Tall story

Today, I tried wearing high heel shoes for the first time in months. They ripped my feet to shreds and I now have blisters on two of my toes. I’ve never been a good heels-wearer – I teeter about like a man in drag and find my toes and balls of my feet are in agony after a few hours. If I ever tried out being a dominatrix, it would have to be in steel toe capped Doc Marten boots…

So, why put myself through this agony? I’ve met a lovely, gorgeous man who is quite a bit taller than me so thought I would try ‘rising to the occasion’.

It’s been a while since I have dated anyone over 5ft 11, so I am out of practice in the challenges presented by those extra inches. So here are some of the pros and cons of dating a taller man, in case you are going through the same thing, considering one, or you are a taller man yourself:


– Kissing gives you a very stiff neck when you have your head constantly tilted upwards

– Standing on tiptoes can only remedy this for a few seconds before your feet start to ache

– He gets a completely different view of things to you, so you are never quite looking at the same horizon.

– Walking together, holding hands or arms around each other can get a bit wonky and disjointed as his stride is twice the length of yours – rather like being matched to the wrong person in a three-legged race.


– Standing next to a tall guy makes you feel like a dainty little lady, however big you are – the joys of proportions-

– He completely wraps you up in a cuddle, as you fit into his chest and are enclosed in his long arms like a swaddled baby

– He has a totally different view of the world to you so can probably spot rain clouds or seagulls before you do

– His feet are massive, so your shoes next to his look like little doll shoes

– He can reach things off the top shelf so you don’t have to climb up on that wobbly kitchen chair again

– Lying down on the bed, you are both the same height, so size differences don’t matter

– (I’m only guessing on this one, but) performing a blow job won’t be so taxing if you don’t have to kneel down – it is going to be higher up, isn’t it?

Ah, it seems there are more pros than cons, so maybe tall is the way to go, but I have dated my fair share of short guys, so could draw up similar lists for them. Maybe I will see how it goes with my lovely tall man first…

Get dry!

It’s the sexual equivalent of try before you buy, tasting the wine without swallowing it, or test driving a car.

But it’s also something largely done by teenagers, people in a rush or those thinking they are doing something naughty but discreet.

Yes, the dry hump has earned itself something of a seedy, adolescent and slightly naff reputation. But I am starting a campaign here and now to reinvent it as something we all celebrate. Yes, the dry hump is a worthy and perfectly acceptable activity for two consenting adults, whether they are 16 or 56. Go dry humping!

I had a recent re-acquaintance with this much-maligned activity, although, sadly at present, the only dry hump I’m likely to encounter is that on a camel at the zoo…
But zoo animal digression aside, the activity was far more enjoyable and hotter than I had remembered it (as a 15-year-old).

So, when to do it? You have just acquired a new gentleman or lady caller, you have kissed in every way possible, done as much clothes-on fondling as you can muster, but don’t want to hop straight into the sack; this one’s a bit special and you want more than a one night stand with them. But it would be interesting to find out what it might be like, without actually doing it.

So, the snogging gets even more urgent and teeth-clashing and suddenly you end up on the floor (in my case after having hastily shoved toy trains and lorries out of the way). He is on top of you and you both at the same time feel the urge to thrust forward your hips and are both extremely aroused. He pins you down on the floor, your hands above your head, kissing your neck, just down to the top of your cleavage and pushes his groin to yours slowly first, then rhythmically, and you feel his solid erection against you. Again this is another dry hump benefit – if you are resisting handling his member just yet, you at least, now, get a rough idea of size and length.

When your hands are free, you can also check out the quality of his butt and roll over, driving him insane with your thrusts and tantalising cleavage shots. In fact this is an opportunity to showcase your moves and give a ‘dress rehearsal’ of what they might expect, if they play their cards right. And if you are both turned on, it can be pretty explosive – and you haven’t even had to remove any clothing in the process – particularly good if you have body hang-ups and only prefer to disrobe in a red wine fuelled cloud of fuzziness.

This is why dry humping is so great and I encourage everyone to give it a go, with partners new or old, second or third dates, on the beach, at a bus stop, or even by the sink while you’re doing the dishes. But, there are some tips you should consider first:

  1. You both need to be in trousers – if one of you is in a skirt, it’s just too tempting to progress to the ‘wet hump’.  And I would strongly recommend jeans or tough fabric – the friction could be all too much for a linen or viscose number and may result in holes, even ignition…
  2. Not a good idea if either of you have a full bladder, unless you have a change of clothes.
  3. If you are really just going to go this far, make sure you both agree this or those damn jeans are just going to be flung off, anyway, and you may as well have not bothered in the first place. Also on this point, know when to stop, before it gets too hot to handle!
  4. It is fun, arousing, sexy and can be a laugh if you don’t take it too seriously.

So, readers, what are you waiting for? Try a dry hump this weekend – surprise your beau. Meanwhile, I will be checking the zoo opening times.

Can you get a bird in the hand if you are too far in the bush?

A male acquaintance recently joked that the current fashion for an enormous foliage of facial hair is rendering beards the status of appliances, as opposed to light chin coverage.

Ever other guy over 18 seems to be trying out a facial garden. And we aren’t talking a neatly trimmed lawn or ‘goatee’ here, but a shaggy ‘shipwrecked for a month’ look. A cross between this and a Victorian gentleman akin to Charles Dickens or Bram Stoker, if it wasn’t for the obligatory tattoo sleeve, sockless footwear and earlobe-disfiguring jewellery/bath plugs.

Now, I am all for people expressing their individuality/creativity through their appearance (says the woman who once teamed a long orange cardigan with pink tutu-style skirt in a fit of youthful madness). But this isn’t it, seeing as this style choice is afflicting around 25 per cent of the western male population.

I have yet to meet a woman who is in a relationship with such a species (probably due to the fact that most of my female friends are over 35). If I did I would be tempted to ask some intimate questions, e.g.:

  • How is the kissing process?
  • Does his beard get tangled up with your downstairs beard?
  • Do you spend long evenings picking out from his beard bits of spaghetti/steak/rice/biscuit crumbs?

The second of these questions reminds me of an ex’s comment on a couple on our course at uni. She had auburn hair, his was brown, then he decided to try growing a beard. The beard came out ginger. My then beau whispered in my ear: “You do realise that his beard was brown before they got together…?”

The other downside to this over-cultivation of facial follicles is that it ages a man by ten or 20 years – someone who shaves a beard off often looks baby-fresh, years younger. I suspect the younger chaps often adopt a beard to assume a more mature façade.

And let’s remember that there are some men who look better with a carpeted chin – take Russell Crowe, for example. In my view there are ‘either/or’ people too, such as the genetically-blessed Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp – I would share a tub of posh ice cream with either of them, bearded or nude-faced (them, not me).

Now, don’t get me wrong, readers, I am not against beards per se. A manicured bit of bristle is fine – and I don’t mean ‘designer stubble’ (too George Michael circa 1986) or ‘soul patches’ or the pencil-thin facial hair stripes favoured by some Mediterranean men.

Light, neatly trimmed beards are even quite sexy on the right man; take my 8 or 9 out of ten who featured in last week’s post. It was in no way an untamed bush (behave!) but a perfect frame for his beautiful features – highlighting his lovely mouth and sparkling eyes. The difference in such coverage is that its owners take time to nurture, trim and maintain, in a similar way to some of us care for our ‘downstairs beards’. Although I do hear on the grapevine that, in this bodily region, the bush is back!

Batchelor of tarts

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.

Celluloid or cellulite?

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

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.