Sunday, 4 December 2011

An Ethical Slut?*

Well, the Sunday Times has done it again - not just one article on polyamory/sleeping around, but two!  (MM reckons that now that The News of the World is no more, the ST are utilising a gap in the sunday morning "sex with your breakfast" scene.  If it's in the Sunday Times (albeit the Style section, which gives it some cachet) then our lifestyle choice is becoming quite routine amongst the middle classes.

 "The More the Merrier" examines the ethics behind polyamory, which is based on open and honest relationships between all involved parties and, "What it Feels Like to be the Other Woman" is an irritating self-involved piece from some woman who goes round finding married men on websites (oops, that sounds a bit like me).  It's a pity my current tri-partite involvement reflects the "Other Woman" relationship model, rather than the "More the Merrier" one, but it's not for lack of trying.  It's just that most people are not cool about their partners sleeping with others.  Both Jim and Sam are happy to sleep with me, but neither would be happy for their women to sleep with someone else.  Although Sam did at least try swinging when he was with his ex.

So, how ethical am I being, really?  I am completely honest with MM - and we often discuss our relationship and sometimes we discuss the jealousy he occasionally feels about me sleeping with others.  (Interestingly, he is just as often jealous because, being a woman, it's usually easier for me to get laid than it is for him -so it's not always possessiveness, just the far more prosaic "it's not fair"!)  Nevertheless, I can't get away from the fact that the other women in my lovers' lives don't know and I do feel bad about that.  Not bad enough to stop, though.  The only way I can justify it is that both men were looking for an affair and if it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else.  The other thing I have noticed as well is that for Jim, at least, he seems to be happier in his marriage than he was when I met him.  He was talking about leaving her within the next year but now they are looking to move house together.  I don't know whether seeing me has relieved some of the frustration and unhappiness he was feeling, but I do hope so.

All in all, things have settled down nicely for me - I see Jim and Sam alternately, usually one in one week and the other the week after. Affection is a big part of it for me and both are affectionate as well as good lovers.  I like to hear about their lives and they hear about mine.  I want them to have a nice time with me, and they want me to enjoy myself too.  None of us are falling in love, but I hope that we are becoming friends as well as lovers.  I know I'm a slut, but I like to think that, on the whole, I'm an ethical one.

*"The Ethical Slut" is a 1997 guide to "infinite sexual possibilities" by Dossie Easton and Janet Hardy.  I must read it...

Sunday, 27 November 2011

The Chandelier, the Sofa and the Avocado Bathroom

Having had a nice time with Lucky Jim, I turn my attentions to Sam, who has assured me that I won't get better than him.  It's an intriguing promise, and I do wonder if he realises quite how many men he is up against (I'm not in triple figures yet, but approaching my half-century, and I haven't had to complain about poor performance very often). Unfortunately, before our intended date I wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare where he has turned into an evil axe murderer and I am running for my life.  As I lie there with my heart pounding, I wonder if my subconscious is trying to tell me to steer well clear of him, but then put it down to good old Catholic guilt warning me that I will be punished for trying to sleep with 3 men in the space of a week.

Nevertheless, after we meet in the same Ditchling pub again, and he suggests I follow him back to his place in my car, I make sure I get his address and text it to MM, just in case I end up being a bloody corpse somewhere in Sussex - at least he'll know where to start searching for the body.  Once I'm in his house I watch for anything suspicious - the first being that the house looks like something out of the 1950s and he obviously doesn't live there, judging by the lack of furnishings, personal items, etc.  Well, he has already told me he only stays over when he's working late...or "entertaining" (nice to know that in these economically strapped times "working late" can still mean a bit of illicit shagging).  He doesn't double lock the door behind me, so I take that to be a good sign.  Next he pours me a glass of chilled white wine and he has a beer - I watch him like a hawk and grab the wine off him before he can tip in some Rohypnol.  Next we move into the sitting room (vast empty space, harsh lighting, with one ancient red velveteeen sofa and a pile of cartoon DVDs - sign of paedophilia?).  I am wearing a short wraparound dress with stockings, suspenders and high heels (well, not vertiginously high because I had to drive..) and it doesn't take long before we are snogging passionately on the sofa and he has his hands working their way up to my stocking tops.  I realise he isn't going to need any Rohypnol to get me into bed because I can't wait to get off the narrow, uncomfortable sofa and into somewhere with more flattering lighting.  I'm worried I look like Camilla Parker-Bowles before the makeover (after the makeover would be bad enough...) and although I don't mind keeping my eyes shut when being passionately grappled with, I was having to keep them firmly shut to avoid the 400 watt bulbs in the overhead "chandelier" lasering my retinas.  I love men, I really do, but how is it they are completely oblivious to their surroundings when getting a woman into bed?

Rather than ask for a pair of goggles (for me) and a blindlfold for him, I suggest we move to the bedroom and he leads me upstairs to a massive freezing cold bedroom, where the windows are wide open.  Bloody hell, how am I supposed to get my kit off in sub-zero temperatures?!  He apologises and shuts the windows - meanwhile I am shivering under the duvet refusing to take anything else off until he warms me up a bit. Which he does..... quite a lot, in fact.  He has a very slow, gentle way of making love, which is really rather nice.  In fact, we end up having sex for over 2 hours, with me coming 3 times, before he finally lets himself go and has a very long, satisfying, climax.  Nice stuff!  I have a lovely post-coital glow which lasts right up to when I have to go to the loo and find the nasty avocado bathroom - yes, honestly, it really was avocado. I didn't think anyone actually still had one - it should probably be listed.  Being an intermittent shag, rather than a meaningful relationship, I don't have to worry about his taste in furnishings - but, still, I feel for any other women who may pass this way.  Then he explains the house is due to be demolished and so nasty sofas, laser beam chandeliers and avocado bathrooms will all make way for a new development and earn him lots of dosh.

I make it home in one piece, and congratulate myself on finding 2 very nice men who are great in bed and just what I am looking for.  And both of them seem keen to see me again.  Being an upfront sort of girl, I have told both of them about the other - on the basis that it will make them more competitive and I will get more attention as a result.  I know - it's appalling, manipulative behaviour, but it seems to work - they both want to see me next week - in fact, they are both edging to be first on the list.  Now I have to ensure I share myself out fairly, as well as ensure MM doesn't miss out on his oats either.  I know I'm being greedy,so  could all this end up being more than I bargained for?

Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Lucky Jim and a Night at the Casino

I call him Lucky Jim because he seems to like a flutter and, from what he tells me anyway, seems to do quite well. So, a night out with him at the casino should be a bit of fun.  MM isn't too happy about it, though. He's quite happy for me to have sex with whoever I like, but he's not so keen if I actually get on well enough with them to have a night out with sex not necessarily on the agenda.  I sort of see where he's coming from but I could do with a night out with an attentive man, I've been working hard and need a break.

I decide that I may well end up wanting to have sex with him so I might as well dress for the part.  It's a warm evening, so I'm not going to bother with stockings etc.  I wear a silky, black wraparound dress that MM bought for me last Xmas.  It flatters my figure and shows a flash of thigh if there's a gust of wind (always a likelihood in Brighton), and I think it's a good look for the casino with a pair of black strappy stilettoes.  No knickers, which makes me feel a little kinky - especially with the ever-present danger of a big gust of wind.

We have arranged to meet at another Cricketers - the one in Brighton this time.  The taxi drops me off just in time and I see him standing in the doorway.  He looks surprisingly good in a sort of gangsterish sort of way.  Better than I remembered him looking, anyway.  We cosy up on one of the red plush benches and chat away.  I feel good seeing him again and just feel really relaxed with him, like I've known him ages, rather than it being our second date.  We head off to the King and I for a Thai meal and all through the meal I am aware of him looking at my cleavage when he thinks I can't see and at my legs when I get up.  It really is a bloody good dress.

Eventually we make it into the casino and agree we'll each put in £20 and see how long it lasts us.  He has a go at Blackjack but that's a bit hardcore for me - I just go on the Roulette.  A lot of the time we are standing watching the poker tables and every time we stop and stand, his hands find their way onto one part of my body or another.  At one point, he is stroking my arse through the thin fabric of my dress and then more or less has his hand between the top of my thighs from behind.  God knows what the punters on the table behind us are seeing, but I hope it's not putting them off their game.  Jim has quickly worked out I'm not wearing any knickers and he's having trouble keeping his hands from going all the way up my skirt.  He's also having trouble walking.  I have now realised that I actually fancy him quite a lot and my pussy is soaking wet, so walking is becoming increasingly uncomfortable for me too.  When he whispers in my ear, "what do you want to do next?", I have no trouble saying  "I want to go back to your hotel and go to bed with you".   He agrees that's a good idea.  Luckily, the hotel is about 20 paces away so we manage it without too much discomfort.

When we get to his room, I insist on making a cup of tea.  Don't know why, really, it's probably a bit of a passion killer, but I think we are both feeling a little bit shy all of a sudden.  He  lies down on the bed and I go over to him and start kissing him.  He slowly unties my dress and I take it off, followed by my bra.  He caresses my nipples then starts licking them, which drives me crazy with desire.  I undo his jeans and take his erect cock into my mouth and start to give him a blow job which he loves.  Then he puts his hand onto my wet pussy and starts rubbing my clit.  I am really turned on and it doesn't take long for me to come really hard against his hand.  I am desperate to feel his cock inside me.  I climb on top of him and guide him in.  It feels great and I start to move up and down and then, suddenly, he comes!  I can't believe it and neither can he - he is really embarassed and I am amazed. I think it's about 30 years since I experienced premature ejaculation and I am rather flattered.  Don't know if that's the appropriate reaction, but I rather like the fact that he is so turned on by me that he couldn't hold it in.  He has his hands over his eyes and won't look at me for about 5 mins, saying "god, I'm really sorry, that hasn't happenend since I was about 17.."  I tell him I think it's great.

After a hug and a chat and a cup of tea, I say I'd better be getting home.  He walks me to the taxi rank, apologising again, despite me saying there's no need, I had a great time.  In the taxi on the way home, I am feeling rather smug that I made a man come before he was ready (fortunately, having managed to get one orgasm in already for myself) and, came out of the casino with £6 more than I went in with.  So, all in all, Lucky BB.

Saturday, 29 October 2011

Coming thick and fast

Men, that is, not orgasms.  I realise it's 2 whole months since my last post, but that doesn't mean I've had another dry spell.  It does mean that I have been rather busy - work has gone mad, MM has moved in with me (well, we thought 10 years together was a good sign) and both my sons have dropped out of uni/college and decided to lie around in bed all day (well, not the older one, he has actually got a job).  So, the homestead is seeing rather a lot of male occupants while I'm out at work fighting bedbugs/cockroaches and other property-related problems.  Still, I've managed to find time for a bit of illicit naughtiness - though god knows how, most of my friends have stopped talking to me because I haven't rung them back for weeks.

It seems obvious that Aussie Bloke has dumped me (par for the course..) but good old illicitencouters.com is still alive and buzzing.  I decide that I've been too picky so far and that weeding blokes out on the basis of their photos and how witty they are on paper isn't necessarily the best way of finding a lover.  So, I go for the bulk-buy option and basically agree to meet anyone who can string a sentence together and doesn't live too far from Brighton.  So following Prep-Man, and ITMan, I meet, in quick succession, the following:
  1. an accountant (monosyllabic)
  2. a dentist (uncannily like my ex-father-in-law)
  3. a food-stylist (just no)
  4. a hygiene product salesman (strangely, maybe..)
  5. a print consultant (no, I didn't know they existed, either)
  6. a surveyor (thank god, at last, YES!)
I never thought I would get to the stage of getting fed up with being wined and dined by attentive men, but I really was thinking of giving up and taking up crochet instead, until I meet number 4, Jim - the man big in bog-rolls - at The Cricketers in Berwick.  I have on my normal pulling outfit of skinny black jeans and blue T-shirt and denim jacket. (doesn't sound much but it does make me look about 10 years younger).  I park up and am about to get out the car when this guy comes up and is grinning at me like a maniac. I realise it's Jim.  He looks his age (older than my specified max of 49) and, well, he would be the first to admit he's not handsome.  Let's just say he has an interesting face.  Still, if I've learnt one thing from all these dates I've had recently, it's that I can talk to anyone for an hour at least, usually two, and I can still have a good time, even if I never want to see the guy again.  So, I mentally plan to give him at least an hour, maybe a bit longer and then make my excuses.

Well, 3 hours later and we're still gassing away like we are long lost mates.  Jim is from up north and I feel instantly at home with him - I sometimes forget how different southern men are from those north of Watford Gap and I do sometimes really miss the open and direct men I used to take for granted.  The trouble is, I still don't fancy him.  So, when he asks me if I want to see him again, I realise I definitely do, I just don't know if I want to snog him.  As I'm in an open and direct frame of mind, I tell him this.  He is a bit gutted.  Actually, I am a bit gutted I don't fancy him, cos I really, really like him.  After a bit of huffing and puffing from him about how women always say looks don't matter and it's personality that counts and here I am being all fussy about his looks, I eventually agree to meet up with him next week for a no strings evening of fun at the casino and see where it takes us (into debt, probably, knowing my luck.).  Just to double check, I snog him on the way back to the car to see if there is any stirring in my loins.  There isn't, but there is a definite stirring in his so I leave him to it and head off home.  Don't want to be out too late because I have 2 more dates tomorrow (well, I'm getting fed up with it all, so I'm doing one at lunch, one in the evening to get them out the way, then I'm giving up for good.)

Lunchtime date in Henfield pub was OK, he definitely thought he was in with a chance and looked quite amazed when I said no.  Men are so sweetly egotistical it's quite funny.  But I am feeling a bit guilty about saying no to so many nice men, maybe there's a better way of doing it, but I don't know how.  I am a bit more hopeful about my evening date with Sam, the Surveyor, because we have had ongoing flirty texts for quite a while now.

I meet Sam in a pub in Ditchling (could write a pub guide with all this dating) and I like what I see straightaway.  He is tall and well-built, with a big smile and a big hug.  I feel instantly at home with him and we get on really well.  So well, that we start chatting about the website and what a good idea it is.  I see out of the corner of my eye that the guy on the next table keeps looking over at us and I remember I am supposed to be discreet.  I tell Sam we are being listened to and the guy gets up and goes outside.  We fall about laughing and start chatting about something else.  Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather - this guy comes back in and comes over to us and says "I do hope you don't think I was eavesdropping, but I couldn't help but overhear some of your conversation and, well, I'm quite interested in this website you were talking about, and I wonder if you would be good enough to let me have the web address?"   I go bright red, but being the obliging sort, write the address down for him on a beer mat and he heads off - straight home to his laptop, no doubt.  Sam is killing himself laughing and I am apologising, saying "I'm sorry, that was probably my fault, I can get a bit loud, I'm not being very good at being discreet".  Fortunately, he seems to think it's hilarious, which is a relief (Henry, take note...).  Anway, IE probably have me to thank for another customer in East Sussex.

After another drink Sam and I decide to go.  We have established that we would both like to see each other again.  I am looking forward to a nice snog in the car park.  He holds my hand on the way there and then, yes, we have a great snog.  AT LAST someone I fancy.  In fact, I actually say that out loud which surprises Sam - he can't believe I am so picky that I have had 8 dates in a row and he is the only one I fancied (or maybe he was being genuinely modest - nah, that theory goes straight out the window when he tells me I won't get better than him!!!!). 

At least the week has ended well.  Lucky Jim and Sam the Man are on the final shortlist.

Sunday, 28 August 2011

All Clear

Aussie Bloke carries on texting me for a few days after our last meet up but, within minutes of the wife getting back from her trip, he stops.  I send a few texts over the following week and he always replies, but the momentum has gone and, having gone from at least 5 or 6 texts a day from him, I am down to virtually none.  I suppose it's to be expected but, still, it would have been nice to be prepared.  I send him a text at the end of the week saying "you are a bit quiet with me these days, do you still want to keep in touch?".  I get back "yeah, sorry, been a bit hectic since they got back" which isn't a resoundingly positive response so I decide to leave him to it for a few weeks.  Maybe we'll see each other again at some point, or maybe it was just a "while the wife is away" fling.

Anyway, all is not lost because, out of the blue, I get a text from Sexinsussex, asking how I am.  I am excited that he might finally be out of the dog house and be able to meet up again.  In fact, like a Pavlovian response, I start getting moist down below as soon as we start texting back and forth.  Text chemistry is a funny thing - there was hardly any with Aussie Bloke, but loads in person.  Sexinsussex has it both ways.  Compare "Hi, what u up to?" (AB) with "would be nice to have my hard cock inside you" (SiS) and you'll see why I start salivating when I hear from SiS.  Unfortunately, he is still "being watched like a hawk" so doesn't feel able to meet up again just yet.  Am hoping he manages something soon though - after two blow jobs and a hand wank (for me) I want the full monty with him at some point.

Also out of the blue, I get a phone call from Mr EPC asking if I want to meet for lunch.  Now, that is a surprise - 4 months after shagging me senseless he finally rings as if nothing ever happened.  Luckily, he is the sort of person I can verbally abuse and make laugh at the same time, so we end up chatting for a while and agree to get together the following week.

Meanwhile, I have been back on IE chatting away to various chaps.  There are certainly a few fruit cakes on board.  Read this charming exchange with Pandects...

(Him)  "That's the main problem. Because the women don't pay, they just dabble. The whole thing is so distorted. Not sure why I bother with it. The last woman I met was telling me all the things she was going to do with me. When we met, she bottled it completely. Pathetic."

(Me) "Maybe she just didn't fancy you in person? It happens, the chemistry has to be right. Don't get bitter - I know a couple of men on here who are doing OK, so maybe lighten up a bit!"

(Him) "Fuck off"
Then, the following exchange with Cinnamon Toast:

(Him)  Am I your type, yes or no? It would be presumptuous to be too prescriptive. It would be wonderful if you had an optimistic outlook though. Together we could then take down the collective trousers of Misfortune and Pessimism, damn their respective eyes, and warm their heels from here to Putney Bridge, stopping off for refreshment on the way. Hurrah ! If you like what you read please mail me, and we can chat some more.
(Me) Liked the profile - very funny! Shame Nottingham is so far away, Been in the midlands for long? (I assume not, as you still sound quite chirpy and cheerful.)
(Him) I'm 50 quid an hour. And I don't do kissing. Or anal.
(Me)  sounds very cheap - I get £130 an hour, which would leave you in debt I'm afraid. And you'd have to add in the travel costs, as I don't bother leaving the balmy south coast. 
(Him) Do you take cheques ?
(Me) Certainly not! The sort of low life prepared to pay me £130 for an hour of ho-hum sex is likely to ensure funds have mysteriously disappeared from his account by the time the cheque attempts to clear. 
(Him)  Been there before, eh, pet ?
I'm still not entirely sure he wasn't joking...

Unfortunately, it is now holiday season and everyone seems to be going away, so IE is a bit bereft of talent.  Another problem is that the Sunday Times has just had an article featuring IE, so the place is awash with the type of man who reads the Sunday Times.  Now, I have nothing against Sunday Times readers, I read it myself.  I suppose I am politically more inclined to read The Observer, I just find it a bit boring.  Much better to read about how the underclass are tearing the country to shreds and we are all being overrun with immigrants while doing an excellent job in Afghanistan, than it is to read a load of mealy mouthed do-gooders blaming the riots on bankers - even if I am more inclined to agree with the latter.  Anyway, when it comes to bonking on the side, I would rather go for a Sun reader and they all seem to be on holiday.

Hence I find myself on a Thursday evening in a seedy pub in Brighton (because he is less likely to bump into anyone he knows there) with a deputy head from a prep school.  Followed by lunch the next day with a top IT consultant who has a degree in Maths from Cambridge.  Both lovely chaps - PrepMan being quite fanciable I guess (but not to me) and the IT Man being very witty and good company but completely unfanciable.  There's no getting away from it, to get me wet quickly you have to work with your hands.

So, all in all, my diary is back to being clear of bookings.  Which is a shame, because I finally get the all clear from the clap clinic and am raring to go again...

Saturday, 20 August 2011

Down Under Again

Did I really think it was a good idea to go and see Aussie Bloke again, the day after spending the afternoon in the clap clinic?  No, I didn't really, especially as I also had an ear infection and was having a tough week sitting in a room with a load of system developers.   Now, I like IT people.  Yes, they are a bit geeky, but they are also usually quite funny and, it goes without saying, pretty bright.  I don't normally have to mix much with them but, for various reasons, I have got myself involved in a major IT project with my ex-employers.  I'm not normally concerned about my ability to keep up with intellectual heavyweights - MM is pretty heavyweight in the intellect department and I run rings round him on a day-to-day basis.  (He will take great exception to this, but it's true - I just can't equal him when it comes to depth and breadth of knowledge.)  But sitting in a room with a load of IT people discussing the finer points of interfaces is a bit of a stretch from my normal work, which doesn't require a great deal of mental agility.  It's stimulating in a way - I just feel my brain has been doing gymnastics by the end of the day. 

What with that, and the ear infection and the simmering resentment left over from the clap clinic, having sex probably isn't the best idea.  Still, I hate being let down at the last minute (see The Plumber for confirmation of how badly I take that sort of thing) so I decide to go.  Once I've been able to get home and have a small glass of whisky in the bath, I'm feeling a bit better anyway.  I text AB to say I'm going to be half an hour later than planned and he texts back to say he's starving and can he eat without me.  Well, I'm starving too and don't have time to eat anything, but I'm always happy to lose a couple of pounds at short notice so I say yes and resign myself to an evening of hunger pangs - hopefully they will get drowned out by the sounds of passionate lovemaking.

I park round the corner from his house and he comes to get me in his car.  I still fancy him (phew!) and he is very appreciative of my fishnet stockings and starts running his hand up my leg almost before I've got in the car.  I'm glad he likes the fishnet stockings because I did, in fact, have a bit of a dilemma about my underwear this evening.  Mostly because MM has confiscated my lingerie.  Well, confiscated is probably an exaggeration - let's just say he has a possessive streak when it comes to my underwear.  I don't know what that says about him, and I'm not complaining, but still, it does mean that I have to occasionally negotiate over my rights to use certain items of underwear with other men.  His first proposal was that I was only allowed to wear lingerie I had bought for myself.  Well, that's all very well, but I don't buy much for myself, mainly because he buys so much for me.  After a bit of reasoned arguing, we settled on me also being able to use any lingerie he had bought for me as a present, leaving only those items (the majority) that he had bought for his own use.  No, I don't mean he likes to parade around the house wearing it, but he does buy a large amount of stuff I wouldn't been seen dead in, unless I died at a swinging party.  Therefore, in both our minds, it is his lingerie and shouldn't be used for other men.  (I try not to muse too long over the inconsistency of him being possessive about my lingerie and not about me, but I'm sure someone somewhere could write a thesis on it.)  Anyway, in order for me to turn up for a tryst with AB in a different set of underwear to last time, I had to nip round to MM's house on my way home from work and negotiate hard to get my favourite black and red suspender belt.  I was safe with the fishnet stockings because (a) I bought them myself and (b) MM isn't really into fishnets.

When I get into AB's house, I find he's delayed dinner for me after all and there are 2 barbequed (what else?) pork chops being kept warm in the oven and some rather overdone vegetables and new potatoes.  I am quite overwhelmed momentarily and kiss him hungrily before remembering that I am also hungry for food so I sit down and get stuck in to my meat and 2 veg.  I've completely forgotten to bring wine, but luckily he has some chilled chardonnay in the fridge (leftover from some other "entertaining" no doubt) so I get stuck into that as well.  Now, I like my food and I love cooking which can mean I am rather judgemental about what is cooked for me (see MM for confirmation of that) but this guy certainly knows how to barbeque a pork chop - it is really nice.  Can't say much for the veg though, but I do my best - it helps that I'm starving.

All in all, things are very domesticated and cosy, we chat like an old married couple, he puts away the dishes and I think "oooh what I really fancy now is to sit on the sofa with a nice cup of tea and watch Desperate Housewives, then climb into bed and go to sleep being hugged by this big hairy man".  The trouble is, what I am really there for ostensibly is to have a night of unbridled passion and multiple orgasms.  I don't think it's just me, either.  He's yawning quite a bit and I don't think it's because I'm boring him cos we're still making each other laugh.  Still, we both know what we're there for so we start kissing and fondling on the sofa and pretty soon the only things I'm wearing are my stockings and suspenders.  I go down on him and he gets nice and hard.  After a bit of shifting around on the sofa, we decide it's not really big enough and we'd be better off in bed.  I head off towards where we were before but am then gently propelled in the opposite direction into another bedroom and quickly realise I have been demoted into, not just the spare bedroom (which I can see out of the corner of my eye), but the junk bedroom!  i.e. the room where all the spare furniture they can't fit elsewhere into the house is put - it's like an antique storeroom, and the duvet has a nasty fishy smell which is quite offputting.  Well, talk about a downgrade....  although I can understand why.  His wife is back in a few days and he's probably already swept the main bedroom for stray hairs, earrings and suspicious stains.  Don't know why we can't be in the spare room though, but still, I guess he has his reasons.

Anyway, we get down to it and it's nice, but it's not much like the last time.  He's much gentler with me this time (basically, he has to be, I'm too worried I'm going to be wincing for weeks if he goes for it like before) but he also gets a bit floppy from time to time so I think he's pretty tired.  (I know he's been out for the past 2 evenings, which I suspect is woman-related - not that I mind, but I do if it affects his bedroom performance with me!).  Anyway, I have no complaints really - but I guess it is a bit of a come down  after the amazing sex we had 2 weeks ago.  We both fall asleep pretty soon afterwards and that's pretty much it.  When I've stayed the night with other lovers I've usually ended up demanding more action in the early hours, but not this time.  I'm really not in the mood for it, which is a shame - cos I'm not going to have him for a full 12 hours again once his wife is back.  And he really does have a nice body - I stroke his chest a bit wistfully before waking him up at 7 to say I'm going to have to go.

We have a bit of a cuddle then he gets up to make the tea and I go and have a shower.  We have a chat and a nice long snog before I head off home.  First song on the radio after I get in the car is Men at Work - "Down Under"! ha ha - very apt.

Friday, 19 August 2011

Down the Clap Clinic

Yes, I know, it's a shocker isn't it?  But before you go all poe-faced and disgusted on me, I do NORMALLY wear a condom when having random sex and there isn't any particular reason for me to think I might be coming down with something itchy, bumpy or scratchy - other than nearly 2 weeks after having sex with Aussie Bloke it is still hurting Down Under (ha ha - god, I'm funny).  Anyway, I have to admit I have had sex in the past 6 months without a condom (yes, I know, it's far worse than adultery)  - I am naming no names.  In any case, it is more than 10 years since I've been to the clap clinic and, just to allay any nagging doubts, I decide to make an appointment and get my bits looked at.

Well, things have changed.  10 years ago, I had to sit in a large waiting room with hundreds of other people, surrounded by posters about AIDS and HIV and wait for what seemed like hours.  What made the wait particularly embarrassing was that there was a bloke in there I recognised from a previous encounter.  I had to think for a while to work out whether or not I had actually slept with him - I then remembered I hadn't, it was only a snog.  It was my friend Ruby who had actually slept with him.  But still, you know you have fallen a long way from the innocent convent girl your mother was so proud of when you are sitting in a clap clinic trying to remember if you've slept with the bloke in the chair opposite.

This time, it was much more civilised.  The waiting room was more or less empty (obviously Brighton's sex life is much more responsible these days) and I didn't have to wait long.  After about 10 minutes a 12-year old wearing a white coat came out and called my name.  I followed the child into a room and she shut the door and introduced herself as Dr Speculum (no, I can't remember her real name).  I resisted the urge to ask her where her mummy was and tell her a clap clinic wasn't really the place to be playing doctors and nurses and realised that I am now of the age where not only policeman look like children but doctors do too.  I consoled myself with the fact that she had very small hands, so wasn't going to be hurting me too much on my sore bits when she stuck her hand up there later.

What then followed I can only describe as the modern equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition.  This girl child asked about a million questions on my sex life - here is a sample:

  • when did you last have sex (ok, I grant you, this one is probably relevant)?
  • was it normal sex? (oh god, does oral sex count as normal?)
  • have you had sex with a sex worker (I ask you, do I LOOK like someone who would go to a prostitute for sex - why don't you just ask if I AM a sex worker - that would be more likely)
  • how many partners have you had in the past 6 months? (whatever I say is going to be the wrong answer to this girl who, I now notice, is wearing an engagement ring)
  • did you have oral sex with them? (yes, I know middle aged women aren't supposed to do such disgusting things, but yes, I did, and I'm quite good at it, actually)
  • did you have sex with a man (erm, doh, YES!)
  • have you had sex with a foreigner? (does an Australian count as foreign, or do I only include people whose first language isn't English?)
Look, darling, all you need to know is that I have had unprotected sex at some point in the past 6 months and I would like to get all the tests available under the sun to check I don't have something brewing in my bucket.

She then caps it all off with a nice little homily about contraception: 

Q "When was your last period?" A - "um about 3 weeks ago".
Q "so you had unprotected sex with your partner in the past 3 weeks?"  A - "Yes". 
Q "Are you using contraception"?  A - "No". 
Q "Aren't you concerned about pregnancy?" A - "No",
Q "Why?"  Because I'm not, you daft tart.  I am 48, my eggs are fried, my partner is sorted in that department, and, in any case, what does it have to do with why I'm here at the moment?  For all you know, I might WANT to get pregnant at 48! 

I am so annoyed and embarassed by all the intrusive questioning that I nearly walk out there and then.  Anyway, luckily she moves quickly onto the main business, i.e. getting me up on the couch with my legs spread and her and a nurse with a torch and spatula thingy up my fanny.  There's a bit of fannying around (ha ha, I know, corny..), while she whips that one out and replaces it with a longer one and eventually manages to get whatever she needs to scrape off my cervix and internal walls to send off to the labs.  I briefly wonder if there is a porn film somewhere that finds this sort of thing erotic.  Frankly, I am in such a bad mood after all the questioning and poking around that I decide never to have sex again.

I'll know whether or not I have something sinister in about 3 weeks.