Celluloid or cellulite – part 3: The end of it?

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Sandra has been feeling closer to Barry as they have enjoyed their little interludes together – even if it means a quick one when they have both managed to snatch half a day off work, or Barry has snuck into Sandra’s for a quick beer and crisps after her kids have gone to bed. In fact, she thinks about him a lot and suspects she has started to feel the ‘l’ word.

The trouble is that Barry is starting to feel a bit trapped, as Sandra is always texting and calling him to find out when they can next get together. He likes her, but this is starting to feel like the ‘r’ word – something that scares the bejesus out of him, ever since his marriage broke up three years ago, after he found his wife in bed with his next door neighbour. He’s not going down that road again and letting anyone close enough to leave him open to that kind of trauma.

Benedict has similar commitment issues after his ex-wife ran off with the gardener when they were living in his family’s oversized country pile in the prequel to this movie. (Critics panned it when it came out for being ‘too Lady Chatterley’). So he is wondering if he has been spending too much time with Rosetta.

Sandra texts Barry to ask what he’s doing on Saturday, as her kids are staying with the ex and she’d like some quality time with her favourite man. “DVD and a takeaway, if you don’t feel like going to the Sheep’s Leg” she suggests.

But this is the final shove for Barry, as the bleep of his phone interrupts his thoughts. He decides not to respond – his usual way of avoiding a difficult conversation. Sandra gets agitated and as she sits behind her work computer she can’t think about anything else. She pretends to read a report, but is really gazing at her phone, willing it to bleep. When it does she almost jumps out of her chair, before seeing it’s a company asking if she’s had an accident and wants to claim compensation. ““No, but I know someone who bloody-well will soon,” she whispers.

Script writers have made Benedict a bit more open and honest and he phones Rosetta, asking to meet in a quiet café. “I am sorry, darling,” he says, “This is really hard for me to say, but I have to say it. Everything has been happening so fast between us that it has turned me a little dizzy. I need to climb off the carousel and take in some air.”

Rosetta’s perfectly smooth forehead furrows ever so slightly. “What are you trying to say, darling?”

“Sweetheart, you are lovely, gentle and beautiful, but I need to take some time out, to decide what I want. I told you what happened with Cordelia – I need to be sure before I open my heart to anyone else.” Sad-sounding violins and pianos play in the background as Rosetta’s China blue eyes well up with tears.

“You are casting me aside?” She sobs.

“Not quite, darling. You are not an old sweater. This may not be the end. I just need some time out, a break to find myself.”

It is four hours since Sandra sent her text. She is now chewing gum in a fit of frustration to stop herself from eating the entire contents of the office’s biscuit barrel. As five o’clock strikes, she rushes out of work not wanting to talk to anyone and heads for her train. As she sits wedged between two suited men who won’t budge in either direction, she gives in and sends Barry another text, trying to adopt a cheerful, not-in-the-slightest-bit-exasperated tone. “Or we could still just go to the Sheep’s Leg, if you’d prefer that.” She then spends the rest of the evening going from one task to looking at the phone, almost like a religious ritual. Even bathing the kids is punctuated with glances at it, which leaves the screen blurred with condensation.

She goes to bed with the phone on the pillow next to her, just in case Barry feels the need to respond to her at 4am.

On the commuter train again, she cannot bare the waiting. “Barry, are you ok? Starting to worry now.” Still no response. Still no response by lunchtime and Sandra, by now, is on the edge. Then at 3.30pm he texts: “Sorry – can’t do this any more. Don’t want a relationship.”

Sandra re-reads the message three or four times to take it in, even though it’s only ten words. She then runs off to the toilet, locks herself in a cubicle and cries as quietly as she can.

Meanwhile Rosetta is sobbing into her silky dusty pink duvet in her spacious pastel bedroom as piano music plays in the background.

So, readers, is this the end for our foursome? Maybe I’ll return to them at some point to see what happens next…

Quick on the drawer(s)

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Briefs, bikinis, low-rise, high legs, shorts, French, control, thongs, and even ‘magic’ ones; is there any limit to the number of types of knickers available to us ladies?

Walking into any well-known purveyor of panties and the choice is baffling. I have to ask myself whether I want to be high legged, but low rise or whether I want to wear ‘shorts’ of the mock boxer or knicker variety. Do I want to be pulling a piece of string out of my bum every five minutes or do I want something that pulls up over my belly and reaches halfway up my chest? As if it isn’t already bewildering choosing the right bra, never mind a pair of drawers.

Despite my enjoyment of clothes-removal and penchant for a pretty lacy bra, I have never got to grips with finding the right pair of knickers. Sadly, when buying a new ‘set’ to dazzle him in the boudoir, the bras are usually just right while the bottom half is almost always a straight choice between a thong or a ‘Brazilian’. One makes me feel like I have done a hasty job in the loo and left a bit of toilet paper up my jacksie while the other one may fit my rear but rubs uncomfortably in my lady hole like a badly inserted tampon. What is wrong with a good old-fashioned pair of bikini-style pants?

I have gone out on many occasion in what I think is a sexy ‘set’ (obviously with other clothes over the top!) and spent half the evening discreetly trying to dislodge sheer fabric from between my buttocks. It is then a complete relief, not just for the one-on-one action, to remove them later on and end the agony.

Maybe I should just get with the programme and accept the feeling of having dental floss between my butt cheeks as normal, like period pains or the scalding sensation whenever my shower unexpectedly gets boiling hot for a few seconds. Maybe I am not a proper grown-up woman because I can’t tolerate ‘sex kitten’ undies. But I did once get a dose of thrush after trying to tolerate wearing a new pack of Brazilian knickers for a week – I did wash them first and wore a clean pair every day, just to be clear.

On the other hand, I am not ready for ginormous granny pants yet. I think one can feel sexy in a pair of short-style knickers if they are worn with confidence and a pretty bra. However, I also wouldn’t dismiss wearing a pair of ‘magic’ control pants for those special occasions when you are in a party dress and want to reduce the tummy bulge.

The thing is, though, do men even notice what pants we are wearing? I have never once had one say to me ‘totally dig the panties, darling’. They probably spend a few more seconds looking at the bra, often because they can’t quite figure out how to undo it. As for knickers – they usually end up thrown across the room or disappear to the bottom of the bed, only to be discovered when you next change the sheets.

When I see you next

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When I see you next…don’t make me wait; let’s not eat, drink and talk for three hours. Save that for afterwards.

When I see you next… I want you ready for me, but fully clothed. I will walk through the door, kiss you slowly, taste you, drink you in. Our embrace will last long enough for your knees to go weak, your head to feel dizzy. Then I will slowly peel off your layers, tugging off your tee-shirt, prizing open your jeans so I can nibble your delicious core.

When I see you next… I will kiss and taste your entire body, from your feet, all the way up your legs, sucking and licking your muscly firm thighs. You will be passive, only able to writhe with pleasure as I crawl, cat-like up your body. I will pause at your balls, encircling each with my tongue, sucking and nibbling every single millimetre of them as you moan and undulate.

When I see you next… I will slide my tongue from the base to the tip of your towering hard penis. I will tease the end by poking the very tip of my tongue into the urethra and glide it around your glans, maybe several times. After I think I have licked every bit of it I will hold it firm and lower my mouth over it as far as I can go, sucking, licking, devouring. As you are powerless under me, I will pull off my pants, leaving on my black stockings.

When I see you next… I will lower my wet, excited pussy over your penis, slowly taking you in and begin to fuck you slowly, as I throw off my dress and unleash my breasts from underwired restraints. I may even let you have some freedom to touch them, squeeze them, take them in your mouth.

When I see you next… I will at some point dismount and make you take the upper deck and thrust yourself hard inside me, as you finger my clit and kiss me hungrily. You may at this point have a little more control to place me where you will, but I will slap your bottom if I want more and deeper.

When I see you next… I want your climax to be intense, explosive, spectacular. Let it spray all over my breasts, let it squirt into my mouth, let it smear all over our bodies. I will smell, taste, touch and inhale you.

When I see you next… we will end up sweaty, sticky, exhausted, in a lovers’ embrace with our hearts thumping loudly.

When I see you next…When will I see you next?

Hip hip hooray!

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This week Drunken Slut Mum is having a double celebration, so please help yourself to a glass of bubbly and some nibbles. You can also throw your coats on the bed, but the only person I want to see under them is The Man, waiting patiently for me to dive on top of him at the end of the night!

So, why the popping corks? Firstly, this blog you see before you is a year old (it was actually 30 August 2012, but what’s a few days between friends?). If you have been reading this since then, you deserve a medal for sticking with it and I thank you for your support.

If you are a DSM virgin, it’s never too late and you can wade through anything from a poem about vibrators to top tips on how to be a DSM, erotic shorts with ‘The Man’ in a range of positions and locations (such as this), debates on sex education, tales of my sexual adventures and meet ‘Barry’ and ‘Sandra’. There’s much, much more than can be listed here. So maybe, readers, you can suggest your own favourite bits, or even your worst bits.

And to prove this isn’t one of those episodes of ‘Friends’ or ‘The Simpsons’ where clips from old episodes are spliced together when characters remember old times (and the writers can’t be bothered that week), my second celebration follows up last week’s lament about the times my body lets me down.

Ladies, we may knock things over, break wind, cough, sneeze or have a wobbly belly, but we all have a bad habit of focusing on the bad. Celebrate your good bits – here are mine:

Lots of squashy bits: Let’s face it – you are not going to get a really good cuddle from a supermodel. I imagine snuggling up to Kate Moss or Lily Cole would be like putting your arms around a coat stand. On the other hand I can provide a range of locations which will double up as warm pillows.

A talented tongue: My tongue is the most athletic part of my body. I can flick it, touch the end of my nose with the tip, make it into a spoon shape and use it to such precision that I can push ice cream right down to the bottom of the cone. I don’t need to suggest other ways it can be employed…

Boobies: I like this childlike word for them, as does my toddler son. Mine are not perfect, but they are neither too big nor too small and still have some bounce left. I enjoy grabbing them and pushing them up and down in the same way as men in drag do when they have a fake pair. This may sound strange, but I still regard them as a bit of a novelty, even though I have had them over 20 years.

Legs: I don’t have the best legs in town but they have run a few miles, carried me up and down lots of hills and pedalled my bike. Oh, and they will spread quite far apart and wrap around bodies quite effectively too. So despite the knobbly knees they will do for me.

Hands: My hands are no better than anyone else’s – as we all sit there tapping at keyboards, phones and touch screens. In fact they would not win a beauty contest with my unmanicured nails and dry skin, but they can do some amazing stuff – ranging from sewing and kneading dough to plaiting hair and drawing pictures. I am also a pretty good tickler and amateur masseur, when required.

So, dear readers, raise a glass with me to DSM’s first birthday, the useful bits of our bodies and hope that I still know what to write about for another 12 months…

And I can’t sign off without saying a big thank you to my technical support/design team of one who made this possible in the first place. You know who you are.

Blame it on the body

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I sometimes think my body is a separate being, detached from whatever else is left of me – sitting in the corner of the room or perched on a bookshelf, laughing at me or sticking up two fingers.

With the number of times it lets me down or humiliates me, I can only conclude that it has a separate cause or purpose. I strive for success and my body constantly sabotages my efforts.

Take my bum, for example. I have frequently bent over to pick something up or just to reach across for, say, a pen at the other end of the table. And what does ‘Old Cushion Cheeks’ do? She sends things flying – knocks books off shelves, topples over glasses, even bumps into innocent bystanders. My top end then has to apologise.

‘Cushion cheeks’ has also frequently let me down in the boudoir by piping up at crucial moments with her parping trumpet. It could be mid-bonk, just as we are switching positions, or in post-coital cuddle. Suddenly she will see it fit to parp, leaving me red-faced and with nowhere to hide. Men, I may be letting down my fellow females in admitting this, but when we blame it on a front-bottom/’Fanny fart’ we are probably telling the truth about 50% of the time; the rest of the time it’s a full throttle bottom guff.

If it’s not my rear messing things up, then it’s likely to be my throat or nasal passages – ever had a work-related or serious telephone conversation where you are desperate to cough or sneeze? You try to conclude it as quickly as possible as your voice either starts to resemble a rasping wasp or you lose the ability to speak altogether as the sneeze ascends to its finale.

This has an odd effect on intercourse, as you suddenly have to stop moving or the cough, which seems to be connected to vaginal muscles, fires his penis out like a cannon. I have yet to think of some way in which this could have a useful purpose.

If, like me, you have never had a perfect washboard stomach, you will also be familiar with the belly-slap. This is most likely when you are on top of him, leaning forwards, when your wayward wobble slaps and flaps against him in the throes of passion. The effect is intensified if he also has a bit of a tum – but this seems fairer in my mind as no one person can be blamed for the smacking sound and neither of you has to feel self-conscious about it. With a slim guy, I am much more ashamed.

Creaky joints can also get in the way of perfect passion. I hope not to inherit my family arthritis for some years yet, but can already produce some very impressive cracks and creaks in my knees, shoulders and fingers. The sound of a gravel drive being stepped on is, however, less welcome when one kneels down to attend to a waiting penis, stretches ones arms back while lying on a bed or has to unstiffen ones fingers at some point in proceedings.

So, men, next time one of us passes gas, coughs, sneezes or creaks at a key moment as you make sweet love to us, just remember it’s our body trying to sabotage things. Just carry on and pretend it didn’t happen.

Teardrop

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He presses his body against her, his chest against hers and she feels his heartbeat drumming hard. He has just climaxed inside her and is suspended in post-coital exhaustion. She holds him tightly and buries her face in his shoulder as the warm tear water starts to fill the rims of her eyes. She tries to think of something else but it’s no use; the tears are now fully formed. So she holds him for longer and he seems to want to stay there, oblivious to her silent crying. She controls the urge to sob and shudder, blinking hard and softly kissing his shoulder and chest.

She longs for the ability to transfer her emotion to him, convert him to her faith (her faith being him and his being her).“Please love me like I love you” she keeps saying again and again in her head. But to him she is nothing – just a hole to drill from time to time. “Please love me.”

By the time he rolls over she has swallowed back the tears and discreetly dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. He hasn’t a clue that she felt anything other than carnal pleasure. He is relaxed, relieved to have shot his load, enjoying his post-orgasm lethargy. But it is the morning after and soon he will slowly start to move, get dressed and leave her here alone with his aroma still in the room. All that will remain will be the creases in the bed sheets, the dent in the pillow, an empty coffee cup and some faint teeth marks on her shoulder, which will have faded by the end of the day.

She is preparing for the emptiness, the longing. It always comes as soon as he leaves. She is just sex, convenient sex, a bit of a conversation, a few drinks then sex.

He starts talking about something completely unrelated and she feels the tears pushing their way up again, but he cannot see her. She cannot let him know she feels anything, so she swallows hard and turns away to take a sip of water. This buys her more time to compose herself, take a deep breath. She’s fine, relaxed, breezy. She could even attempt to say something witty and self-deprecating.

It works – he’s oblivious and she secretly congratulates herself for becoming such an expert at repressing her emotions.

He leaves, contented, untroubled, unaware.

Waiting

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I look out of the window for the umpteenth time at the same time as reprimanding myself for doing so; I know standing at the window doesn’t make anyone arrive sooner, but I still do it and have done it since I was tall enough to see out.

Waiting for someone to arrive doesn’t get any easier. Despite age and experience, it still drives us to distraction and makes us obsess about things that are normally trivial.

I take another look at my dress. It looks wrong and makes my tummy bulge. I run upstairs to frantically search for an alternative, then dash into another room which looks out on to the road. Still no sign of him.

I check my phone for the 20th time – no new messages. So I start looking at earlier ones to see if there is any hint that he will be late or even not show up at all. There’s nothing obvious – just a series of ‘Oks’, ‘Yeses’ and ‘See you thens’.

Why do we over-think things and look for ‘signs’? They don’t read into anything.

Catching my reflection in a mirror I scrutinise my makeup. A tiny smudge of eyeliner convinces me I have to do that eye all over again – it just won’t do. And is my underwear ok? Does that bra work? Do my arm pits need an extra scrape with the razor, even though I did them only 40 minutes ago in the shower?

Eye redone, undies satisfactory, pits passable, I rush downstairs – I could have missed him in the 30 seconds which have elapsed since I last looked out of the window.

I then turn my attention to straightening newspapers and magazines on the table in the lounge, crawling around on the floor picking bits off the carpet and straightening cushions on chairs. This is all punctuated with glances out of the window every few seconds.

I am now running out of slightly pointless things to do and will soon move on to utterly ridiculous things if he doesn’t come soon. He is already five minutes late. What if he is not going to show at all? What will I do?

My phone suddenly bleeps. I jump a few inches off the ground, as I am so on edge that the slightest thing is liable to send me into shock.

‘Running a bit late’, he says.

‘A bit late?!’ I scream out loud. Not the best news when I’ve been running back and forth and up and down the stairs like a demented hamster. But at least I know and now have even more time for carpet bit-picking, cushion-fluffing, lining up bowls of nuts in perfect symmetry and checking my makeup 20 more times.

‘Ok,’ I reply, ‘no worries’.

Do you remember the first time?

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I was very prim and proper about sex, believing it to be a special, sacred thing… when I was 16.

This may seem a shock coming from a self-confessed, slightly tipsy, slapper and bearer of two children.

But yes, readers, at the age of 16, I declared to my friends that I was definitely not going to have sex before I got married. I wouldn’t even have a tincy wincy go at it, just to see if my betrothed was any good at it. No, my virginity would remain intact until I entered the marital bed for the first time.

Whether this was naïve, idealistic or plain stupid, I will never know. I just remember meeting up with some of those friends after the first term of college and my reaction when they enquired as to how the whole virginity thing was going. I felt my face turning a deep beetroot shade as I confessed I lost it to a 5’5’’ goth bloke (my first time).

It seems that at 18, I held on to my ‘maidenhood’ a little longer than most. According to the most recent figures I can find, the average age to pop one’s cherry is around 16, the UK’s age of consent. But apparently 27% of women manage to do it before they reach this age while this figure for men is just 22% (figures from the 2011 Health Survey for England).

I am aware of two girls who did it at around 14, but if any of my other peers were ‘at it’ they certainly remained very quiet about it.

So what age is the right one? It probably depends on the individual, their maturity, attitude to relationships and their religious beliefs, if they have any. I don’t feel like I missed out by waiting longer – as you can see from these pages, I made up for lost time, anyway.

It would seem different countries – let’s just restrict it to Europe for now – beg to differ on the UK’s idea of when one is ready. Spain has the lowest age of consent in the continent at just 13 while Estonia, Germany and Italy plump for 14 and France, Denmark and Greece are among those to declare it 15. But in Malta and Turkey it is not legal to do it until you reach 18.

But it all depends on how people in these countries behave – children are allowed to have a sip of wine in France or Spain to get them used to it while in this country, we would never do this, but many of us Brits will binge drink, vomit and collapse in the street when we can legally drink. Maybe with a measured, well-informed and calmer approach we would be more responsible about the whole bonking thing. Then again, maybe not. Alcohol adverts often bear the small print ‘drink responsibly’. Could we extend this to clubs, bars and certain holiday destinations with the message ‘fuck responsibly’?

The other bit of that 2011 survey states that women, on average have had 4.7 sexual partners while men have had 9.3. Is this really the average, or did they carefully select who filled out a questionnaire? Regular readers will know that yours truly falls very far above this ‘average’ yard stick. Maybe I should not give my ‘number’ as it is too shocking to confess…

Shoot that poison arrow

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So, ladies – I can only do this one from a female perspective, but hang on in there, chaps, you might learn something. Ahem… So, ladies, you have identified your target, but how do you achieve a direct hit? How do you ensure the object of your desire is struck by your ‘l want you’ arrows?

We are not necessarily talking about love here, but pure lust, and ways of subtly letting the male know that you are very keen to share more than a handshake with him.

From my experience, very few men notice the kind of signals suggested in magazines – eye contact, brushing past, flicking your hair. Most would not even see it if you wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘I’d like to get jiggy with you’ in neon pink across your chest.

Unfortunately, to ensnare your prey you need to work hard, campaign and sometimes be prepared for the long game. It took me three years to finally get it on with The Man. Other personal relationships and obstacles did hamper progress, but he had no idea I fancied him for the first two years. And I surprised myself that my interest and resolve was as strong in the third year as it was in the first.

With this, I may not be the best person to advise, but here are some suggestions anyway:

Find a way to talk: Looking longingly at him and trying to catch his eye are just not enough. He will just think you are staring at him like a nutter and rather than arousing his interest, you are just scaring him off. Ok – you want to admire the view, as you totally, utterly want him, but be subtle about it.

Join in: If he’s a work colleague, make sure you go to any social outings he’s at – being around and accessible means you are not as forgettable as you could be. If he’s a friend of a friend find times when he is going to be out/around.

Non-obvious stalking: Don’t actually stalk – this is not only scary for your target, but can land you in trouble with the law, with an injunction or even custodial sentence! And being a psycho is not going to do anything for your sex life. What I mean is if you know he is in a certain place at a certain time e.g. in the work canteen, waiting to catch a particular bus or train or in the supermarket, show up from time to time. I don’t mean be there every time without fail or he will start to panic and change his routine to avoid you. From time to time, even once a week (but don’t pick the same day every week or he will notice a pattern) be about, breeze past, say ‘hello’ if you dare, smile, tuck your hair behind your ear. Don’t linger – walk by, get the milk out of the fridge, do whatever you have to, but move on. A fleeting appearance can leave a bigger impression than giving him a full account of your crappy day or the argument you had in the shoe shop when you wanted a refund.

Smarten up: Take a little bit of extra time on your appearance if you can. Check your makeup is tidy – no panda marks under your eyes – and your hair looks clean even if it isn’t. Wear things that highlight your best bits e.g. if you have good boobs, a bit of cleavage doesn’t do any harm, as long as you are not in the realms of a lusty serving wench in a 17th century tavern. If you have good legs, show them off. To do all this, you don’t have to dress obscenely – this won’t go down well at work and your friends will think you’ve had a knock on the head. Just look in the mirror and think “would I fancy me?” or “what will he notice first if I wear this dress?”

Create a ‘oops’ moment: Once your ‘breezing by’ routine is established, I don’t see anything wrong with you creating a situation where you have to interact, even if it is an old cliché. Dropping a pile of papers near him, forcing him to come and help you pick them up, may have been applied in dozens of movies, but it’s worth a go. It will test out whether he’s a selfish git or a polite and helpful sweetie if nothing else. Alternatives are accidentally bumping into him in a crowded place, dropping something out of your handbag on the platform or near the bus stop, even spilling a drink. Even if he helps you up and asks if you are alright before walking off, it gives you something to refer to next time.

Take an interest: Assuming you get talking eventually be completely, utterly interested in everything about him (even if your only interest is seeing him naked). So, you are supressing a yawn when he drones on about Formula One, steam trains, logarithms or computer programming. But you have to put on your best Oscar-winning performance and look fascinated. You should even listen well enough to ask him a few questions on his specialist subject – this will impress him no end.

Take it to another place: The conversation has to continue – either in a bar, restaurant or if you are daring enough, your sofa or boudoir. Find a way to do this – “we should talk some more in the pub” or your selected venue. If he takes the bait, you are a step closer to take off. If he doesn’t , either he’s tired, not interested or clueless about your less than honourable intentions in which case you will have to start all over again with the above steps. And believe me; I’ve been there – three times.

If all else fails: You could just wait until Christmas – if there’s a work Christmas do or you are out with your friends or feeling extra festive at the bus stop when people around you are a little more jovial than usual. Then, either blurt out that you fancy the arse off him, dive in for a kiss or launch yourself at him. This will at least get you a swift response as to whether the last few weeks/months/years have been an utter waste of time or well worth the graft. If it all goes horribly wrong you can use Christmas as an excuse and pretend you lost it for a few seconds.

Celluloid or cellulite – part 2: The Dirty Weekend

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I got a little attached to our friends, Barry and Sandra and their unrealistic movie couple counterparts, Benedict and Rosetta. So they are back for a sequel.

Benedict and Rosetta have been billing and cooing in perfect harmony for some time now, in the fantasy ‘set’ of pastel walls, cream carpets and colour-co-ordinated outfits so they decide some excitement is needed. Benedict happens to have an uncle who owns a luxury country house hotel so suggests they take off in his convertible Audi on Friday afternoon.

Barry and Sandra have been bonking like rabbits in every room of each other’s homes (when Sandra gets a night off from her kids) so decide it would be good to do it somewhere different. Barry suggests a dirty weekend in a low budget hotel somewhere near the next town – “it’s got en suite, love, and there will be free custard creams and tea bags”. He’ll take them in his Toyota Starlet.

Friday arrives and Rosetta lets out a cheerleader squeal of excitement. Her ‘Benny’ pulls up in a car so shiny that it practically dazzles. Rosetta wears a floral dress, scarf and sun glasses – the glamorous way to travel in an open top car. Of course, the weather is perfect in movie land so no need to worry about wind, rain or a hair falling out of place.

Barry’s car splutters and backfires to the car park below Sandra’s third floor flat. She runs down and throws her bag on to the backseat (covered in sweet wrappers and crisp packets). Barry has to get out so she can shuffle across the driver’s seat, getting her foot stuck between the gear stick and hand brake, as the passenger door has been jammed since 1998. There is no CD player, just a tape slot and Barry has a chewed-up Chumbawamba cassette playing.

Exhilarating orchestral music plays as Benedict and Rosetta whizz along country lanes, the wind billowing through Rosetta’s silky blonde tresses. They glance lovingly into one another’s eyes for a second.

The Starlet shakes and jerks as Barry attempts to take it up a hill. He has to lean forward to put his foot down as far as it will go on the accelerator to avoid it stalling. Relief at it making it to the top fills him with a frisky urge and his hand wanders across to Sandra’s thigh. He strokes her leg gently, lifting it off for a moment to change gear, then back again and up her denim mini skirt. She sighs in arousal, then… “Shit!” They go round a bend and are shocked to find a long queue of traffic. Barry has to break suddenly, making the cassette jump and snatching his hand away from Sandra.

Our movie couple have now arrived at their country hotel – a majestic castle-like mansion with acres of fields and gardens, a dark wood-panelled reception area with huge chandeliers. They check in with the attractive receptionist as ‘Mr and Mrs Smith’ – disappointingly unoriginal. The couple dash up to their room, arranging to have their luggage ‘sent up’. It is bedecked with chintzy country cottage curtains and lamps and is dominated by a large four-poster bed half-covered with sumptuous fluffy cushions.

Barry and Sandra are late and bedraggled. The traffic jam delayed them for forty minutes and they ended up arguing over the Chumbawamba cassette which Sandra said was ‘crap’. At one point she threatened to get out of the car and walk, but then remembered the door was jammed. They drag their bags to the reception area of their budget hotel, but no one is there. Barry rings the bell four times before a grumpy woman in her 50s, with missing teeth and glasses on a chain round her neck, emerges. They can’t be bothered giving false names, as they just want to go to their room and eat biscuits.

Benedict and Rosetta are now lying in their romantic bed after making love. A bottle of champagne sits in an ice bucket and they are feeding one another strawberries. As usual they look flawless – Benedict is tanned and toned with a smooth six-pack stomach while Rosetta’s hair looks brushed and glossy, her breasts are symmetrical and her make-up just as it was six hours ago. The camera pans out as the pair embrace.

Dishevelled and thoroughly fed up, Barry and Sandra throw their bags on the floor of their room after taking a few minutes to figure out the card-key lock. The room is plain and a little cramped with barely any space between the dressing table and bed. No bed posts here – just a plain bed with white duvet and the standard four pillows and a fire evacuation plan on the wall.

They look at each other for a few seconds and the argument and traffic jam melt away. Sandra gently leans into Barry and pushes him on to the bed so she is sitting on top of him. She kisses him hurriedly at the same time as working open his zip and fly. She caresses his penis before lowering herself over it. They both throw off their clothes and have frantic, sweaty, passionate sex. Sandra orgasms loudly as Barry works his fingers in all the right places. Then as he enters her hard from behind he moans and explodes. They both roll on to the bed, coated in perspiration and sex. “Shall we have that cup of tea and custard cream, now?” Suggests Sandra.