It’s not love, actually

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Diane Lane jumps into a lake and frantically swims across to John Cusack, who is sitting in a rowing boat, looking a little bewildered. But it’s John Cusack in all his crumpled, unconventionally handsome glory- who wouldn’t jump in a lake to plead for another chance?

‘Must Love Dogs’ – with the ending described above (apologies if you were thinking of watching it over the weekend) is just another predictable romantic comedy. But such things are a comfort to watch, in pyjamas, on one’s own. The characters have a hard time, feel lonely and doubt they will ever find love and happiness, but in the end it all works out and all loose ends are tied.

If only things were as simple in real life. Most of us only really want to find ‘the one’. Yes, some people are happy to fly solo or just get no-strings sex when they are feeling a little frisky and to those people, I say ‘good for you and good luck’. But while I have pretended to be like this over the years, I am actually a squishy mess on the inside.

I am a middle-aged single mum who just wants to find her soul mate, true love, if this is not a mythical beast. But, unlike Diane Lane in the movie, a divorced 40-year-old, who goes on a string of disastrous dates, yet has Cusack yearning for her affections, I have no gorgeous crumpled guy waiting in the wings.

But this is why many of us love to watch these films, no matter how predictable or unrealistic their plots are. Yes, the characters usually go through a period of misery or solitude – Jennifer Aniston in ‘The Switch’ goes away for seven years, before coming back to New York and realising Jason Bateman is ‘the one.’ But the fact that they all get their true love in the end gives us this warm, cosy feeling.

It’s nothing like real life, but still it gives us an artificial feeling of hope. Even though we know we won’t meet the man of our dreams by denting his car in Asda car park, or through initially arguing with that new guy at work, then suddenly realising you are in love, a part of our brain lets us think that we all find true love in the end.

Wouldn’t it be great to have someone you secretly fancy run after you at passport control at the airport, saying “don’t get on that plane” or to dash down/up the stairs while you take the lift to say “please don’t go – I love you”? Even Justin Timberlake (in ‘Friends with Benefits’) organising a ‘flash mob’ dance routine in Grand Central Station, to show his undying love for Mila Kunis, would suffice.

Yes, unfortunately, people like me who never figured out how to get the whole love thing right, are probably more addicted to these movies than most. We find them the audio-visual equivalent to a large mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows floating on top. But we are also observing very closely in case they somehow hold the key, the secret code to where we are going wrong in our own lives.

Right, then – bottle of wine – check, large bag of crisps – check, box of tissues – check, phone on silent – check. I fancy ‘Sleepless in Seattle’ tonight.

 

Inge

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When I’m 53 I want to be like Inge. She is my 50-something role model.

With her toned, tanned body and dazzling white smile, she is a picture of health and happiness. But after 20 years of teaching yoga, she has much to smile about. Not for her the stress and mundanity of an office job. Her lower back isn’t wrecked from slouching over a computer and phone – quite the opposite, through stretching perfecting her posture. She stands solid and proud with broad, strong shoulders, a solid frame, but toned tum decorated with a belly button ring and a tiny dove tattoo on her right shoulder blade. And it is all set off with her golden brown Danish skin and tousled blonde hair.

Inge is a great advert for yoga, with a physique to put many woman 20 years younger to shame. She has a few laughter lines and hasn’t had time-delaying surgery, but this natural beauty speaks much louder than a pumped and stretched face; it shows a woman who has had a full and interesting life and is still having fun now.

Inge is divorced with two grown up children who have moved out, so she is free to do as she wishes with her ‘toy boy’ of 39. I imagine them having wild and bendy sex, Inge commanding him to take her on the stairs or reverse cowgirl-ing him in the bedroom, her spherical breasts bouncing, sweat trickling down her smooth brown stomach and her hair damp around her forehead.

I also think about Carl getting his own back, dismounting his motor bike, dirty and sweaty and Inge hot and flustered after a yoga session. He calls her a naughty girl, playfully smacks her luscious backside and runs his fingers down her vest and yoga pants. It all becomes too urgent to wait. He throws off his leathers and rolls up her vest, peeling it off her, cupping one of her breasts in his palm and hungrily nibbling it. The yoga pants come off and soon they are both naked against the kitchen wall. It is quick, sweaty and noisy, but full of passion. She may be 14 years his senior, but she exudes sex, charisma and self-confidence.

So, where was I? Yes, I would love to be the kind of woman Inge is when I’m 53, accepting my age and looking after myself, but not denying myself fun and mischief. I just got a little distracted by the sex bit…

Mad about the boy

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It was once a popular belief (maybe it still is) that men reach their sexual peak at 18 while women don’t reach that pinnacle until they are 35. This would suggest that to have a really explosive sex life, we ladies need a toy boy.

Having once been in a long-term relationship with someone six years younger than me, I have touched on this concept, but not gone far enough, I reckon. And I have been pondering the benefits of a young stallion. Recent nude pictures of Harry Styles (Google him, fogies) have further piqued my appetite.

The young male form is one of true beauty – long sinewy bodies, the hint of a little muscle (I am not seeking out a gym bunny covered in lots of firm lumpy bits), still-soft facial hair, pert little bottoms, a slight hint of androgyny. Germaine Greer is not everyone’s cup of tea, but in her 2003 book, The Boy, she celebrates this concept and was accused of acting inappropriately for fawning over teenage youths. But she was just enjoying their flawless, passing loveliness.

Don’t get me wrong – I am not seeking to corrupt the next dreamy sixth-former I spot at the bus stop (well, only if he willingly comes home with me!). But in a previous job, I used to have to visit a local secondary school and talk to its star rugby or football players about their achievements. Much of what they said was beyond my limited sports knowledge, but I was nearly always in awe of their flawless faces, broadening shoulders and their general ‘in bloom’ vibe. Each one was teetering on the brink of manhood. In some ways they were already beautiful young men, but in others, they were still boys. I would struggle to stop myself just gazing open mouthed at some of them – particularly the young rugby players – my inner conscience shouting at me to get a grip.

The trouble is that life is full of missed opportunities or moments we never enjoy until the present becomes the past. When I was at an age when young (say 18-25-year-old) men would even look at me, i.e. when I was 18-25 myself, it was never that great. But now, when I would be viewed by such men as a middle-aged sack of potatoes, I fantasise about these smooth-skinned, ripe little berries.

Aside from their jaw-dropping beauty, I also imagine a wide-eyed bouncy young pup would be eager to please in the bedroom, that he would not be too arrogant to be shown a thing or two. And, best of all, he would have marathon-runner stamina.

But, readers, I know my limits, that I am no Angelina Jolie, so these thoughts are merely floating fancies. A young stud is not coming anywhere near a middle-aged mum like myself, unless it was for a bet or to cross an item of his sexual ‘things to try before I die’ list (probably somewhere between water sports and doing it on a bus).

But if I look over my shoulder when a handsome youth walks past, smile at him, and he smiles back, it will be enough to give me a warm glow for the rest of the day.

Wasted on the young

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There is an October chill in the air and most people on this Sunday morning will be tucked up under warm duvets, but not me. I am shivering, tired and light-headed sitting on the cold tiled floor of my parents’ porch. The skin-tight black jeans and leather jacket are not keeping the cold out.

Why am I sitting here and not in bed? My parents weren’t expecting me home. I had been to a friend’s party, stayed over, but left at 8am while everyone else was still asleep. Or rather, stomped off in a sulk, because I had failed to land the boy I fancied. My parents are at church and the key has not been left under the flower pot. So here I am, stuck, trying to avoid being seen by the neighbours.

This kind of ridiculous scenario only plays out when one is a teenager. Who else would be sitting out in the cold, locked out of their own house, because mum and dad don’t trust them to have a key, without losing it? My parents had sussed out my fecklessness a long time ago.

But my teenage stupidity stretched far beyond this. I was incredibly naïve and gullible from puberty until about 20, particularly with boys and sex.

My first boyfriend, who was 18 when I was 15, barely spoke to me. He just wanted to stick his tongue down my throat and his hand down my pants. But that’s as far as it got. When he stopped ringing me, I couldn’t work out why, when clearly he got bored of me not ‘putting out’.

Then I seemed to find myself in numerous ‘blowie’ situations – usually beginning with drinking copious amounts of cider in a particular night club, snogging someone who I thought wanted to be my boyfriend, being led outside and having my head pushed down on a throbbing, sweaty member. I just assumed this was normal and complying would make him love me, even if it (at that time) never culminated in penetrative sex. It was also very rare in these episodes that the youth of the moment would even attempt to pleasure me.

I was then surprised when none of them ever phoned me, asked me out on a date or wanted to see me again. I would sit in my bedroom staring at my posters, feeling very alone, only revealing my true thoughts to my diary.

Then when I did have a boyfriend, with whom none of the above happened, I put myself in a very odd position one night.

There were no proms when I was a teen, but there were ‘balls’ – an excuse to get dressed up and quaff alcohol in a posh venue. So my boyfriend, H and I had arranged to go to one of these shindigs with a few friends. One of H’s friends was T, who always had a glint in his eye for me.  He was going out with a posh girl, called something like ‘Saffy’.

H and I had a few drinks and dances, then went over to T and ‘Saffy’. We were all tipsy at this point, but T seemed particularly squiffy and had ‘Saffy’ perched on his lap as he leaned back in his chair. H chatted to him while I stood patiently. But then I felt something going up my dress. I was wearing a cocktail-type number, with a plain black bodice and a full net skirt, with layer of black and white net flowers on it, so access up there was rather easy.

I shuddered a little, then realised it was T’s hand which was travelling further and further towards my pants. So, I was standing next to my boyfriend who had his arm around me, while T sat with his girlfriend on his knee, shoving his index finger into my cunt. I was drunk and confused, but strangely aroused – H had never attempted this territory, let alone stuck his finger in.

Because we were all stood quite close together and my dress was a mass of black and white meringue net, no one noticed. T realised this and was smiling smugly, lecherously, while I was too shocked, bewildered and trembling with excitement to move or slap his hand away. It was in fact the first time anyone had stuck their finger (or anything else for that matter) inside me. But it did cast a black cloud over the rest of the night and my relationship with H eventually fizzled out, my virginity still intact. I sometimes wonder why I didn’t just give T a kick in the shins and expose him as a fingery cheat.

Then, less excitingly were the two or three boys I fancied like mad – the kind of teenage infatuations that leave you crying into your pillow, asking “why oh why doesn’t he like me?” Each one of them would happily snog me in the aforementioned nightclub, maybe even grope a boob and I would get to smell their cheap aftershave and the slightly more seductive leather of their jackets. And each one on different occasions said they were happy to “go with” me (which, where I come from in the late 80s/early 90s meant make out with), but couldn’t possibly go out with me. The usual reason was that they were in love with someone else (and I was just someone to practice on). In reality they were probably just terrified of the desperate or grateful look in my eyes.

So my teenage years were largely spent being ridiculous.  Even down to the clothes I wore – a friend finds great amusement in reminding me of the time I showed up in a tutu skirt and baseball boots. I would also spend a good deal of time copying song lyrics from Cure albumns on to large sheets of paper, and smoking out of my bedroom window, thinking my parents wouldn’t notice, even when the wind was blowing against me.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have had an absolute whale of a time, keeping those boys dangling, kicking T in the shins and enjoying being young and looking ten times better than I do now. Youth is truly wasted on the young.

 

 

Fear of diving

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She had sparkling brown eyes, a wide and bright smile and olive skin. I never read anything into the fact that her eyes and smile always lingered on me for a few seconds longer. I just smiled back.

I had enrolled on a year-long postgraduate course and met Colette on the first day. It turned out that we used the same bus, so we started travelling to and from college together with her flat mate, Mandy. We would chat about our previous lives before the course and her time living in Japan.

I had no idea about her personal life or her sexuality. It just never came up, as we barely knew each other and she never enquired into my affairs.

The turning point was a big night out we had arranged with the rest of the course. Colette seemed very animated and excited about this for someone who had claimed she preferred a night in front of the telly. But, I just assumed she was looking forward to letting her hair down after a busy few weeks.

On the night a big group of us went round a few bars and predictably finished up in a club. Colette, wearing her trademark black t-shirt, pin-striped blazer and smart jeans had chatted and giggled with me all evening. I did notice that Mandy had left us to it rather a lot, but just assumed she was mingling with everyone else.

As we shared a taxi home, Colette suggested I stayed at theirs which would be cheaper than the extra 20 minute journey it would take to get to my house. I accepted without any thought, tipsy, tired and open to most suggestions by this point.

Back at her house she made us both fish finger sandwiches and showed me to her room. I just meekly followed, gratefully accepting the set of tartan pyjamas she offered me. She had a co-ordinating set on herself in a green shade while mine were blue. We climbed into her bed and settled down for the night.

I just thought ‘Well, this is nice and clean and organised – much better than crashing out on the sofa in a puddle of sweat and drool.’

After a deep sleep I rolled over to see her sparkly brown eyes watching me. She extended an arm and pulled me into a cuddle. Everything smelt clean and fresh, like we were in an interactive washing powder advert. Colette looked flawless, her makeup-free skin meant she would never be one to wake up with panda eye smudges or crusty foundation tide marks.

I cuddled her back, as it felt warm and comforting. Then, as we unfurled, she stroked my hair and slowly, moved closer to my face. I wasn’t even thinking about where she was heading. As her lips touched mine I felt their softness and smelt the clean linen smell again. I put my arm around her and kissed her back.  It felt warm and gentle but delicate and soft at the same time.

I closed my eyes and got lost in the moment, running my fingers up and down her back, feeling her warmth and soft body against me.

When I came round I started thinking about the rest of the day, what I had to do and getting home. I hastily got back into my own clothes and hurried off for a bus. She said something about going for a drink, but I just told her I would see her on Monday. I didn’t even stop to think about how she was feeling.

But on the way home, I thought about what had just happened. I had never kissed another woman before but I actually liked it. But then again, I loved sex with men, their smell, their sweat, their stubble, their hairy bodies, their strong arms and particularly their penises.  Could I live without penises, I thought. Absolutely not.

But I liked kissing Colette. And Colette liked me. And it was evident that Mandy had been aware of this for a long time, which was confirmed on the bus ride to college on Monday. She had the smug look of someone who had brought two people together in the vein of a dating TV show presenter. “So, how are you two today?” She asked, simpering.

I felt a little nauseous, not just at Mandy’s simpering, but at the thought that everyone would now assume I was gay, which would ruin my chances of ensnaring my real object of desire at college – a sexy, beautiful younger guy called Jamie, with whom I had been flirting for weeks. Things were just starting to look promising at this point, so him finding out that Colette and I had exchanged saliva would kill this stone dead.

A week or two passed and, while Colette still smiled and chatted with me, she didn’t push things, so I was happy for everything to be in limbo. Then someone had the bright idea of another big night out.

I decided this was my chance to go ‘hell for leather’ hetero and wore my best cleavage top.

Jamie wasn’t there. What was I going to do? I downed alcopops like they were going out of fashion – they were very ‘in’ fashion in the late 1990s, where we found ourselves at this point.

A ginger-haired chap called Ian was being more chatty than usual with me. I had always dismissed him as rather quiet and dull, but ‘hey-ho,’ I thought, ‘Maybe this is my big chance’ So, I became very attentive towards his ramblings, half of which were inaudible due to the loud music. As I had hoped he paused, looked into my eyes and leaned in to kiss me. I had checked first and yes, Colette was standing in a position where she could see us.

Ian got a bigger, more passionate snog than he had probably bargained for. And Colette got an eyeful. But, even in my inebriated state, I could not bring myself to turn around and look at her. I knew I had stooped very low. Ian and I left together not long afterwards. I spent the night at his house, but we didn’t have sex and both knew this wasn’t going to be a big romance.

Colette and I didn’t speak for several days, but when we did, I felt as guilty as I deserved to be. I apologised several times, knowing I had crushed her and our friendship was never the same afterwards.

 

 

 

Over-exposure

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It’s a 21st century problem bemoaned by the media, politicians, celebrities and regular folk alike.

Many of us are too over-exposed – making our own movies on our phones, taking photos that we regret taking or appearing on in the morning, then plastering them all over a range of social media sites. It’s either that or people writing every minute detail of their lives, even if it is as mundane as eating a cheese toastie, on such websites, under the delusion that so-called ‘friends’ are even vaguely interested.

So, it is no surprise that, along with drunken indignities, images or film footage of lads and lasses in states of undress or performing rumpy-pumpy also find their way on to such forums.

I, as a mature (ish), upstanding  member of society, had always thought this kind of thing happened to other people – probably those aged between 16 and 25, after a few too many cocktails.

But I fear the threat of exposure (in fact exposure is an understatement) hangs over me.
A dvd recently came into my possession, which can only be described as a compilation of various naked antics with a certain chap. I cannot deny that I remember some of the filming taking place, but I don’t recall all of it, which probably took place through a haze of red wine.

This disk was a thinly veiled attempt to win me back – in a ‘let’s do this again; it was such fun’ kind of way. I initially told him that, while I would take it, I would rather sit on a hot poker than actually watch it. But one Saturday night in on my own, after a few glasses of (yet more) wine and nothing suitably engaging on the telly, curiosity took over.

“Maybe I could just watch a bit of it,” I thought, “Just to see what’s on it.” Of course in the end I was sitting in an armchair, no more than a metre away from the TV screen, going through every second of footage.

It was slightly uncomfortable viewing, as I saw my round belly and wobbly boobs bouncing up and down and unflattering angles of my posterior and my mouth on more than one shot was stained with wine. You could hardly compare it to the perfectly sculpted, toned, glossy-haired women on most porn films, whose makeup remains unsmudged, no matter how many cocks they suck or sprays of semen hit them.

In fact, I cringed at myself throughout 90 per cent of the content. The only part I watched twice was when I was hit in the face by the aforementioned substance, cleaned it off with a tissue and told him to “fuck off”. And this was only because I was laughing on the film, then as I watched it, laughing at myself laughing.

This dvd is now hidden away, but I am left with the dilemma of what to do with it. Do I destroy it or keep it for posterity? What if my children find it? What if he has further copies of it? Can I trust him not to post it on the internet somewhere?

I don’t for one minute think anyone would want to watch a middle-aged woman, red-faced and flabby, cavorting on a bed or attempting to peel her bum off a leather sofa, but it is still out there somewhere, ready to pop up on world wide web if that one person chooses to exercise his power and put it there…

Dear darling diary

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I’ve had an ok day. Mrs Johnson really liked my poem about my grandma, especially the bit about her smelling of mint and lavender. She said I used good descriptive words. Also my BFF (best friend forever) Stacey gave me one of her One Direction pens. Harry is so buff!

When my mum picked me up from school she said I am going to go to the seaside on Saturday with Dad and his girlfriend Lizzie. I’m not really looking forward to it. Lizzie is nice and always buys me stuff like sweets or stickers, but she’s not Mum. Mum is a bit wacky, but she’s my mum and I like it when we have cuddle time on the sofa on a Saturday night. We sometimes argue but not for long.

Dad and Lizzie hold hands and kiss. I don’t like it. It makes me feel funny and a bit like I am going to be sick. He doesn’t do big long kisses like teenagers do, just small ones on the lips. But I still don’t like it.

Last time I saw Lizzie we went ten pin bowling with her and her little boy, Ben. He had to use one of those ramp things because he’s only three and had the rails up. I managed to get two strikes.

Anyway it was fun, but not as fun as it would have been if Mum had been there. In the car home Lizzie said she had really enjoyed her day with her “three favourite people”. That made me feel upset. She is trying to make a new family with me and Dad and Ben, but that means without Mum.

Mum asked me if I was looking forward to going to the seaside. When I said “yeah, I suppose so” she asked me what was wrong so I told her what Lizzie said after we went bowling. Mum said Lizzie was only trying to be nice and show that she wanted to be my friend. I said it felt like she wanted Mum to go away, then I got really upset and cried.

I just want to have Mum and Dad and me together, living together. Why can’t we all be together and have cuddles on the sofa all together? Mum and Dad used to do that before they shouted a lot and had lots of arguments. It’s not fair that they split up.

Stacy’s Mum and Dad are together. Why can’t mine be? Mum said that sometimes things go wrong and people need to split up because it’s for the best. It’s not for the best for me. I have to sleep in Dad’s flat, in a big bed while he sleeps on the sofa. The bed is too big and cold and smells yucky.

If Dad came back I could stay in my own room and no one would have a yucky bed.

The above is complete fiction and any similarity to a nine-year-old girl’s diary is purely coincidental.

Behind the mask

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When one is stepping out with a new squeeze, there are always things one would prefer them not to see…for at least the first few dates.

I am not proud of my verruca that won’t go away, or that I have to use haemorrhoid cream from time to time, but I know there are far, far worse things lurking in other people’s bathroom cupboards, pant drawers, spare rooms and secret vaults.

Imagine wandering up to the bathroom on your first visit to your new chap’s house, accidentally opening the wrong door, leading you into the spare room and his vast china doll collection. And I don’t mean two or three rosy-cheeked Victorian girl dolls, standing on a shelf, but a room brimming with the things, their eyes staring out at you from every nook and cranny.

Or that spare room with the jammed door could reveal a wall of photos of you, taken from months ago in every bit of your daily life, long before you met him. It may include souvenirs like your old knickers or items from your dustbin…

In the bathroom you may open the cupboard in an innocent search for toothpaste, but instead cause an avalanche of incontinence pads, hair restorer, denture fixing gel or a penis pump…

But even his bedroom may not be completely safe. You would have hoped it had been vacuumed, tidied, freshly laundered and generally spruced up, but ‘nasties’ could still be lurking. You could bend over to unbuckle a shoe and brush your hand against a crusty pair of old boxers, or on checking the view from the window, stumble upon a forgotten cup of stale tea complete with floating mould. If he has been even more careless in the cleaning department, you may step on solidified tissues, or even uncover another woman’s lacy smalls under the bed.

“But what about you women?” I hear a few male voices call out. “You aren’t perfect or that clean yourselves!” Yes, fellas, I admit we are not guilt-free.

Some of us may be hiding a little more than a pair of breasts in our bras – those chicken fillet inserts come in handy, but would we want them jumping out in a moment of passion? Control pants have been very good to me on a number of occasions, but I am very aware that they look a lot like old lady ‘belly warmers’ when seen in isolation. And on a particularly ‘fat’ day, my tum may pop out like an airbag on their removal.

False eyelashes are also quite popular right now, but not something you want to start peeling off mid-snog.  What if they head south and end up as a makeshift Charlie Chaplin moustache? Which brings us to hair: Us ladies all want luscious, thick locks, but some of us need a little extra help, be it hair extensions, extra pieces or furious ‘Hell for leather’ backcombing (my usual choice). So imagine your beau’s horror, when he’s running his fingers through your hair, and pulls his hand away to find something resembling a gerbil attached to it.

So, none of us are the perfect, flawless creatures we would like a new dance partner to think we are. So we should be either extra thorough in our preparations/deception or just ourselves, minus the smoke and mirrors.

Now you tell me!

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Now you tell me, after five years of waiting and hoping, five years which made me question everything. Five years of hurt, self-doubt, endless tears and heart ache.

I gave you my body, my heart, my soul. I sacrificed time with friends, time with my kids, time for me. I looked deep into your eyes for even a speck of the love I craved, but it never came.

For years I waited, hoped, wished, but it never came. “Forget him, move on, find someone who really cares,” inner and outer voices told me. But no, I carried on hoping; feeling that nothing, no one, could match up to you and the feelings you ignited in me.

You were my world and every decision I made – what I said, wrote, planned, dreamed – was for you or because of you. I was utterly, hopelessly under your spell.

Yet still, you were indifferent. You left it to me to contact you, you never even told me you liked me, or held my hand in the street, never called me your lover or girlfriend. Everything we did was down to me. Weeks, even months, could have passed before you contacted me.

And now the spell is broken. I am bled dry of love for you.

All these years of digging for the treasure of your heart have exhausted me, left the soil dry, empty, spent. I have finally accepted that the inner and outer voices were right. Only now I ask myself why I defied them for so long, for years of my life which I will never get back; years of my life when I could have been happy with someone else.

I am finally moving on, planning a brighter future, without the second-guessing, endless waiting and pain you caused. There is someone else who cares for me, who wants me, whose heart is open. It is early yet, so the buds are only just starting to form, but I can finally smile with true hope.

YET NOW YOU TELL ME YOU LOVE ME. After all this time, all this hurt, now you tell me. It is too late. You bled me dry, used all I had for you. You say love is an infinite resource. Not so when you rip out someone’s heart and stamp on it. You cannot fix it, but someone else may have a chance to help me grow a new one. I cannot and will not go back.

I wish you well, but please do not tell me you love me.

 

How soon is now?

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How long can I wait? How long should I wait? How long is it right to wait.

You say it can happen when I think it is right to happen, but I no longer know what is or isn’t right. Part of me wants to hand this decision to you; part of me wants it to happen now.

I want you to kiss me hard, to catch your teeth on my lip, to propel your tongue inside my mouth. At the same time I will stand on my tip toes to be nearer to your height and your hands will grab and squeeze my buttocks.

Then you will run your fingertips up my back, flick open the fastening of my bra and tear off my dress. You can push me back onto the bed, dive into my chest and nibble, suck and caress my breasts while I writhe under you, feeling the hardness waiting inside your jeans.

Your fingers will find my damp cavern below and fiddle me into a foaming frenzy. Under my breath I will whisper: “I want you, I want you now.”

I will fumble with your belt and zipper until I capture your throbbing beast, to explore his length and make you sigh in ecstasy. And sigh again, you will, as I crawl down the bed to tour his shaft with my tongue and take as much as I can inside my mouth.

I will do this for as long as it takes for you to writhe and pulsate, before cat-like, I will slowly crawl up your body, brushing my mound along your legs, lingering over your beast.

I will brush against it a little longer as I kiss you hungrily, then slowly, slowly I will lower myself over it, guiding it into my cave.

We will fuck fast and hard, first me pinning you down to enjoy your sighs and ‘Oh Gods’. Then you will sit up, firmly push me onto my back and take me hard and deep, my legs pointing at 90 degrees, my feet near your shoulders.

You flip me over and take me from behind, hard, fast as the bed creaks and bangs against the wall. “Go, go, go!” I will exclaim, as you start to tremble. Then it happens; you spasm, pull out and your seed spurts over my breasts.

Sated, we will collapse together in a sticky heap, exchanging numerous kisses, feeling closer than ever.

So, my original question – how long can I wait?