Liam / memory block

He rescued me from a situation which probably would have ended with me being punched by another girl. So it had all started off rather strangely.

I had been out with a group of people I barely knew. I had just got back in contact with an old school friend, Anne, after several years, and they were her friends. She had invited me to come out with her and her ‘gang’ – three guys and two girls. One of the chaps had taken an interest in me (not my fault) and, after a few drinks we shared a snog. I was about 24 and single, so it was no big deal.  But it was a massive deal for Anne’s mate Carol, who was his ex-girlfriend, and trying to get back with him. But how was I to know all this history? As I said, they were virtual strangers. And she did that repressed ‘angry bitch’ thing, telling me to ‘fuck off’ with a smile on her face, and to leave her friends alone.

Liam showed up in the background somewhere in the middle of this altercation. He looked familiar, probably because he had been in all the same cheap, scruffy pubs I frequented in the mid to late 1990s. He asked if he could buy me a drink and we got chatting after I walked away from Carol and co.

He was kind and sensitive and the way he looked reminded me of the type of guy I went for in my student days – dreadlocked dark hair, pierced nose, new age hippy/punk. I was beginning to believe the entire incident was fate.

Liam had a slightly odd existence. He worked in a factory and lived in a house on a very low rent in exchange for allowing his landlords, three Sikh brothers, to store crates and crates of lager, that they sold on the side, in his kitchen. They even allowed Liam to consume some of it. (But it was the super-strong metallic-tasting cheap stuff favoured by street-drinkers in the UK, so this wasn’t exactly a great perk.)

I remember lots of details about Liam, such as the various tragedies suffered by members of his family, his strange tattoo that looked like a black blobby ghost, his penchant for The Stranglers  and his rather scary dog which looked like a mastiff/pit bull cross and snapped at most people (luckily not me). In fact, I also recall that the dog got stolen after he left it tied up outside a pub.

But, for some reason I have no recollection of sex with him, apart from two occasions. I remember sex with people before and after him, but for some reason, very little about what Liam and I did – maybe I had sunk a couple of cans of the acrid liquid stockpiled in his kitchen. Or maybe, it was just not memorable or remarkable sex.

So, my lasting memory of him was the summer evening we went for a walk in the woods and came across a bent over tree. Its thin trunk came out at a right angle, almost like a bench and was just wide enough to sit on. Within minutes we were kissing passionately and his hand went down my jeans. There wasn’t much foreplay, as it became rather frantic. I took one leg out of my jeans and pants while he unzipped and reclined on the tree. I climbed on and we frantically bonked, keeping one eye open for dog-walkers. It was exciting and exhilarating, as this was my first tree sex (I know I’ve covered this topic several posts back). I did not orgasm, but was very aroused by the closeness of his lean body, the smell of the wood and sensuality of the tree.

We quickly adjusted ourselves after he shot his load and carried on walking, saying ‘hello’ to passers-by.

The other occasion was when we had sex via me sitting on his lap, facing him, as he sat on my toilet. Why this stays in my mind is a mystery to me.

The relationship didn’t end well. I recall him becoming increasingly depressed and demanding and me not knowing how to cope. Seeing him became a chore and I was starting to fall for one of my male friends. So, it ended and rather messily. I told him it was over; he left and stood below the window of my apartment shouting out my name, so my 200 or so neighbours also knew it was over. There were then a series of drunken phone calls at 3am, until I unplugged my phone. Still, it was preferable to being punched by another girl.


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…

Hip hip hooray!

This week Drunken Slut Mum is having a double celebration, so please help yourself to a glass of bubbly and some nibbles. You can also throw your coats on the bed, but the only person I want to see under them is The Man, waiting patiently for me to dive on top of him at the end of the night!

So, why the popping corks? Firstly, this blog you see before you is a year old (it was actually 30 August 2012, but what’s a few days between friends?). If you have been reading this since then, you deserve a medal for sticking with it and I thank you for your support.

If you are a DSM virgin, it’s never too late and you can wade through anything from a poem about vibrators to top tips on how to be a DSM, erotic shorts with ‘The Man’ in a range of positions and locations (such as this), debates on sex education, tales of my sexual adventures and meet ‘Barry’ and ‘Sandra’. There’s much, much more than can be listed here. So maybe, readers, you can suggest your own favourite bits, or even your worst bits.

And to prove this isn’t one of those episodes of ‘Friends’ or ‘The Simpsons’ where clips from old episodes are spliced together when characters remember old times (and the writers can’t be bothered that week), my second celebration follows up last week’s lament about the times my body lets me down.

Ladies, we may knock things over, break wind, cough, sneeze or have a wobbly belly, but we all have a bad habit of focusing on the bad. Celebrate your good bits – here are mine:

Lots of squashy bits: Let’s face it – you are not going to get a really good cuddle from a supermodel. I imagine snuggling up to Kate Moss or Lily Cole would be like putting your arms around a coat stand. On the other hand I can provide a range of locations which will double up as warm pillows.

A talented tongue: My tongue is the most athletic part of my body. I can flick it, touch the end of my nose with the tip, make it into a spoon shape and use it to such precision that I can push ice cream right down to the bottom of the cone. I don’t need to suggest other ways it can be employed…

Boobies: I like this childlike word for them, as does my toddler son. Mine are not perfect, but they are neither too big nor too small and still have some bounce left. I enjoy grabbing them and pushing them up and down in the same way as men in drag do when they have a fake pair. This may sound strange, but I still regard them as a bit of a novelty, even though I have had them over 20 years.

Legs: I don’t have the best legs in town but they have run a few miles, carried me up and down lots of hills and pedalled my bike. Oh, and they will spread quite far apart and wrap around bodies quite effectively too. So despite the knobbly knees they will do for me.

Hands: My hands are no better than anyone else’s – as we all sit there tapping at keyboards, phones and touch screens. In fact they would not win a beauty contest with my unmanicured nails and dry skin, but they can do some amazing stuff – ranging from sewing and kneading dough to plaiting hair and drawing pictures. I am also a pretty good tickler and amateur masseur, when required.

So, dear readers, raise a glass with me to DSM’s first birthday, the useful bits of our bodies and hope that I still know what to write about for another 12 months…

And I can’t sign off without saying a big thank you to my technical support/design team of one who made this possible in the first place. You know who you are.


He presses his body against her, his chest against hers and she feels his heartbeat drumming hard. He has just climaxed inside her and is suspended in post-coital exhaustion. She holds him tightly and buries her face in his shoulder as the warm tear water starts to fill the rims of her eyes. She tries to think of something else but it’s no use; the tears are now fully formed. So she holds him for longer and he seems to want to stay there, oblivious to her silent crying. She controls the urge to sob and shudder, blinking hard and softly kissing his shoulder and chest.

She longs for the ability to transfer her emotion to him, convert him to her faith (her faith being him and his being her).“Please love me like I love you” she keeps saying again and again in her head. But to him she is nothing – just a hole to drill from time to time. “Please love me.”

By the time he rolls over she has swallowed back the tears and discreetly dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. He hasn’t a clue that she felt anything other than carnal pleasure. He is relaxed, relieved to have shot his load, enjoying his post-orgasm lethargy. But it is the morning after and soon he will slowly start to move, get dressed and leave her here alone with his aroma still in the room. All that will remain will be the creases in the bed sheets, the dent in the pillow, an empty coffee cup and some faint teeth marks on her shoulder, which will have faded by the end of the day.

She is preparing for the emptiness, the longing. It always comes as soon as he leaves. She is just sex, convenient sex, a bit of a conversation, a few drinks then sex.

He starts talking about something completely unrelated and she feels the tears pushing their way up again, but he cannot see her. She cannot let him know she feels anything, so she swallows hard and turns away to take a sip of water. This buys her more time to compose herself, take a deep breath. She’s fine, relaxed, breezy. She could even attempt to say something witty and self-deprecating.

It works – he’s oblivious and she secretly congratulates herself for becoming such an expert at repressing her emotions.

He leaves, contented, untroubled, unaware.

A many splendored thing

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.

Not been getting any lately

Lately, I have been going without – without food, without sex, without much alcohol. “Is there a point to life at all, then?” I hear you ask, and: “Shouldn’t you just be boring old ‘mum’ instead of Drunken Slut Mum, in that case?”

Don’t worry, readers, I haven’t joined some kind of a strict religious sect where all the above are forbidden. I am having a go at ‘that diet’ which requires one to fast two days a week and simply going through a shagging dry spell.

And it’s pretty tough – maybe food without sex would be bearable or even sex without food – if I get to lie down for some of it – but neither is not a good place to be. How does one cope with enforced chastity? Not in the sense of becoming a nun and making a lifelong commitment, just if things aren’t happening in that area at the moment?

And masturbation is off the table too – either because one’s batteries have died and one cannot be bothered going ‘manual’ or because one is testing willpower. Is it possible to divert attention away, entirely, from genital pleasure?

I thought I had found the answer in going for a run – using up pent-up energy, getting sweaty and out of breath and reaping the benefits of a good cardio workout. But no, I have discovered that after a run, despite feeling tired, I get a raging horn and would ideally jump on The Man or perhaps pleasure myself. Apparently this is because exercise increases testosterone levels, which in turn raises our libido.

So how about eating vast quantities of chocolate and drinking wine while lying on a sofa watching a film? Good on the surface, but each cancels the other out – chocolate is good, as it releases the happy drug serotonin and apparently gives similar levels of pleasure as sex (but I would probably need a ginormous bar of the stuff), but wine makes one relax and feel a bit randy if not enough is consumed and, depending on the film, one may feel a little bereft if it ends with a loved-up couple.

Another alternative could be a frantic spring clean of the house. Surely all that scrubbing, dusting and vacuuming is enough to stay busy and keep levels of desire right down. Well, it certainly takes the mind off anything fun, but motivation to actually do it tends to wane. It may be just me, but if I have spent an hour or so cleaning the bathroom, I really can’t be bothered moving on to another room and cleaning it from top to bottom. Maybe I’m a filthy slut, but cleaning the house when no one is coming round to help me mess it up again seems pretty pointless. I also live with two small people who soon return it to a dishevelled mess.

So how to cope with a neglected lady hole? Lie down and stare at the ceiling? Cross one’s legs and grit one’s teeth? Rock back and forth in foetal position, humming quietly? Bake some cupcakes? Get real! Thank God for the invention of vibrators and dildos!

Trying it on for size

If there is a sure-fire way to shatter the dregs of one’s self-esteem, it has to be trying on a pile of clothes in various shop changing rooms.

And in the January sales, many of us have probably taken this reliable route, as DSM did today. Think you are getting a little too self-assured and big for your boots? Try going into a tiny cubicle with three-way mirrors and harsh lighting to magnify any imperfections you didn’t know you had or hadn’t thought were that bad. That’ll bring you crashing down to earth.

I also remember the 1980s when a number of fashion outlets had open plan changing rooms so everyone else could share the horror and I would inevitably find myself trying on a pair of stone-wash skin-tight jeans next to a tall, willowy goddess. As I wriggled and sweated to even pull them over my thighs and at least cover my off-white knickers the goddess would stand, resplendent in a long black dress which looked like it was tailor-made for her. At least now, clothing retailers have seen sense and given us poor normal folk some privacy to recoil and groan at our reflections.

And what is the antidote to this? What is something everyone can do which isn’t discriminated against by one’s body size? And I am not talking about ten-pin bowling or a game of Scrabble.

As far as I am aware (and I admit I am no biology expert) a woman’s vagina size is not proportionate to her dress size. Good sex doesn’t make you feel like you are forced into a cramped space surrounded by aggressive lighting and mirrors (unless that specifically turns you on). Good sex doesn’t make you worry about your belly or bum size. Good sex doesn’t cause you to leave the building shame-faced and wishing you hadn’t tried it on at all. Good sex doesn’t leave you concluding you are fat old bint with too many wobbly bits. Etcetera, etcetera.

But this is where it gets a bit sexist – for a change in favour of us ladies (if I can still label myself a ‘lady’). This is something I plan to cover in more detail in a future post, but briefly here, it is still arguable that size does matter when it comes to penises.

Poor men, eh? But the suggestions that its size can be predicted by shoe size or even the size of his hands or nose don’t always follow. I have seen examples that both prove and dispel these theories. I will save this for a penis-themed post, however, and for now enjoy the fact that The Man has size 11 feet and a wonderful, solid, tall and robust penis to match.