A fan(ny) for all seasons

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Those of you who live in warmer climes (I know I have at least one Australian reader) will have to forgive my indulgence this week. Warm weather in the UK is so rare that people act oddly at the slightest sniff of sunshine, ripping their clothes off, jumping into rivers even when they are too shallow and declaring a drought when it has rained for the last six months.

So, in the midst of a ‘heatwave’ us Brits also find ourselves a little frisky, as we are wearing fewer clothes and cracking open the beer or Pimms at least an hour earlier than usual. In the true spirit of sweaty arm pits, non-air conditioned offices and lily-white legs sporting the socks-and-sandals combo, I feel it my duty to compile a hot versus cold weather sex list. All scientifically proven, of course (or maybe not).

  1. Hot: It’s possible to have sex outdoors without anything shrinking.
    Cold: Sex al fresco is not very inviting, but at least with the extra darkness, you can do it in the shadows.  And with some brandy inside, you may not feel the chill.
  2. Hot: On a similar theme, there are suddenly more possible locations where one can copulate – be it in a field, on a tree trunk, park bench, swimming pool, Rhododendron bush, allotment or garden shed.
    Cold: Unless you are happy to freeze your bits off the most likely place is in bed, on a sofa or rug in front of a roaring fire.
  3.  Hot: It’s easier to whip your clothes off for a ‘must do it now’ moment as you’re probably only in a little sun dress or bikini (and that’s just the men).
    Cold: With all those layers it can be time consuming and frustrating stripping off. His army may have even retreated before you reach your vest. One leg out of trouser and knicker is a possible way around this.
  4. Hot: Shagging in high temperatures can be very tiring with excessive perspiration before you have even reached ‘second base’, so you could find yourselves collapsed on the bed/floor/field/shrubbery very early on.
    Cold: You need to go at it hammer and tongs just to keep warm and only feel chilly when you have finished, which means you at least have an excuse to cuddle and snuggle under a duvet.
  5. Hot: Summer always makes me hornier, especially when the air is heavy with humidity and I am so hot that my clothes are virtually peeling themselves off.
    Cold: Winter means the run-up to Christmas with parties and opportunities to go out for a few drinks and try to attract the attention of a chosen target. Such evenings are bursting with hope, possibility and excitement.

Conclusion: You should know by now that there never is a clear conclusion to these lists. Maybe, rather than the two extremes, we should focus our attentions on autumn and spring. Or maybe we should enjoy having our fancies tickled whatever the weather. As long as the man behind the tickling stick knows how to use it (much appreciated, The Man).

A many splendored thing

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I can count on one hand how many times it has happened to me – well, actually three fingers of one hand. But for some people, all their fingers and toes may not be enough, while for others a big fat fist of zero says it all.

A simple, probably unoriginal comment on one of those social networking sites – the one that sounds like a brand of bird food – got me thinking. It said: “Women use sex for love while men use love for sex.”

Of my three ‘occasions’ just one did not start with sex, but all three ended in failure or rejection – maybe I am just good at getting it wrong.

The one that did not start with sex, ended with sex, so what’s the difference? He was a good friend and I actually fell for his personality before his looks (let’s call him S). When we went out as a group on a Saturday night in our 20s, I somehow always ended up chatting to S, moaning about a clingy boyfriend I had at the time. S was always willing to listen, impart his wisdom and never looked bored. Maybe he was just a good actor, but I began to realise how unique this was for a man in his early 20s.

I then began to notice his face, the way he talked and everything about him gradually became wonderful, beautiful, perfect. I would gaze into his eyes as each Saturday he would make time to ask how I was in a way that made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

The flip side was that he was also a big drinker and would deteriorate into a shambling mess by the end of the evening. And he was still deeply troubled by the break-up of his last relationship. But the lost and troubled boy was all the more endearing. I thought I could heal him. As the months passed it became obvious to everyone else that I was smitten – especially since I have never done well at hiding my emotions, even when I think I am being discreet. He knew it too.

We managed a couple of drunken snogs, out of the sight of everyone else – I thought he was being romantic when in fact he probably didn’t want to be seen with me. We also fell into his bed drunk on one occasion, but it was strictly clothes on and no sex.

A year passed and my feelings didn’t change. I would sit in my flat listening to Radiohead and crying into my pillow at the injustice of him not wanting to be with me. S had said he did not want a relationship. This in the phrase book of the male language, which I will write one day, should end with the silent two words of ‘with you’. The other well known, overused dumping line is ‘I can’t do this anymore’, only slightly less common than ‘it’s not you, it’s me’!

S and I continued to have our drunken snogs, which lifted, then dashed my spirits repeatedly. Then, I thought we had a minor breakthrough on a visit to friend in another town. We all slept on his floor after a wild night out. We kissed and fumbled and he allowed me access to his lengthy member so I could quietly tuck in. But still, despite my success at popping his cork, he wouldn’t let me in emotionally and I returned to my pillow and Radiohead.

So, I surrendered, tried to move on, had other relationships. But for a year or so, I would always compare them to him and they never matched up.

Then I met the man I ended up marrying, which seemed to give him a sharp kick in the nads. As soon as he heard I was engaged, he sat up and took notice. I continued to have the odd night out with my friends without the fiancé. But S became the attentive person he was when we first met, asking if I was sure I wanted to be married. This turned to ‘do you have to get married’ then ‘don’t get married’. We then had a very drunken night – I can’t even remember where or when – and ended up at my flat. He pleaded with me to ‘do it just the once’ before I got married. What could I do? After all those years of love and lust, how could I resist, even though I was supposedly making a lifelong commitment to someone else?

We hurriedly threw our clothes off, as if the heating had suddenly been turned up, and dived into bed. But alcohol had the last laugh. He entered me once then rolled over after a few seconds when everything wilted. I am not even sure if what happened actually qualified as sexual intercourse.

We left it at that, remained friends, I got married, the marriage broke up after several years, he got together with a long-term female friend and they are still together. He got it right. I got it wrong.

And the other two occasions – one was a six-month relationship at university with another drunk – this time a very intelligent, musically talented and charismatic one who got bored of me. And the other? That would be telling.

Manual controls

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The air is still, hanging with expectation. It is a hot, humid night – the kind where it is hard to settle, relax, sleep.

I lie on my bed, just out of the shower, but already feeling beads of sweat starting to form down my back and under my breasts. I run my hands over them, stroking my fingers over my nipples round and round until they start to tingle and send waves of excitement down to my groin.

As these waves run down my body, I slowly echo the direction with my hands, gliding them down from my breasts, slowly towards my stomach, hips, thighs so gently and lightly that the back of my neck also tingles. My fingers take a right angle turn from my thighs to my groin and I feel my mound and pubic hair through thin cotton knickers. I like to seduce myself slowly, as the anticipation makes the finale all the more delicious.

I stroke this mound through the layer of cotton, going nowhere near the pink dragon in his damp cave, who is now starting to wake from his deep slumber. My fingers move in tiny circles, alternating between the pads of my fingers and the edges of my nails. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation. Then the cheeky middle finger of my right hand tentatively dips under the side of the gusset and carefully slides across the outer labia to the area around the clitoris.

I give out an involuntary gasp at the sudden surge of arousal and gear change this brings about. No longer idle caresses – now the rocket is fuelling for take-off! And so the cheeky finger grows bolder and begins to pulsate faster and faster, sending waves of electricity through my body. My lower body begins to tilt upwards and wriggle and jerk up and down. The finger has a mind of its own and seems to move independently while I am no longer in control of my body, panting and groaning. I keep my eyes shut so nothing distracts me from the waves of ecstasy shooting through me from head to toe.

Then it happens. I always have a warning it’s on its way as I get a high pitched muffled sound in my ears – like ducking under water. My entire body shakes in one giant spasm and a powerful, joyous tidal wave overcomes me. My mind is completely empty for a few seconds. I gasp and moan and want to shout ‘yes’ but hold back so I wake no one. I then feel the urge to bury my face in the pillow next to me and hug it.

The naked barman*

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I stood in the doorway of the shabby ground floor apartment, aghast – firstly at the stack of clear packages in the bathroom which contained an illegal white powder – then at the naked Mediterranean man reclining on the bed, beckoning me to join him.

It was the very early 1990s, I had only just turned 18 and had led a relatively sheltered life up until now. But here I was, on my first holiday abroad to a Spanish island (I am being deliberately vague on location to protect the ‘innocent’) with three friends, whom I now suspect only invited me along for amusement value and to make up numbers, rather than a genuine desire for my oddball company (I was rather an eccentric teenager). What should have been a fun-filled riot of a trip had taken an unexpected turn and I had ended up in the apartment of a coke-dealing/snorting Spanish barman who thought he could shag me in his break.

I suppose being 18, extremely naïve, drunk in his bar every night and flirting outrageously didn’t help my cause. I had even had what is nowadays referred to as a ‘wardrobe malfunction’ one night, in which the strap of my dress had snapped and left one of my boobs hanging out. I had been so drunk on cheap beer that I didn’t notice until the end of the night when my ‘mates’, and some guys they befriended, finally pointed it out after sniggering at me all evening.

On another occasion I was in such a state that I was either vomiting in the street or sitting flopped over with my head between my knees for the whole night. When we returned to our apartment my ever-so-kind-and-caring chums thought it was a good plan to spray me fully dressed with a cold shower.

Back to the barman: He convinced me that he really liked me and I swallowed every cliché and false compliment. Then one night he suggested I hung about until closing time when he would take me to his apartment.

He had whipped his clothes off while I used his loo/coke store. I was a virgin and he was only the second fully naked man I had ever seen (my first was my granddad when I was staying at their house as a toddler and decided to go for a wander in the early hours. I bumped into him coming out of the bathroom. I don’t know who was more shocked – me or him – but to this day the image has never left my memory). I had seen penises, supplying a few blowjobs, as I wasn’t in a rush to lose my virginity and thought this would appease them for a bit. But I hadn’t really seen the full picture and how it all fitted together. What I couldn’t take my eyes off was the piercing he had at the top end of his penis – what many refer to as a ‘Prince Albert’. The little gold ring seemed to wink at me as he pulled his substantial willy about in an attempt to lure me in. He even said it ‘made sex better’.

While the effect of the large glistening bell end had the appeal of a bowl of chocolate whispering the words ‘eat me’ a feeling of discomfort had already started to grow in me, like an aggressive weed. Despite my dizzy beer head, everything suddenly felt wrong and this was not how I wanted to lose my virginity – to a creepy, serial shagging drug addict barman – all his exotic appeal and handsome looks had suddenly faded. Even his ability to toss and spin bottles with the skill of Tom Cruise in ‘Cocktail’ now seemed like some crude circus act. The more supportive of my three ‘friends’ had also agreed to wait outside for me, so I grabbed my bag, dashed out and we flagged down a taxi.

*If you read my first ever post you will recall my assertion that what appears here is part truth, part embellishment, so while some of this is true, some is not – just don’t expect me to specify which is which…

Celluloid or cellulite?

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Whether it’s Hollywood, Pinewood or even Cricklewood, it always baffles me as to why the two leading characters on the silver or small screen* are so unconvincing when they end up horizontal ski-ing.

The thing they are doing together is not the ‘bonkery’ of regular human beings, such as you or I (or maybe I am living in a parallel universe where no one else stumbles, gets cramp or passes gas).

Setting the scene: Benedict and Rosetta have just enjoyed a flirtatious romantic evening at a restaurant or one of their homes. The wine has gone to their heads and now they are kissing frantically. Music plays over the scene – strings, a sixties soul classic or electronic keyboard. Benedict starts to kiss Rosetta on the neck, slowly running his hands down her back towards her perfectly toned derriere.

Meanwhile: Barry and Sandra have enjoyed a few drinks down the Queen’s Head and a bag of chips on the way home. They really fancy each other and have already snogged down an alleyway on the way back to Sandra’s flat. They sit on the sofa (after throwing off the pile of ironing and old tissues) and devour each other’s faces, tongues and all. Barry shoves his hand down Sandra’s top to grab her right boob.

Benedict and Rosetta seem to stand up in unison before Benedict takes Rosetta’s perfectly manicured hand and leads her to the bedroom. The bed is perfectly neat, covered in fluffy cushions; there are big bedside lights, co-ordinated rugs and no clutter whatsoever. In the next shot they are kissing at the same time as lowering themselves on to the bed in slow motion. The same song from earlier still playing and no audible slurping or sighing.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ Slurs Barry. So the pair stagger up to Sandra’s bedroom. Her bed is strewn with all the clothes she tried on when she was getting ready. There are tissues, magazines, books and a Lego train on the floor. Sandra has to throw the clothes off the bed and kick aside a few teddies to make a safe passage to the bed. As they embrace on the bed, Barry fumbles to undo Sandra’s bra, so she puts one arm behind her back and flicks it open.

Benedict and Rosetta are now both naked, although you cannot see their genitals, just their perfect, smooth, toned bodies – Benedict has a six pack stomach and bulky biceps while Rosetta hasn’t a scrap of cellulite and perfect breasts and a flat tummy. Benedict writhes on top of her and she throws her head back sighing ‘oh, Benny, oh Benny’.

Barry and Sandra are still struggling to disrobe. Barry trips over trying to remove his trousers and smashes something on Sandra’s dressing table. Sandra lies on the bed and manages to kick her knickers off so that they fly across the room, meaning she probably won’t find them in the mess for another two weeks. Barry dives on to the bed and directs her to his member so that she can give him a blow job and stop the beer-induced floppy.

Benedict and Rosetta are still ‘making love’ perfectly framed by silk sheets. Now the beautiful Rosetta is astride Benedict, but the sheets somehow cover her pubic mound. Her long glossy blonde hair is still perfectly styled as she throws her head back in ecstasy, exclaiming ‘Oh God!’

Sandra has rescued Barry’s hard-on and they launch into penetration, but five minutes later Sandra shouts: “Stop! I really need the loo.” So she has to run out of the room, quickly pees and takes this opportunity to remove her contact lenses, before dashing in and trying to resume what they started. Barry needs a quick ‘blowie’ to rouse him again and off they go. Their rounded bellies slap against each other and everything wobbles and jiggles, particularly Sandra’s boobs and she jokingly rubs them against Barry’s face.

Benedict and Rosetta are way ahead now – lying in each other’s arms, blissfully, occasionally taking sips of the champagne which has somehow found its way into the bedroom (I don’t remember seeing them bring it in earlier). They talk about how their eyes met across the park and taking a trip away somewhere together.

Barry and Sandra are still going strong, testing a few positions before Barry comes while taking Sandra from behind and collapses on to the bed. He then lets out a fart so loud that it vibrates through the bed and almost makes the walls shake. ‘Oops, sorry,’ he says, ‘must have been that jumbo sausage I had earlier.’ Sandra can’t hide her little giggle which quickly vanishes when the smell reaches her nostrils.

Benedict and Rosetta have fallen asleep in one another’s arms, romantic music framing the scene. The silk sheets seem to have magically stuck to Rosetta’s breasts (or her breasts have Velcro nipples). No snoring can be heard and they still look as perfect as they did at the beginning – hair neatly styled, Rosetta’s lipstick and mascara are still both intact.

Barry and Sandra had a sweaty cuddle, but are now sleeping at opposite sides of the bed facing away from one another. They tried to lie in each other’s arms, but after five minutes Sandra’s stiff neck flared up so she had to move. She also sneaks another trip to the bathroom and gasps at her reflection – her hair is bedraggled and her eye makeup is smeared all over her face so she looks like she has been in a fight with a pen. She tries to clean the worst off with a flannel and sneaks back into bed with a now snoring Barry.

Benedict and Rosetta can no longer be seen – an upbeat 80s hit is now playing and the screen is covered with film credits. They got their rose-tinted, sugar-coated happy ending, so no one needs to know what happened next. Unless they decide to make a sequel.

*I’m talking mainstream movies, not porn here – I’ll save that for another time.

The might-haves and what-ifs

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You are in the queue at one of those discount bakeries and there is only one thing on your mind. It stares out from the glass case, almost saying “look at me, I am so delicious and you want me, don’t you?” It’s the last chocolate éclair.

You are almost at the front of the queue now – there’s only an old guy in front before it’s your turn and you can finally get the éclair. But wait a minute – the old guy mutters but you can just about make out his words – “choc-o-late e-clair” – nooooo!  So near but so far and all you can do is opt for the dried-up gingerbread man. Your heart is heavy and you don’t even feel hungry any more. If only you had set off five minutes earlier.

This is a long, convoluted illustration of the near misses in life, the ones that got away – I wanted to avoid the over-used fishing metaphor.

There are always those events you look back at and think “would it have been so bad if I had done that, chosen him, accepted that job, taken the alternative route home…” etc.

With me it starts with the nice, sweet boy, a mate of my friend’s boyfriend. They had tried to put us together, which he was totally up for but I wasn’t. He seemed too much of a geeky goody-two- shoes – not unattractive, but too sweet and inexperienced with girls. I also lacked experience (hard to believe now) at the age of 15. But I wanted a proper man to teach me stuff. Instead my first boyfriend was the groping 18-year-old who lived two doors down and had his own car. With hindsight, neighbour with car was arrogant and only after one thing, which I didn’t give him, while sweet geeky boy genuinely liked me and would have treated me with some respect. Maybe we would have stayed together and made geeky babies and we would have all gone out wearing identical Star Wars t-shirts.

Then there was tall skinny Indy music guy at university. I will call him D. D had shiny black hair in that rather odd messy bob style fans of ‘shoegazer’ bands (Google it) could get away with circa 1991, and piercing blue eyes. With his chiselled cheek bones and handsome features he should have had girls crawling all over him, but he was very shy and quiet.

One of my friends had just dumped him, as she got frustrated with his lack of chit-chat, and introduced me to him with the aim of setting us up. I don’t think he actually spoke to me for half an hour – just smiled and twinkled his perfect eyes at me while she rambled on. It turned out he was quite interested and I think we spent a couple of nights together, fully clothed in his bed, just kissing. His laid back, uncommunicative approach and my need, at the time, for things to happen halted a relationship before it even started. My head was soon turned by more outgoing, rugged alternatives and poor D was soon forgotten. I would sometimes see him at the back of the student bar, pulling a sad little boy face at me, and be almost drawn back to him, but he either didn’t have the fight or the heart to try any harder.

A few years after leaving university I discovered an extremely cute barman (I’ll call him G) working in one of the scruffy nightclubs my friends and I frequented on a Saturday night, after a few too many ciders. With dark wavy hair, olive skin and dazzling blue eyes (there’s a running theme here all of a sudden) I couldn’t help but be drawn to G, especially as he always made the effort to talk to me. After a few weeks I tried my luck at asking him out for a drink. It paid off and we became an item.

We had a few happy weeks of getting to know each other and things seemed to be going really well – he was intelligent, witty and the sex was just starting to get interesting. Then I flushed the whole thing down the toilet on a night out with friends. One of my male friends had an old school friend up to stay from London, someone I had met a few times previously and had always fancied. We were in a late opening bar and G was meeting me there later after he finished work. I should have been sensible, not drank too much and enjoyed the anticipation of seeing G later. But no, I was a foolish woman in her mid-20s with a reckless edge. The ciders went down a little too quickly and ‘London friend’ gradually became the most beautiful man on the planet and he was spending a lot of time talking to me. My drunken, twisted philosophy was that life is too short to let fidelity get in the way and ‘London friend’ was only there for the weekend. A couple more ciders and our lips just couldn’t stay apart any longer. Within an hour G turned up, I confessed what had happened and he left immediately.

This, readers, is one of my biggest regrets. I tried to call G to appeal to his forgiving nature, but it didn’t work. A couple of months later a friend told me he had moved away, but had managed to get a mobile number for him. I made the mistake of calling him. He was surprised to hear from me but quickly ended the conversation. And I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach; guilt, regret and embarrassment, all in one steel toe-capped boot.

But we would not be the people we are now if it wasn’t for a few bad decisions and if we took the right track every time we would always reach our destination without any adventures along the way.

In the mirror

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Hair, once full and glossy, now a little dull
Dyed to cover sprouting greys and fake my youth,
Tracks of time have crept across my forehead,
Worry ploughs working through the night.
The eyes begin to sag and once faint lines are clear,
Whatever makeup I wear.                                                                                        
Where did the girl go?

Breasts, once pert and bouncy, grapefruits not melons
Heading south, the droop begins.
Nipples, once rosebuds, now walnuts
No longer my pride and joy, just deflated tennis balls.
Where did the girl go?

Then comes the most hated, sagging mass,
Once small and rounded (never flat and taut)
With peachy smooth skin.
Now flabby, sagging, overstretched by two tenants.
The navel, once small and winking, is now a lazy eye
Surrounded by creases and orange peel skin,
Unsightly and ugly, no wonder the girl ran.

Wobbly thighs, the colour of raw sausage rub together
But there was never a gap.
Dry bony knees, bruised and scarred,
Sausage legs, with trickling blue veins appearing
Feet once described as pretty, now misshapen, nails thickening
And a crust of dry skin needs a sandblast now and then,
There is nothing left of the girl.

The bottom, once a ripe, full peach, has started the same journey
South for winter, with dimpled skin and saggy creases
And the hands start to change to veiny claws,
Worn down with years of toil, no doubt the arthritic gene
Will turn fingers bent and gnarled.

But still the shell aches to be filled,
The dark pink warm and wet cave needs to be touched
The body needs to be held, to feel the warmth of another.
The girl will not be back.
No one can love an ageing, sagging sack.
They all look for the girl.

Today’s post also comes with a soundtrack: : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHRNSeuvzlM So, it’s Aerosmith – judge me as you will.

Dirty stop out

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Before I launch into this week’s offering, I have to explain, dear readers, that my face is burning hot while I am shivering and coughing like a cat with fur balls. This isn’t because I have my front against the oven and my rear in the fridge, while gorging on doughnuts, either. I am not expecting your ‘there theres’ and sympathetic violins – I just felt the need to explain why what follows may be a little below par. But in the absence of a deputy DSM, I will soldier on, muddle through and fight my bug to bring you your weekly service! Hurrah (cough, cough)!

Your eyes open, you start to come round and it suddenly hits you that you are not in your own bed – the sheets smell different and the pictures on the wall are alien – and who is this person snoring next to you?

It may be the first (and last) time you have woken up here; it may be the 20th, but for whatever reason you have to leave, now. The first obstacle is wriggling out of bed unnoticed – easy if the other person is facing away from you on the other side of the bed, not so if you are clamped down under their arm. After you have pulled a move a contortionist would be proud of, there’s the clothes scavenger hunt – taking you all around the bed, on selected stairs and down to the lounge where you will find your bra/wallet/coat/leftover chips.

This all a breeze compared to getting out of the house, facing the cold light of day and doing the… WALK OF SHAME. And I’m sorry, men but this is much worse as a female, unless you hooked up at a fancy dress party and have to somehow get home dressed as a chicken.

My first WALK OF SHAME (WOS) occurred rather late, when I was a student but any shame or embarrassment was probably largely in my head and not evident on the outside. My underwear felt grubby, worse so when trapped under tight black leggings, I felt dirty and my makeup was smudged and crusty. I thought everyone would be able to tell I had been a ‘dirty stop-out’ and committed a sin by spending the night with a man.

In truth, being a student in the 1990s probably worked in my favour – I could just be pulling the grunge look, like a bargain bucket Courtney Love (Google her, if you are too old/young to know her), except I’ve never had bleach-blonde hair.

The worst thing would be running into a friend while walking back from a night of sin, although this was rare as it would usually be a Sunday morning. If it occurred I would avoid eye contact and pretend to be in a hurry.

A particularly bad WOS happened when I made a serious error of judgement in winding up at an ex-boyfriend’s friend’s house. He happened to live on the same road as my ex and I was spotted by the ex’s mum sneaking out the next morning. Of course she wasted no time in telling her dear son what she had just witnessed. And an angry confrontation took place later that day.

The other that sticks in my mind was several years later when I ended up at a house in the outskirts of a nearby town, somewhere I am not too familiar with. I had successfully pulled the bed exiting wiggle, the clothes hunt and was ready to make a break for it, when I realised all the doors were locked and there were no keys in sight. What security conscious folks this guy and his housemates were. It was early and I didn’t want to wake anyone so I looked around frantically for a way out. The front door was out so I looked to the kitchen and side door. Firmly shut, but the window next to it was the sort that opened outwards on a hinge across the top. I couldn’t squeeze through it (I’ve never been a willowy type) but maybe I could manipulate the handle from the other side. And I did. Thank goodness for dodgy rented houses and their dodgy locks.

But my problems were far from over, as after tiptoeing into the street, I realised I had no idea where I was. The outskirts of a town, yes, but what area and bus route, no. It was a hot day and my night-before clothes stifled me as sweat trickled down my back. I waited at the nearest bus stop, hopeful.

A bus appeared after what seemed hours and I asked to go to the town centre. It turned out I had flagged down the wrong bus and was standing on the wrong side of the road. I imagined the largely geriatric passengers, probably on their way to church or visiting friends, tutting and shaking their heads in disgust. Somehow I made it back home, but I did panic that I would have to return to the house, shame-faced and pleading for help.

Maturity means I am now better-prepared for a journey home from The Man’s house. I usually manage to take a spare top and knickers and am allowed a shower before I leave, so I don’t have the Eau de Sweaty Slut on me as I travel home. The Man also builds me back up with breakfast and coffee, so hopefully no one on the bus suspects my debauched night, but then again, who actually cares?

School’s out

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“You have ten minutes to label the male sex organs,” I remember my Biology teacher telling our class of giddy 13 and 14-year-old girls.

I also recall that we were tested the previous lesson on our knowledge of female sex organs and that I scored eight out of ten for my lady bits diagram and nine out of ten on the meat-and-two-veg version. I am not sure whether that showed an early interest in penises and testicles or that I found the words on the male diagram easier to remember.

Those biology lessons and a talk by a lady from a well-known tampon company, who explained periods (plus a bit on how her product was better at absorbing blood than rival brands), was the total sum of any sex education I had in school in the late 1980s. I learnt some stuff from my more experienced peers – the two girls in my class who lost their virginity at around 13 and held court at lunchtimes with their tales of bonking and groping misadventure. I am sure they would not have been so frank in a mixed school.

The rest of my knowledge came through sneaking a peek at my mum’s copy of ‘The Joy of Sex’ – which made me cringe a little, especially the bearded 1970s man and the very intimate images; my little brother’s porn mag stash which he hid in his bottom drawer and on- the-job training. Seeing ‘love-making’ scenes in pre-watershed TV programmes and films was no help – as a romantic dreamer in my early teens it made me think the whole thing involved rolling around in silk sheets kissing and cooing over each other. I would gaze at the posters in my bedroom and imagine myself doing that with the keyboard player from A-ha or John Taylor from Duran Duran.

But as a parent myself, I do worry that things haven’t changed enough. A recent Ofsted study has found that over a third of English schools fail to teach age-appropriate sex and relationships lessons. The problem is apparently a lack of teachers properly trained in this field. As a mother of an eight-year-old girl, I can testify that children of this age are a lot more savvy and sexually aware than 30 years ago. They don’t know about sex, but they know it exists – I had no clue at eight and never even asked those kinds of questions as I lived in blissful ignorance with my Sindy dolls, climbing trees and riding my bike. My daughter on the other hand regularly says “Oo la la”, wiggles her hips and declares she is pretending to be sexy.

Funny, maybe, but also worrying. Children cannot be wrapped in cotton wool and shielded from the real world unless you are bringing them up in a religious commune. Yes, we want to protect them from harm and exploitation, but the world has changed in 30 years so protecting them now also means informing them.

Another factor is that according to research, an increasing number of girls start their periods at primary school i.e. before the age of 11 – another overwhelming reason why sex education has to improve. And I am not levelling all this at girls – boys need to learn how to be responsible, respectful and safe too, as well as protecting themselves from exploitation.

Oh and I forgot to mention the life drawing session we had for our A-level Art group – when we had to sketch a woman in her 50s. After much blushing on our part (while the woman was serene and confident) the only thing we learnt was that pubes turn grey. And it’s easier to sketch the human naked form in charcoal and pastels than with a pencil…

Touch me there

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So, I have covered the penis and the nipple. Any idea where I’m going today? It’s probably on the tip of your tongue – you can’t quite put your finger on it…

To mark today being the last day of International Clitoris Awareness Week I thought I would take a journey ‘down under’.  The word ‘clitoris’ is apparently also Greek for key and is seen as the key to female sexuality, no doubt unlocking the door to our pink caverns.

For someone who has been around the block at least twice, it may surprise you to learn that it has only been in the last four or five years that I have really enjoyed having a ‘bean’.

Before then, some attempts had been made to give it a good time, but few even bordered on a mild tingle, never mind a full-blown pulsating orgasm. At the beginning of my sexual adventures, I had an irrational fear of losing control – put it down to fear of the unknown or self-consciousness over how I might have looked if I let go. So I never allowed myself to come, pushing my lovers’ hands away when I felt my body start to spasm or pulling them up on top of me and forcing them inside if they had been munching the ‘furry burger’. I would usually lie and say I had climaxed and allow them to continue pumping until they exploded, assuming this was what everyone else did.

Funny how age and experience change things – and having sex with someone who is determined to share the bliss. I drifted through my married life in the same way I had previously – as soon as I reached a tingle, I would force him to get on with the rest of it, get it over and done with.

But (as you have already guessed) The Man changed this. He was determined to take me to the other side and persisted in pleasuring me until I reached the dizzy heights of climax, all 8,000 nerve endings included. My clit must have wondered what hit her. She had finger stimulation, a never-tiring mouth and tongue and sometimes a vibrator. The Man would also continue to work his busy fingers while he was inside me, feeling my vaginal walls squeezing him and my body juddering in spin cycle underneath him.

He also bought me my first vibrator so I could enjoy all this when I was alone. So my ‘bald man in a boat’ now leads a very active life, taking regular trips upstream and not complaining about getting his feet wet from time to time.