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

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

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

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

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

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

Please please me

Happiness is often something you only know you have experienced retrospectively. The only time, in DSM’s view, that you know you are happy in the present tense (and omitting anything chemically induced) is either when you are laughing out loud or during an orgasm.

Otherwise, it’s only after the event that you think: “Actually, that was a really fantastic night” or “that time I spent chatting to my friend was perfect.” DSM has recently had one of those days which she can honestly say afterwards was one of the best she’s had in a very long while, but that’s something for a future post…maybe.

So – how can a man make a woman very, very happy in the present tense? He can start by looking at his fingers and thinking less about his penis. In DSM’s experience, too many men focus on their own mission to ejaculate and completely forget there is another person with them. This is such a waste of the sexual act when they may as well have stayed home alone with a couple of beers, watched some porn and ‘spanked their own monkeys’. In the past, I have felt like an inflatable mattress, pinned down under a large weight while I am rhythmically pumped. Maybe if I had swapped myself for a lilo he wouldn’t have even noticed.

So, men – women like unselfish lovers. We are people too who need to enjoy the ‘getting jiggy with it’ experience too. If you help us orgasm, we will also enjoy the penetrative bit a lot more too.

Sluttish as I am, before The Man I had experienced very few orgasms. This was because very few of the men I had slept with had even bothered to try and give me this special gift. Yes, they would clumsily rub their fingers up and down the right region and poke my insides, but only a handful (excuse the pun) of them had attempted the delicate, precise action of pin-pointing the right place and either finger-stimulating or deep sea diving for some oral action.

The Man is the least selfish being I have known in this particular area. It sometimes feels like he would rather please me than himself. I can only assume he gets pleasure from giving me pleasure. He would happily fly me to the moon and back without looking out of the rocket window once, or bake me a delicious cake without being tempted to dip his finger in the icing for a sneaky lick…

His care and attention only makes me want to fly him to the moon (and maybe Jupiter and Mars) and back. Oh, and also to ride him like a wild stallion until we both collapse in a heap, exhausted and physically incapable of doing anything afterwards.

So, men, look at your fingers, check your nails are short (not bitten) and clean. Practice nimble-fingered activities – if you play the piano or guitar, this could be useful. Otherwise, try your hand at threading a needle, finger-painting, making plasticine shapes, popping bubble wrap… anything requiring gentle but precise positioning of the fingers. Next, buy an ice-cream or lolly and eat it entirely through licking – no cheating by biting off chunks – purely tongue work alone. Complete these tasks and you may, just may, get somewhere.