Time for another party dress

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Traffic is not really passing along DSM’s ‘street of love and lust’ – maybe the odd rag and bone cart or milk float, but nothing she wants to flag down.

So, I have decided I have to actively seek out another street, somewhere with moving vehicles, even if they are just five-door hatchbacks or vintage classics. I have never been impressed by flashy cars – ‘penis extensions’, as my male pals, who can’t afford them, say.

Shedding the metaphor-speak, dear confused readers, what I mean is that, because I need to make things happen to avoid dying alone, I am dipping my toe into internet dating for one last time. I had a go three or four years ago without much joy. There were dates, yes, but some lacked chemistry and some lied about their weight, hobbies etc. and used ancient photos to the extent that when I went to meet them, I could not even recognise them. It’s a good job I was telling the truth or we would both have thought we had been stood up.

Yes, I had a couple of brief entanglements lasting several weeks, but one was still not over his marriage break-up and would spend at least half an hour of our time ranting about his latest run-in with the ex: “She said this and she said that and look at this note she wrote me…” While I discovered after three weeks of seeing the other one that, as well as being a shy IT engineer, he was also a member of a football ‘firm’ and far right wing organisation and enjoyed spending weekends pummelling people.

So, this is why I have taken a while to venture out into this murky world again. That and the fact that The Man was, for some time, catering for many (but not all) of my needs.

I haven’t actually been on any dates as yet, but I intend, this time, to approach things cautiously. There are also many chaps (and probably ladies too) who are not completely honest in these forums. Let’s face it – you could be a 20-stone hairy gorilla called Alfred but have an internet persona of blonde, leggy Cynthia who enjoys picnics and spa breaks. Who would know?

First and most recent impressions are that it is a little like choosing a nice dress for a party – do you go for something comfy and familiar, which you know will suit you, but is rather like everything else in your wardrobe? Or on another rack there is something a little different, perhaps in a cut and style you wouldn’t normally go for, but if you try it on it may look pretty good, highlight your best features, even. Otherwise there is that really striking sequinned frock in the corner which has caught your eye, but is it actually designed for someone much younger and slimmer?

Choices, choices… Then it’s all a complete waste of time, effort and planning (as anyone knows if they have to negotiate childcare before they can even imagine leaving the house alone) if it all goes belly-up. And the odds are that it will. When you are meeting a random person and you have chosen one another based on a badly-taken ‘selfie’, your common interest in Emily Brontë and the fact that you both wanted to meet someone aged 35-50.

I am of course secretly hoping that my life will one day turn into a romantic comedy and I will meet a handsome stranger (around 5ft 10 – 6ft 3, blue eyes, brown hair, likes Mexican food and Mumford and Sons) when he clips my car in the NCP car park or I drop my bananas in the supermarket… But until then, I will carry on looking at different party dresses.

In the early hours…

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It was the early hours of the morning, probably one or two – she couldn’t tell, as her alarm clock had stopped working. But it was that period when it was pitch black and everything was still.

She had woken up after a few hours’ sleep to the familiar embrace. The arm had wrapped itself around her waist and felt comfortable, like it was meant to be there. In her hazy half-waking, half-sleeping state she smiled into the darkness. It was good to be held, knowing she wasn’t alone and cold in her bed.

The arm squeezed her gently and she felt the fingers lightly press into her side, affectionately.

She had felt this gentle embrace sporadically for the last two or three months, always at a similar time of night. The person behind it obviously needed reassurance that she was still there at this very moment.

Then, things played out in much the same way every time.

She felt her mind and body jolt into full consciousness. She shivered from top to toe but still refused to open her eyes. A chilling tingle travelled up her spine to the back of her head and the usual realisation struck her like a slap in the face.

There was no one in the room but her. And this was why she would never open her eyes or turn over.

She was not terrified of this presence, as it was clearly benign, but still too afraid to see it.

For a few restful moments she even welcomed it. Until she remembered she was alone, single in her studio flat.

After about four months the visitor never returned. Maybe it had found another girl to embrace.

The studio flat was in a converted mill where, no doubt, workers had died from time to time. She could only speculate that this was a man whose spirit was left behind up to a century ago and he was lonely, walking the corridors, wondering what happened to his friends.

Or was it just a very vivid recurring dream?

The transit van man

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It wasn’t one of my proudest moments (but then how many proud moments do normal people actually have in their lives?), but I cannot pretend it didn’t happen.

Here I was, standing in the back of a transit van, knickers and fishnet tights around one ankle and removed altogether from the other leg, wearing a Morticia Adams dress and wig.

I hadn’t even fancied him – he had had a sort of hard-faced look and the clothes and hair of a roadie to a rock band like Iron Maiden or Metallica – probably a dreamboat for some girls, but certainly not a boat I wanted to sail in. I was, though, a little lost in my life, out of uni, out of work and out of self-esteem. I seemed to be going through an odd phase with men where I didn’t necessarily fancy people, but was just curious about how they would perform.

Lu had invited me to her fancy dress party and it was a good excuse to escape the monotony of living back with my parents. My dole money covered my train fare to her city with a little extra for drinks, so that was it.

Lu shared a house with two guys, one, a slightly geeky, quiet type and the other, a van driver with long, dark blonde hair, wiry build and the face of someone who had been in a few fights. He was pleasant enough, but spoke his mind and always eyed me suspiciously, like he thought I was going to take off in the night with their TV and stereo system. But I was Lu’s friend so he had no choice other than to accept me and tolerate my company.

So, the fancy dress party – the reason for it escapes me, so I cannot say whether it was Halloween or a birthday. There was the usual crate-full of beer, cider and spirits. (I don’t remember any of my peers drinking wine in the mid-1990s.)

The van driver and the geek seemed to do most of the work, tidying, cleaning and acquiring the booze supplies while Lu just concentrated on getting her hair done and hiring a costume – a 17th century style dress complete with large hooped skirt and petticoats. I had just grabbed my Morticia costume at the last minute from a cheap hire shop.

So, party time arrived. I coped with not knowing anyone, other than the three hosts, in my usual way: copious amounts of cider.  And, as Lu spent most of her time either mingling or snogging her new boyfriend, I was forced to hang out with the geek and the van driver – neither to which I would gravitate in a normal situation.

Conversation with the van driver, after all the cider seemed to switch from dull small talk and his ramblings about music to a more flirtatious direction. His eyes seemed to wander to my cleavage and his hands had sneakily moved from his sides to my hips. I was so fuzzy-headed at this point that I had not noticed their advancement. The metre between us seemed to have shrunk to a few inches.

Then he whispered in my ear: “Do you want to come outside?” Still confused, I nodded, not quite sure what was happening. Maybe we were going to buy some more booze.

I followed him meekly, not even thinking much was going to happen, when he pulled out his keys and opened the back of his blue van. He ushered me inside to the dark space, only dimly lit by a nearby street lamp. It smelt of engine oil and there was a tool box and a dirty-looking blanket on the floor. We had to stand in a half-squatting position to avoid hitting our heads on the roof.

He grabbed my waist and kissed me very quickly, only staying on my lips for a few seconds, swiftly moving down to my neck, shoulders, breast, like a stopwatch had been set and if he didn’t beat it, something would explode. He hurriedly clawed at my dress, pushing it up, yanking my tights and knickers down. I could feel his impatience burning into me as I drunkenly fiddled with my lace-up boots to get one off so I could free a leg from its hosiery/knicker restraints.

The wall of the van banged and clanked as he shoved me against it, inserting a finger inside me and I made a grab for his member. Bang, clank, clink – the van, must have been visibly rocking at this point. He entered me and thrust a few times. I was too drunk to know whether it was a good or bad effort and he quickly zipped up and reluctantly waited while I adjusted myself and fumbled around with my boots.

We tried to go back into the house discreetly, but with my wig slightly wonky and my dark lipstick smeared completely off, it was obvious that I had either been riding a bucking bronco or bonking a man in a van.

The van driver resumed his aloof manner and barely spoke to me for the rest of my stay. He made it blatantly obvious that this hadn’t been one of his proudest moments, either.

Things that make you go ‘Ew!’

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Things that make one shudder with horror and wretch in disgust should probably be the subject of a Halloween post, but hey-ho – I’ve never been one for meticulous organisation and timing.

I am a reasonably tolerant person and try to see past little imperfections in my ‘gentlemen callers’. After all, I am not perfect, either, and have many flaws – most of which I have listed here on various occasions. If you love or lust someone, you love/lust the whole package, knobbly knees, odd ears, lazy eye and all.

But there have been occasions when my strong stomach and forgiving eye have been tested to the extreme. Here are my top ten ‘bleurgh’ moments (not in any order of merit/yuckiness):

1. Pickled eggs and flatulence – My cherry-taker had a penchant, after a few beers, for pickled eggs. While most guys, even in the 90s, went for the pitta-wrapped slices of grey meat cylinder, squirted with chilli sauce (calling itself a kebab), he opted for a bag of chips and pickled egg. I remember the jar on the chippy counter, looking like a selection of over-sized eyeballs, then the eye-watering round of bottom-guffs the next morning. It was enough to make me jump out of bed as quickly as possible.

2. Nipple squeeze man – The guy who cried out for his nipples to be squeezed as he approached orgasm. This was a strange development, as I was seeing this guy for a while, but decided that I was never going to fall in love with him and ended it. But we ended up in bed together a couple of times after the break-up, when suddenly the sex got more fun. The nipple squeeze thing became a slightly irritating, rather than repulsive demand, every single time.

3. Moobs – I am by no means a slender willow and would not expect anyone with a male model/athlete’s physique to even look at me (although it did happen once). Round tummies are acceptable to an extent, but not when accompanied by 40DD puppies. They wobble, flap and are emasculating. If I wanted to bed someone with tits, I would try to pick up a woman. I went to bed with one man with moobs. He stumbled all over my flat and knocked furniture over. Maybe he was top-heavy.

4. Fag/coffee breath – I have smoked in the past, so cannot complain about this without a degree of hypocrisy. But guys, chew some minty gum or swill your mouth out with whisky. I used to always carry mints when I fell prey to the demon tobacco. I had a brief intermingling with a guy I used to work with who was a non-smoker, but absolutely stunk of stale coffee. It was only his cute boyish face that sealed the deal. But there was no chance of a long-term relationship with that stench every time he opened his mouth. I kept kissing to a minimum too.

5. Hairy backs – I have been with two or three guys with a little back hair, never a full fur coat. But even a few hairs are a no-no. I usually cope by never facing their backs in bed. I know this is unduly harsh, seeing as no one chooses to have back hair, but it just sets my teeth on edge. I’m easy with chest hair – smooth or fluffy, I don’t care. Just wax your backs, chaps.

6. Broken veins – A couple of my charges have been bordering on alcoholic, but the worst one, a clever, witty, talented guy I went out with at university suffered shakes in the morning and had patches of broken veins at the tops of his arms which are a symptom of heavy drinking. These were rather disturbing on a 20-year-old man.

7. Snotty nose/bogies – My ex-husband on our first date, for most of the date, had a pale green ball of snot up one nostril. Because I didn’t know him very well at the time I didn’t feel I could point it out. I kept hoping he would check his reflection in the gents’ but it only went after a couple of hours (probably when he sneezed).

8. Slobbery kissing – If I am thirsty I will get a drink. I don’t need someone else’s saliva being propelled into my mouth. My first proper boyfriend (discounting the total git who tried to take advantage of me when I was 15) was the first reasonable-looking guy to take an interest in me. He had jet black curly hair and light blue eyes. But he also had yellow teeth and a slobbery kiss. Every time we locked lips, I could feel his spit dribbling towards my chin. Luckily by then I had good wretch-control skills.

9. Long finger nails – Why, oh why does a man need long finger nails, unless he is appearing in a vampire movie? Do you think any sane woman wants a clawed finger going anywhere near her lady-bits? It makes me tense up in my pants even thinking about it. A relatively recent chap had dreadful, dirty and long nails, just through being overly laid back about personal grooming. I told him I would be shutting shop if he didn’t give them the chop.

10. Body odour – It may be an old chestnut, but it is still one of the biggest turn-offs. Teenage boys may douse themselves in deodorant and cheap aftershave, but they are as overly conscious of stinking as they are of breaking out in zits. As the male species gets older, he sometimes ‘forgets’ about this and gets a bit lax in his personal hygiene habits. I lived with someone for two years who fell into this category. I somehow ended up regularly hand washing his shirts (I was so stupidly smitten) and no matter how hard I scrubbed the armpits the smell of BO would never go. With hindsight I should have burnt his stupid shirts and moved out much sooner than I eventually did.

These are all fairly obvious quease-inducing irritants, but any other suggestions are welcome. Perhaps I can be more positive in a future post and consider the fragrant, beautiful, heart-fluttery, desirable things the men folk have to offer.

Dear Dad…

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When I have a problem, dilemma or something I need to talk through I still think about calling you to ask what you think. For a few seconds I forget you are gone. It sounds insane when you were taken from me, and all those who loved you, 13 years and four months ago.

You will creep into my thoughts, as you have just now, when I am alone and the room is quiet. I still miss you, but sometimes think it was a good thing you were saved from the disappointment I would have brought you. The glittering career you wished for me, the long happy marriage and fulfilling life have not really happened. I know you made sacrifices, worked long hours and tried to put me on the right track. But I had to make some choices on my own and they weren’t always the right ones. Even when you were here I didn’t always listen to you, so I can’t even blame your passing for this – it’s mostly my fault.

But, Dad, I’ve done ok. I have two gorgeous children – you would have really loved them and probably spoilt them with sweets and treats. I remember when I was seven or eight and you used to take me with you to the off-licence for some wine and buy me chocolate but say not to tell mum. Most of their friends have granddads, but they only have a granddad-shaped hole in their lives.

I still write, but not the angst-ridden poems I used to share with you when I was a teenager. I know these made you laugh when they were meant to be an out-pouring of emotion. I am not sure you would approve of what I write now. I would have probably kept it a secret, like the tattoo I got at 22 – did you ever wonder why I never had short sleeves when I visited?

There are lots of things I never apologised about – probably because I am stubborn, like you, and find it hard to admit I am wrong. Sorry I threw stones at your car when I was three. Sorry I got into trouble at school for scribbling all over my reading book. Sorry I stayed out late with my boyfriend and dressed ‘inappropriately’ when I was 16. Sorry we had endless rows and didn’t speak to each other for days. Sorry I called you a ‘stupid old man.’ Sorry I didn’t get to the hospital in time to say goodbye properly. Sorry I stopped saying ‘I love you’.

But whatever I did, however hard I made things, you were always there – ready to cuddle me when I cried, ready to listen to whatever trivial and garbled problems I had, driving me here and there.

I smile when I think of you dancing around the kitchen with me and singing silly songs and you dashing to the garden to rescue me when I got stuck up trees. You were always there for me and never complained.

Yet I was a difficult daughter and not the best behaved. It’s best you don’t know about some of the naughty things I have got up to over the years – I am not sure you could endure the shock.

But you are always with me, wherever I am. I see you in my children’s eyes, my son’s smile.

I hope my memories never fade.

Love you, Dad. x

Chilli is a drag

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As I stirred the chilli con carne for tonight’s tea, watching the wooden spoon slide through the brown gloop, my thoughts turned again to Perforated Pete. This was the cause of our end. Chilli con carne. Well, at least a contributory factor.

After our sneaky graduation night intermingling, I was keen to have at least one more encounter with Perforated Pete, maybe more, even though my departure from uni put over 150 miles between us.

Living back at home with my parents meant some careful, discreet planning. But my friend Lu lived nearer to him, so I planned to stay with her for a ‘week’ – in fact four nights with her and two or three with PP. I was fizzing with excitement at the prospect of his cheeky smile, pretty hazel eyes, smooth toned body and long light brown hair.

So, I got my four days with Lu over with (well, it wasn’t such a trial, really) and boarded the train for ‘Gloomsville’, my university town, hoping the gloom would quickly dissipate with a warm bed and hot man…

As I walked through the ticket barriers at the station there he stood, sexy smile, leather jacket, ready to grab me for a kiss and naughty bottom pat.

It emerged that he was having a house party that evening and wanted me to help him ‘get ready’. Thinking this meant tidying up a bit, putting crisps in bowls and pouring out drinks, I nodded.

We had a quick cup of tea, took my bag upstairs and dived into his bed to get reacquainted. I was relieved he had remained just as delicious and gorgeous as before and would have been happy for us to hide in his room for the next two days, only popping out to use the toilet and get drinks. But no, there was work to do.

I pulled out something that said 90s Grunge/Alternative – probably a black dress and stripy tights accessorised with 50 jingly bangles, pale make up and lots of black eyeliner.

Then it was PP’s turn. He had sat in bed, stretched out, his head propped up with pillows watching me get changed and apply my makeup. Most men at this point would have gone downstairs and switched on the telly, so it was a little unnerving for one to take any interest.

“Can you help me with my makeup?” He asked, as if this was an ordinary question like asking me to  pass the salt. “Erm…ok,” I replied, a little confused. I’d had a bit of warning with my last lipstick-wearing boyfriend – he had dressed like Robert Smith from The Cure from day one. But PP was all black tee-shirts, leathers and army boots.

So, after getting us a couple of bottles of lager from the fridge, PP took over the ‘getting ready’ sideshow and I did my best ‘not-at-all-shocked-or-surprised’ performance. First a black leather lace-up basque came out (“so, we’re going more fetish, than Dick Emery-style drag,” I thought, slightly relieved). A pair of fishnet stockings and matching thong were next. He finished with Doc Martin boots, almost saying “I may be a man chick, but I am still a Grunge bitch at heart.”

To my surprise, I found this all quite arousing, particularly the bulge in his thong and his pert, smooth buttocks now being framed and highlighted by fishnet and leather.

So, make up time. He sat on the bed patiently while I decided what to use on his already beautiful face. As I started to apply eyeshadow – I told him his skin was too good to cover with foundation – I knelt down. But this was rather uncomfortable so I convinced him that the only way to do it was to sit on his lap, my legs straddling his. I could feel his firm cock rubbing against me through his leather thong as I brushed dark purple and grey powder on his eyelids. I couldn’t resist gyrating against him and kissing him softly as he seemed so submissive, just sitting there with his eyes closed while I painted him. We had to stop for the lipstick, though, but I lingered enough to enjoy pressing against leather and thong a little longer.

When I’d done, he looked stunning and I realised I was with a man who was prettier than me.

As the party guests arrived, PP was repeatedly complimented on his look, with the odd joke from the men. But he always had a witty response or was happy to laugh at himself. I didn’t get much time with him, just the odd kiss and squeeze, but his main priority was mingling and being admired by everyone. It was becoming clear that this was largely a party for himself to show off his ‘Grunge slut’ persona. Everyone else was in their regular clothes, so it wasn’t as though this was a theme night.

Luckily there were other people I knew so I wasn’t left in the corner and I had the smugness of knowing that, for the moment he was flirting with every man and woman in the room, but it was me who would be sharing his bed and enjoying his body later.

The morning after couldn’t have been less glamorous. Fag butts, beer cans, cups and glasses containing dregs of liquid. I mucked in with him and his housemates in the clean-up. It was the least I could do.

Then PP enthusiastically announced he was cooking us tea. I asked what he planned. “Chilli con carne!” He proudly announced. “But what are you making it with I asked?” He seemed confused by the question and wrong-footed by my not simply accepting this great thing he was doing for me.

“You know, just chilli,” he replied, bewildered that I seemed to have never encountered the dish before. “Yes, but with meat?” I asked. It dawned on me that we had never been in a proper eating situation together before – our first night had been crisps and party type food and before that we had just been at a pub or club.

Oh dear – he had no clue that I was a vegetarian. Should I tell him or put my principles to one side and keep my mouth shut (only opening it to shovel in spicy ground beef)?

“Oh, I’m vegetarian,” I replied, my inner voice winning its fight to be heard. There was silence and his face dropped. He had clearly thought that his chilli was a winner with the girls but now he was being robbed of his moment of glory. I felt terrible and detected the wind changing and ‘you’re not welcome’ vibes radiating from him.

His housemate – let’s call him Max – stepped in and concocted something with green peppers, onions and cashew nuts. Funny, really, because he had been hanging around me like an excited puppy whenever PP and I weren’t holed up in the bedroom. The food had been Max’s chance to impress me, but while it was edible it didn’t really taste of anything.

After that incident, PP seemed to cool towards me and would be glad to see me go the next morning. We kissed, cuddled and bonked a few more times, but it felt like he was just fulfilling a contract.

Back home, PP and I just had one phone chat, then nothing. I wasn’t broken-hearted, as there was no future in it – he was actually a bit vain and arrogant, even though he was very fanciable. I have seen pictures of him on a social network site and he still looks stunning, although the hair is shorter and he is now married with kids. Max rang me at least half a dozen times, wanting to take me out, but eventually gave up.

I was only a vegetarian for about five years and will now happily eat chilli con carne.

 

Batchelor of tarts

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It’s a day of pride for many people – dressing up in a gown, hood and mortar board, walking up on the stage and collecting a rolled up piece of paper from a local dignitary. Family and friends applaud with pride and you usually have a formal gathering to raise a glass to your success as a conscientious and successful student…

Only my graduation wasn’t quite like that. In fact exam success never seemed that important to me. I studied and crammed, but all rather last minute and largely because it was what everyone else was doing, rather than through my own self-discipline. I scraped through.

So my motivation for turning up for the whole shebang, apart from pleasing my parents, was purely to see ‘Perforated Pete’. His nickname was down to the numerous piercings he had in his ears, nipples and eyebrow and to differentiate him from another Pete we sometimes hung out with.

But the metal-bearing moniker paints an inaccurately unattractive image. This guy actually had girls eating out of his hand. He was a 1990s grunge dreamboat with a twist*. His face was a cheeky, sexy shade of handsome, with large hazel eyes and a knowing smirk. He had long light brown hair, shaved at the sides (remember, this was the early 1990s) a stocky, toned build and dressed in black t-shirts, combat trousers and army boots. He was a couple of years older than me but had started his course a year later, in ‘Media’ or something a bit arty – my memory fails me here.

Perforated Pete and I had flirted for a while, but the timing had always been wrong – I was with my then boyfriend and he was seeing a tall, voluptuous blonde a friend and I referred to as the ‘strapping lass’.  The most we had managed was a cheeky kiss when we played some odd drinking game involving everyone kissing. When PP and I lingered a little too long in our smooch my boyfriend got very angry and almost punched him, bringing the game to a swift end.

So, travelling back to my rather gloomy university town, after a mutual split with that boyfriend, filled me with hope and excitement. In the days before mobile phones, widespread internet usage and few student homes even having a landline, all one could do was hope for the best.

My parents had booked a budget hotel with a room for themselves and separate one for my friend Lu and I.

We got the formalities over with, had the photos taken, went out for dinner with my folks, then fluffed our feathers to meet some of our friends at the pub later for celebratory drinks. The whole time I could only think about PP and whether he would show up. I had put on a red floaty top which clung to my cleavage, with my usual tight black jeans and boots in a special attempt to catch his eye.

As we walked in I looked around the room, desperately. No sign of him. We sat with friends and I tried to put him to the back of my mind. Half an hour passed and it dawned on me that maybe he was now seeing someone else – it had been a while since I had seen him and ‘strapping lass’ was still around.

But, just as I had settled into chatting to people and trying to shrug off my disappointment, a familiar figure casually walked in with a couple of friends. His pretty, long-lashed hazel eyes met mine and he flashed me a sexy grin. I immediately felt my cheeks flush and my whole body tense up. I wasn’t even sure I would be able to form the words to speak to him.

But he came over, pulled up a chair and asked me how the day had gone. As the cider and blackcurrant flowed, we relaxed into a conversation, peppered with his dry sense of humour and occasional touch on my thigh.

PP was very self-assured and knew how to press the right buttons to lure a girl back to his place, but he wasn’t cocky or arrogant and never took himself too seriously.

There was an obstacle to proceedings, though. I was supposed to go with Lu back to our hotel room at the end of the evening and be ready for 9am to have breakfast with my parents. Perfectly reasonable, you could say, but not when one had been waiting over four months to bed the sexiest man of the moment…

So a plan had to be hatched. PP and I walked Lu back to our hotel room and we agreed a special door knock for my return later on. This freed PP and I up to dive into the next available cab back to his house for some valuable hours.

He lived in a shared student house, so we had to hurry through some garbled introductions before we could escape to his room. Once the door was shut we just could not wait any longer.

In a cider haze, we dived on the bed, kissing like we only had seconds left before the world ended. His body was smooth and delicious. And for some reason after all the tension we were now totally relaxed and as we began to bonk we were chatting about how much we wanted it. He was saying something along the lines of “I have wanted this for ages. I knew it would be good because we are both tarts.” It was good and he had impressive staying power, but it was probably the only time I had had inaugural sex with someone and we had talked through the entire session. We covered a range of topics from our favourite positions to my tits to his tattoos, underwear and the photos on his bedroom wall. I wanted to do it again in a couple of hours without the chit-chat just to feel normal again.

After a smidgen of sleep daylight streamed into his room and I had to leave PP naked in his bed to call a cab from the nearest phone box. I got back to the hotel at 6am, knocked loudly on the hotel room door (hopefully not waking my parents) and poor Lu stumbled bleary-eyed to the door and let me in.  I slipped into my cold bed and tried to rest, with a big grin on my face, before we had to go down for a ‘full English’.

*What is the ‘twist’? I hear you ask. That’s one for a future post, as PP had a yet-to-be-discovered facet to his personality.

When the music’s over…

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Ever wondered what it would be like to have one of your favourite things snatched away from you for good, never to be seen ever again? In my current ‘famine’ period, this enters my mind every day.

I have explored/wittered on these pages about sex in old age and pondered on how to cope with temporary periods of ‘non-action’. But what if I am actually gaping into the abyss? What if this is it for me – my end is never going to be had away again? My lady hole is just a pointless feature, occasionally used for inserting tampons…

I have this hope that something will come to it one day which isn’t made of metal or silicone and doesn’t make a buzzing sound, but maybe my hope is misguided and it’s really curtains on that front. After all, I am not getting any younger and the lines, bags and general sagginess are worsening week by week.

How does one cope with this knowledge? I am already in my head lining up my best lacy undies, basques, all-in-ones, stockings and so-on just in case they should be sent to a better place – to someone who will give them a more fulfilling and active life.

And does it stop there? Should I swap my regular panties for the gigantic belly-warmers the old lady two doors down hangs on her washing line? Well, comfort does outweigh appearance when no one else is going to see them. Do I swap my dresses for comfy and practical slacks and jumpers?

Maybe taking up a distracting hobby would help. I could collect stamps or sew tapestries. And any films featuring hunky men would have to go, as I would get too depressed watching Gerard Butler and Ewan McGregor snogging the face off someone while I sit alone on the sofa with my peanuts and shandy. Then again, this is a typical Saturday evening these days.

If I am heading for an eternity of celibacy, it would have been nice to have had some warning – then I could have fitted in some of my top fantasies from my sex ‘bucket list’ (remember this? I’d want at least numbers 2,5,6 and 10 of that list). It’s the same if you have a good friend who is moving away – you would want to have a special day or night with them before they left, just as people on death row get to choose their favourite meal before they face the chair or the needle.

Then again I could pull the same stunt as the geese in the Brothers Grimm’s The Fox and the Geese. The fox gives the geese permission to pray before he kills them, so they pray, but never stop praying so the fox (for some reason being true to his word) is left waiting for an eternity to end their lives.

So anyhow, if I have forewarning that bonking is no longer on the menu after a certain date, maybe I should have a never ending feast. It could get a bit tricky doing housework and the school run with a man inside me (and somewhat inappropriate), but I would make a gallant effort with the help of strategically placed blankets. If I had to drive anywhere, he could operate the pedals while I did the steering and gear changes…

If this were at all possible, I am not even sure where I would get the man to do it, seeing as The Man seems to have (sadly) removed himself from the menu. Maybe I could stick an ad in the local newsagents: ‘Make a middle-aged woman very happy. Short-term casual work. References needed. Must have good stamina, but hairy backs need not apply.’

So meanwhile, I’ll visit my local purveyor or big pants and eye up what I could be wearing in the not-too-distant future…

Teenage dream?

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“No, I don’t want it there,” I wailed, standing up in the bath and looking down at myself. “I want it to go away!”

I was about 12-years-old and my mum and popped into the room while I was having a bath and helpfully pointed out that I had started growing my first few strands of pubic hair. I was absolutely devastated – it looked disgusting and ugly, or so I thought at the time. I was quite happy with things as they were – just some hair on my head, some downy bits on my arms and legs – that would do me fine. Why did I have to get a horribly beardy bit on my privates?

But I was a 12-year-old of the 1980s, had no older sister to look up to or try to imitate and still enjoyed playing with my Barbies. Puberty and sex never entered my mind. My mum never did the ‘talk’ so I was pretty clueless, apart from seeing some couples kissing and rolling around in cheesy American soaps like ‘Dynasty’ and ‘Knots Landing’. I had just assumed this was a different version of cuddling.

The idea of growing boobs was just as alien. I remember my mum getting me some rather odd coffee-coloured training bra before I had anything to really put in it. She insisted this was the right time to start wearing it, despite the thing being very itchy and chafing my armpits. They did grow quite a bit between about 12 and 15, but in the early days, I was just baffled and confused as to why any of these changes were happening to me, when I was pretty happy with my straightforward, uncomplicated girl body.

The story now is a whole new ball game. I have an eight-year-old who is practically on one giant countdown to becoming a teenager. She checks the growth of her chest on a daily basis, despite there being nothing to report. She wears lip gloss whenever she can get away with it, such as when we are in a rush to go out somewhere and I’m too busy to notice. She already has posters of boy bands on her bedroom wall, while I was 13 or 14 before I swapped my pictures of cute kittens and fairies for A-ha and Duran Duran. She even slams her door shut and listens to music when she wants to be alone – something I only started to do in my teenage strops.

So how does a reluctant teenager guide her teenage wannabe through puberty? I don’t want to put her on a downer by warning that it’s not all lipstick, push-up bras and prom dresses. She will have to be prepared for mood swings, spots, emotional roller-coasters, boys being senseless gits and period pains.

The trouble is that her ‘teenage dream’ comes from all the American TV shows she watches, where teens have an endless wardrobe of trendy clothes, perfect white teeth, hang out at milkshake bars and always have witty one-liners. Funnily enough none of them have spots or stomp off to their bedrooms, slam the door and put Slipknot on at full blast. And the boys all look really clean – they probably don’t have bedrooms that smell of sweaty jock straps and stale socks, as I recall my brother did in that era.

Maybe the answer is to find a teenager and get them to explain what it’s like, how it has its ups and downs. The trouble is getting one to willingly articulate that…

After dinner

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The Man and I exchanged surreptitious glances over our bowls of soup, fizzing with excitement over what may or may not happen later on in the evening.

There were two other friends at the table, who knew nothing of our secret alliance. As far as they and anyone else were concerned, we were just a man and woman who were friends – that at the end of the night everyone at the table would head off in different directions to their own beds.

The clandestine nature of our lustful fun made it all the more exhilarating. I felt myself blush at my naughty thoughts as we talked about all kinds of trivial things as we tucked into the main course – steak and veg, rather than the other main course I would devour later.

The Man was cooking for three of us and it was satisfying to see him whisking plates and cutlery away and breezing back with different courses. I liked to see him a little flustered – it gave me a tiny peak at his usually hidden vulnerability. He was usually strong, calm and in control and seeing this side of him (which rarely appeared) always made me feel like perhaps he was not as self-sufficient as he liked everyone to think. It also made me want to jump up from the table, maybe upset a few plates, push him up against the wall and kiss him. But that would pretty much blow our cover.

So instead, with our friends, I carried on our conversation about how best to cook steak and took sips from my wine.

We sailed through dessert and started on some cheese and biscuits. I could feel myself tingling in the groin, not because of the brie, but at the anticipation of what may come soon. Our friends were muttering about it getting late and looking at their watches. I remained calm – after all, I lived near The Man, so it wasn’t necessary for me to worry about setting off home just yet.

Eventually, our friends left and we sat back down at the table to finish our wine.

Then, he turned to me, this time looking full on into my eyes, now he was free to be bold again.

“So, little girl, would you like to come upstairs with me?” He asked, smirking, knowing full well that I had been waiting all evening for this moment. He was back in control again and was totally aware he could reduce me to mush. All I could do was let him lead me by the hand up to this room.

In the soft-focused red wine haze we kissed and were naked within seconds as he tasted my damp and over-excited pussy. I writhed with pleasure and pulled him on top of me – I wanted to feel him inside me now, after all this time. My patience had run out hours ago.

He entered me hard and deep and I gasped at the force, but thrust my hips to make him do it again, and again, and again… He flipped me over and slapped my bottom playfully. The heat of the slap only made me hunger for more of his dick. We bonked hard and the bed creaked. But the long evening had zapped our energy, so we soon crashed on to the bed in a heap, exhausted but satisfied.

But, dear readers, he is a damn good cook, so if food was all that was on the table, some of my needs would have been satisfied, while others would have been growling and rumbling…