We have come back early from the party. We just couldn’t wait any longer for the next stage of the evening.

As I fumble about in the kitchen with coffee cups, you go upstairs to the loo. I expect you to come back down for a drink.

What I don’t expect is a naked man in my kitchen with a cheeky grin on his face and not even a blink or shrug of embarrassment. The surprise makes me tremble and tingle below with excitement. What shall we do now?

I glide my fingers over your chest hair and tiptoe to kiss you, softly first, then our teeth and tongues clash wildly, echoing the want in our bodies.

You press against me, so I feel your hard, naked penis prodding me, pushing through my dress and knickers. You guide me backwards against the worktop and kitchen sink which form a right angle corner. My back is pressed into this alcove; your body grinds against me. As we continue to kiss, my hands glide down your back to your bottom while yours are bolder and travel up my dress, onto my knickers, into my knickers. Perhaps I am a little over-dressed.

I thrust forwards, willing you to touch me inside, to tug my pants down. I want you to do it, to show me you want me as much as I want you. I don’t have to wait. You ease them down my thighs and they drop to the floor.

Stepping out of them, I raise my left leg onto the worktop, stretching across the cooker hob, carefully kicking a couple of glasses and mugs back as I go. I want you to move closer to feel you against my already hot, wet vagina.

You eye me hungrily, as you lick your middle finger and slowly move it to the place I want it, as I grab your dick, easing my hand slowly up and down.

But I am impatient. I want you inside me, filling me now and there is no time to move from this spot. So, carefully I raise my other leg, so I am straddling the corner, one leg across the hob and the other now outstretched across the edge of the sink and draining board. Secretly, I am impressed that I can stretch so far, when I am not really that flexible. Now I’m the perfect height and position for you to get inside me with ease.

You briefly glance at my open legs, also admiring my agility, before kissing me softly and easing yourself inside. It feels wonderful and I gasp in relief, excitement and pleasure. You thrust into me hard and deep, again and again as I lean back, trying to avoid pots and pans, raising my pelvis to match your every move. We fit so well together, you and me, and I lose all sense of time and place. At times I forget we are in a kitchen.

While inside me, you twiddle and stroke my clitoris and I shudder and writhe to your fingering, feeling myself ready to burst. Faster, faster we bang against the worktop. I moan and whimper, you swear and purr, then as it feels like I can’t take any more, we both find our pinnacle, firing our own rockets, grabbing each other, embracing in sweat and sated exhaustion.

You take my hand to help me down, then we sit on a wooden chair, me on your lap, my arms around your neck, my face buried in your shoulder, your fingers gently stroking my back. I feel safe, warm, wanted and completely smitten.

Quick on the drawer(s)

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.

Dirty stop out

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?

Eight top tips

So, you have read about my adventures and are now thinking: “I’d like a piece of this. How do I become a Drunken Slut Mum? Show me the way!” Look no further – here are eight top tips:

1. Keep your (lady) garden tidy

In the 1990s it was acceptable to have a big bush – no one ever complained about it. But now things are a little more groomed. It doesn’t have to be a Brazilian, just a tidy, non-cavewoman shape – a little indication that you pay attention to down there.

2. Have a confidante

This is particularly crucial if your situation is secret – there will be times when you need a reliable alibi, someone who you can say you are with when you aren’t and can be relied upon to cover for you if your story is checked out. You may also need her to confide in if things go wrong. Make sure it’s someone who isn’t going to judge you.

3. Underwear

If there is a possibility of some intimacy, whether pre-arranged or spontaneous –  even if you only expect to see him for a brief time, a sneaky quicky could present itself – always wear good underwear. This doesn’t necessarily mean top brand silk and lace. Some pretty bras are a must, but you can get away with less extravagant knickers, as once clothes start flying off, he’s unlikely to pay much attention to them. Own lots of plain black cotton ones – at a glance (which is all they’ll get) they will look passable (ten times more than white or greying ones) and like you have made some effort. And always have a spare pair in your handbag just in case – if you have lots of plain black ones they are interchangeable.

4. Other handbag essentials

Chewing gum or breath freshener sweets, tissues, hair band if you have long hair – just in case you end up in the bath or shower – mini bullet vibrator disguised in a makeup bag or lipstick case.

5. Have some kind of protection for your mattress

…Whether it’s a plastic cover or just an extra blanket. Secretions and wine or coffee spillages happen, especially if you are rolling round and if they go straight through to your mattress, you then have a stinky mattress.

6. Keep your days sacred

If you have a sneaky day off work for a spot of nooky, don’t tell anyone. Ok, so you will have to arrange it with work, but don’t tell anyone outside work who doesn’t really need to know – you are only setting yourself up for awkward lies, intrusions, unwanted texts or phonecalls and the risk of getting caught. Also, have your story ready for work colleagues in case you are asked what you did on your day off – “Oh, just cleaning the house, catching up on ironing, having lunch with my mum” etc. etc.

7. Smooth things over

Learn the art of meticulous planning and organisation while looking effortlessly spontaneous. Your lover doesn’t want to think you spent two weeks planning what you should wear or how you should have your hair when you get together or that you had to try three different babysitters and pencil in three different dates before you could find one to fit in childcare. He would rather not know when he pops over that you just had to spend two hours dusting and vacuuming, tried on three different “I’m just breezily casual” outfits and an hour trying to make your hair look prettily tousled. All he cares about (generally) is that your bits are clean, there’s alcohol in the house and a small child isn’t going to walk into the room when you are banging on the sofa.

8. And finally

Treasure the moments you have with him and treat every liaison as if it might be your last. That way you can be comforted by knowing you gave it your very best. All you can hope is that he is left wanting more and will come back again.