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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barry and Sandra: The Christmas Special – Part 1

In the British Christmas tradition of dramatic plotlines in TV soap operas I have a treat for readers this year. Ever wondered what happened to Barry and Sandra? Here’s where we catch up with them…

Sandra stands sideways in front of the mirror and sucks in her stomach. She has a slight belly pouch, despite wearing her best ‘control’ pants. But still, her black sparkly dress with a floaty skirt looks pretty good.

She has just had her roots done and her hair looks soft and shiny. As she puts on her lipstick she is filled with excitement and nerves in equal measure – could something good happen tonight or will she remember how low she has been feeling the last few months?

It is the office Christmas party and she knows Barry will be there, and they will set eyes on each other, after weeks of hiding behind desks and ducking into doorways to avoid any awkward exchanges. Barry worked in a different office, so it hadn’t been that hard to avoid him, after he unexpectedly dumped her by text message.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud flush. “You look nice, hun. Who are you trying to impress?” Rasped Stacy, Sandra’s rather loud and large work mate. Stacy winked and didn’t wait for an answer before she breezed out of the office loo.

Sandra glanced at her watch – “Bugger!” It was nearly time to go. She grabbed her bag and dashed out. Her and four colleagues were walking together to the Queen Rose Hotel where her work had hired a function room for turkey dinner and disco.

‘Walking together’ was rather a euphemism, seeing as they were all, including Sandra, wearing spiky high heels which they were already teetering in, before a white wine and soda had even passed their lips. They were clearly hoping for someone to lean on by the end of the evening.

As they walked through the double doors a voice boomed out: “Blimey, girls did it take that long to trowel it on? There’s only half an hour to get the drinks in before the food comes out.” It was Martin the sales manager and Barry’s partner in crime. He was always rather red-faced and Sandra didn’t like the way he regularly looked her up and down and stood too close to her whenever they shared the lift or used the water cooler at the same time.

Barry was there, but sitting at the bar, pretending to read a beer mat, avoiding Sandra’s gaze. He felt bad about what had happened, but was scared to commit, even though he knew Sandra was totally smitten. Deep down he knew he loved her, but kept it buried at the bottom of his mind. His strategy for the night was to get quietly wasted, numb his feelings and slump into his bed when he’d had enough.

Sandra spotted him, but he continued to read the beer mat, despite it only having a handful of words printed on it. With his short dark hair, slightly ruffled and greying at the temples and his straight, handsome features and broad shoulders and blue shirt, he looked sexy. For a second she admired the view, and then remembered the hurt he had caused her. Stacy also tugged her arm to usher her along. “Forget him, love,” she whispered, “Time to move on. You could have anyone you wanted, looking like you do tonight.”

Barry slowly emerged from behind the beer mat, watching Sandra walk across the room. Her bottom looked peachy and round in her dress and her hips had just the right curve for him to encircle with his hands. He thought about holding her from behind and nuzzling his face against her neck.

“Another pint?” Shouted Martin and jolted Barry back to reality. He quickly turned his thoughts to beer and banter and the fact that he was happy on his own, no woman to tie him down, nag him and stop him having a life.

So, Sandra chatted with her friends about shoes, make up, kids and TV and Barry focussed on football, beer, politics and silly jokes with his. They were surviving the night without disturbing one another. Dinner came and went – the usual two thin slices of turkey, soggy veg, runny gravy and small block of stuffing followed by a stodgy lump of pudding.

Tables were hastily cleared and the lights were turned down before the familiar sounds of Boney M blared out, courtesy of Phil Pop, the local mobile DJ. Sandra and Stacy groaned at the cliché soundtrack, which probably hadn’t changed for over 20 years. Barry and his friends retreated to the bar. They, of course, were too cool to dance to this shite (as Barry put it). But he wasn’t too cool to keep glancing over at Sandra, now the beer had zapped away some of his self-control.


Blame it on the body

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.