and throbbing clitoris. She had her fill last night, but now she’s hungry again. His skilful fingers play her like a virtuoso and soon I am writhing in ecstasy.

Now fully awake, I make a grab at his solid penis and he moves so it is in reach of my mouth. I suck, nibble, lick and take it further and further into my mouth as he moans in rapture.

Our eyes meet again and we know we have to fuck right now. And our slightly sticky bodies merge into one. This time less frantic than the night before but somehow closer, deeper. The morning sounds of neighbours talking on the other side of the wall, cars outside and doors being slammed all seem to fade out. All that exists is the two of us and this room, our bunker from the outside world. He is inside me and I am encircling him.

We kiss softly, affectionately, slower and more frequently. Neither notices if the other has stale breath as by now we taste of one another. As we roll over and I snuggle into his chest I feel safe, warm, elated. The rest of the day can wait a little longer. Besides, our bodies are so sticky now, we will have to prize ourselves apart.

Yes, this really is morning glory – that special time when you feel closer, speech is minimal as your bodies do the talking and you are cushioned from the outside world. And there is the comfort that he will still do me, even when my makeup has smudged off and the soft focus of the evening has been replaced by the cold light of day and my far-from-perfect body.

Silver fox versus young buck

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‘Age before beauty’, ‘youth is wasted on the young’, ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’, ‘youth’s a stuff will not endure’… etc. Is there no end to the number of things people have to say about youth and age.

Following last week’s musings and in response to one of my readers (hi there, ‘Lou’), I am looking at whether it’s better to wind up with an older or younger lover.

The only problem here is that ‘older’ or ‘younger’ is a rather moveable feast as I am becoming rather older myself. In my mid-twenties I had a drunken interlude with a man of 45 which at the time felt like being with a much older man. Whereas now, I would think 45 was not that old, really. I also remember at a similar age (I must have been hot stuff at this point in my life – pity I squandered it) rejecting the advances of an 18-year-old, telling him he was just too young. I would be lucky at my current age for someone of 30 to approach me and besides, I am just not attractive /youthful enough to be a MILF.

So, all I can do is take a not-too-serious look at older and younger men, drawn from my experiences and if I over-generalise, tough – it saves me sending out a questionnaire.

Appearance
Younger guys obviously have the advantage of bouncy, springy bodies, faster metabolisms and natural muscle tone. But occasionally their hormones are all over the place which means they can still get the odd zit. They probably keep up with the latest fashions, but their lack of financial planning often means they don’t have enough to buy decent undies – I remember an ex who had tatty old pants which were just gusset hanging off an elastic waistband.

Older guys usually know what suits them, so are less likely to commit clothing crimes, unless they are trying too hard to look hip and ‘down with the kids’ by wearing jeans halfway down their posteriors. A few bits of grey hair can also give a man an edge of distinction. Laughter lines also look good on men, but sadly make women look rather tired.

Conclusion: Close draw – I don’t dress for fashion, just choose the bits I like, so would feel self-conscious around an ultra-trendy young guy. But I would enjoy his firm butt.

Idea of a good time                                                                                                           I have never been drawn to any man for his wallet so will take older guy’s spending power out of the equation, even if it does mean a night away in a posh hotel.

Young guy could probably take me to a gig of a band I have never heard of or out to a night club where I would not be able to hear a word he said. He would also talk to me in ‘youff’ vernacular which I wouldn’t understand.

Older guy could regale me with anecdotes about his adventures and references to TV shows which were before my time. I wouldn’t object to the occasional trip to the garden centre or tour of a stately home, but if this were every week, I would vault over the nearest fence and make my escape.

Conclusion: Even Stevens.

Sex skills                                                                                                                      The young guy would obviously have fantastic stamina and be able to go numerous rounds, if he could re-assemble his soldiers quickly after each battle. Or he may explode and shoot his load within 30 seconds of entry, if it all gets a bit too much for him. The other down side could be his fumbling attempts at foreplay. My experiences suggest he would make a rough attempt at locating my ‘bean’, abandon it after a few seconds then push my head onto his member, swiftly shove himself inside me and go at it like a pneumatic drill until he has satisfied himself. I did warn you there would be generalisations here!

Older guy on the other hand may have problems mobilising his army who are liable to sit around smoking or drinking tea. However, assuming this isn’t a problem and that I have the fortune to be with an experienced older guy (as, dear reader, age doesn’t necessarily mean experience), he will have an impressive foreplay repertoire. The older guys I have encountered also tend to be rather less selfish about ensuring we both enjoy our roll in the hay.

Conclusion: Older guy by a silver whisker, but there are exceptions to every rule and I recall an amazing session with an athletic youth who had a natural aptitude for good, unselfish bonking. I also know he married a woman eight years his senior (lucky bitch).

So, there it is, a non-scientific comparison with no overall conclusion. Age is just a number and if you have the thing/mojo/chemistry/je ne sais quoi it doesn’t matter if you’re 22 or 62 – I won’t discriminate.

Age positive

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It is the thing that strikes fear into most people, the thing we like to think will never happen to us.

No, not getting to the supermarket checkout and realising you forgot your purse or leaving the toilet with your skirt tucked into the back of your knickers! I am talking about old age, the thing that teenagers think happens when one hits 30.

If something awful doesn’t happen to us, it’s as inevitable as death and taxes, even if we get a nip and tuck or wear body-shaping undies. And as someone who feels pretty downbeat if she goes without action for a couple of weeks, I dread to reach the point when I’m too saggy/droopy/dry/knackered/haggard/generally clapped-out to get any ever again. I sometimes wonder if I’ve already reached that point…

On the other hand, I don’t want to be some toothless old crone gumming a doddery chap’s chemically induced hard-on. Then having to call home care to help me to my feet when my arthritis-riddled knees lock.

So when do we stop doing it? Not for a while if recent studies are to be believed. Apparently, STDs among over 50s have risen dramatically in recent years.  In a recent survey commissioned by Age UK a quarter of over 65s said their sex life hadn’t changed as they got older. And 8% were keen to pursue a new sexual relationship while 12% said they wanted to try new things with their partners. I also have a friend in her early 70s who still has sex with her partner, thanks to some ‘special cream’ she gets from the doctor to keep her lubricated – the main problem with women after the menopause.

It does worry me that women’s libidos seem to decline as they get older – without that, I am not sure I will still have a pulse, but maybe I need to plan future hobbies like crochet and embroidery. Men seem to keep going, as long as they can still get it up – something now helped along with modern medicine. But sexually active older men have a habit of chasing after much younger women, leaving us old biddies to fend for ourselves, read our knitting patterns or try our luck with a toy boy.

I also wonder what happens if you are living in a residential home and sexually active. Will staff respect your privacy and leave you to it, or will they treat you like a naughty teenager and ‘ground’ you – “No Countdown for a week, Mrs DSM and from now on you and Albert will not be in the same Scrabble team!”

I fear that it’s the latter, as people over 70 seem to be suddenly treated like they cannot think for themselves, even if they are compos mentis e.g. “Shall we get you out of bed now, Mrs Jones and how about we have a cup of tea?” The tone and language is the same I use with my two-year-old.

Maybe bonking Albert two doors down is the ultimate two fingers up to anyone who condescends and patronises like this.

Hump the bump

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As it’s the time of year to think of new life, eggs and fertility, I thought I’d look at the human equivalent – being ‘up the duff.’

And if you are worried that again I’m straying into mum and baby magazine territory, fear not and don’t navigate yourself away from this space! I’m not called Drunken Slut Mum for nothing.

You can also stop worrying that this is going to be some kind of biology lesson in which I look at little tadpoles travelling their epic journey to meet the giant egg.

So, sex during this strange era and the problems it poses. Every woman is different and every pregnancy is different, but both times for me, I was totally up for it, even though my significant other certainly wasn’t. “It doesn’t feel right – what if it damages the baby?” He wailed. I know this is a common myth, but honestly, guys, is it so long that it is going to reach all the way into my uterus and start jabbing baby ‘Bob’ on the head?

I know many women actually go off sex in pregnancy, but I was very easily aroused in the same way as many report their senses are heightened in this ‘condition’. My first three months, as is usually the case, were hard and I was tired much of the time, but from about five months, I was gagging for it.

I don’t know if it had something to do with feeling at the height of my femininity – I was lucky that my hair went full and glossy, my boobs were voluptuous and my bump had reached the point when it was obviously a bump and not just me after too many cake binges. I saw it as a time when I was a woman doing something that only women can do, for which men’s bodies lack the tools. (At the same time I count my blessings, as I know this isn’t possible for every woman).

But if you are lucky enough to have a willing partner, you have to consider that some positions cannot happen. You are medically advised not to even sleep on your back, never mind get seen to that way round. And to be honest, the bump gets to a point where it would be tricky to manoeuvre Mr John Thomas into that position anyway. So that leaves positions where you are on top or on all fours (apparently Pilates in this position is good preparation for labour, or so I was told).

On top: The downside is it’s rather scary from the man’s perspective as he’s being crushed by a giant beach ball and your head/face will seem like 20 miles away. Also, if you are prone to pregnancy cramp, this could bring it on.

Doggy style: Easier for him to get hold of you, but if you have a heavy bump, gravity will drag it down and you may end up with an achy pelvis.

On top but facing the other way: Probably best to do this in a chair on his lap, otherwise, it’s another cramp risk. This is probably one of the better options if he’s reasonably strong and can take your excess weight. If he’s of a slight build, he may end up doing a silly walk the next day, as his thighs will still be numb.

I won’t even go into other positions, as none are ideal when your centre of gravity has moved down several notches, but it can be interesting experimenting before you begin to feel like a tank. In the latter weeks of gestation, after countless nights of having to hold on to your stomach to roll over in bed, even the most determined sluts are likely to admit defeat.

Then follows what I will euphemistically describe as a ‘difficult time’ which seems to have no end. But as DSM, hopefully I prove that the saddle isn’t out of reach forever.

Not on the same page?

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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

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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?

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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

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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.