To avoid disappointment…

There are two types of angry teachers – the ones who shout and rage and the ones who tell you they are very disappointed in you.

The shouty ones tend to have the impact of striking a match – their spark of rage is strong and bright, but it fizzles out quickly while the disappointed ones are like a large candle, burning through you slowly, leaving a lasting, lingering trail. I always found the disappointed teachers were the best ones, too, who didn’t need to raise their voices and left me feeling terrible for ages, that I had let them down when they had put so much faith in me.

Disappointment is such a lingering feeling – it can take years to die down. The same can be said for disappointment in the bedroom.  It’s an old friend of mine, though, whom I first encountered in my student days.

The second person I ever had sex with was a hunky blonde guy I thought was completely out of my league. But somehow we ended up in my room in halls after a night in the student bar. He talked his way into my pants, which wasn’t hard when I had been trying my best puppy dog eyes on him all evening. But then it was quick in and quick out, literally. And I was left wondering if it actually happened at all. The only proof was the way in which he completely ignored me the next day and never spoke to me again.

Then there was Mr Para-phimosis (see my post of 4th February 2013). I had fancied him for weeks and even engineered meeting him (I got oddly bold about things like this in my mid-twenties) by shoving a note under his door – this sounds like a stalker, but he lived on the floor above me in the flats I was living in at the time, so I wasn’t staking out his house or anything…

Things went reasonably well until we found ourselves in his bed. Too tight foreskin meant painful, slow, agonising sex for both of us – his pain physical and mine mental. I sometimes wonder if the poor guy ever got his problem sorted out. .

Then, what is traditionally supposed to be the most important sex ever – the big wedding night. I was totally exhausted after what seemed to be two days in one and my ‘up do’ seemed to contain more pins than the average sewing box which meant I was in the bathroom of our hotel room for half an hour trying to pull them out. The end result was something like an old witch with over back-combed hair and running make up.

By this point my husband had fallen asleep waiting for me to re-emerge so I had to jump on the bed, shouting ‘oi!’ Not very romantic or lady-like, I agree, but I was so tired I had lost all decorum but was determined to consummate our nuptials in the traditional way. A half-hearted effort followed.

But it is disappointments that stay as strong in the memory as the spectacular rip-roaring shag marathons. The not-so-bads and okays are quickly forgotten.

So I have learnt to enter proceedings open-minded and see what happens. High hopes are too often dashed.

Of course with The Man, I was open-minded but hopeful – I had hoped something would happen with him for a long time and when it did, it exceeded expectations. He is largely to blame (or maybe to thank) for the Drunken Slut Mum on your screen.

My back door is jammed

Or, why am I so rubbish at anal sex?

So, in my last post I confidently gave top tips on how to be a Drunken Slut Mum. But there are some things that I still can’t figure out – in particular, anal sex.

I have never learnt how to get this right or how to enjoy it. One of many reasons why The Man will up sticks and disappear one day is probably because my rear entrance isn’t that welcoming – no flowers around the door, shiny knocker or twinkly little light outside. Instead, it’s splintered, jammed, needs a lick of paint and has a barking dog behind it.

It’s not just technique/enjoyment, (which I will cover later), it’s also lack of confidence in my arse. He has made a few good comments about it, but I always worry about having a bad bum day – when it looks particularly large and has the odd butt-zit break-out (invariably a day or two before I’m due to see him, much to my horror). No matter how vigorously one exfoliates, they will only clear up when they feel like it.

So, the actual activity… My first encounter of anal was when I was a student. A group of us had walked en masse to a house party, then the same group headed home and I somehow ended up walking with a long-haired, big guy who had a rather bear-like quality to him. I had met him a few times and never really fancied him, but hey-ho – a few ciders and things take on a new light.

We ended up in my room in halls and he quickly got regular intercourse over and done with, before moving to the rear. He asked if I had any baby oil, which I didn’t, so I suggested margarine (something rang a bell about them using butter in Last Tango in Paris).

Drunken and fairly chilled, I let him smother the stuff all around and inside my anus – it felt cool and soothing. He then worked his way in. It was not a traumatic experience – it just felt like I was going to the toilet in reverse – a tad uncomfortable. He, however, was moaning in ecstasy so I let him carry on.

I wasn’t in a rush to repeat this and, besides, the bear guy was just a one night stand.

I can vaguely recall some failed attempts in a few relationships after, all rather painful and uncomfortable with the various men admitting defeat and not going there again.

Then, after a friend’s wedding in around 2000, I had an unexpected guest in my room. He was a rather skinny, but somehow very endearing, ginger-haired guy, a friend of a friend. We had above average sex before he looked to my derriere. I was slightly uneasy, but the post-wedding booze binge had left my body relaxed. He was very slow and gentle, easing himself in. He was obviously very adept at it, as there was no pain or discomfort and I bordered on enjoying it.

Maybe the secret to that experience was not over-thinking it. Since then, I seem to have lost my anal mojo. But there was a seven-year gap – largely because The Ex never even spoke of anal, never mind partaking in it.

The Man, on the other hand, is a keen enthusiast. We have had mixed success in this area, but my main motivation is giving The Man as much explosive bliss as he gives me. It only seems fair that I tickle his fancy too.