Saturday, 30 June 2007


Over the years I have been plagued by anorexia. I'm not sure exactly when it first started but I usually pin it down to the time when I was 16 that Peter G, a guy on whom I had had the most enormous crush since my first day at senior school, told me I had an enormous arse! Now, bearing in mind, that at just over 5 ft and weighing in at about 8.5 stone, enormous was not a word that could truly be applied to any part of my anatomy. I should have just put it down to the fact that the cut of the school trousers probably wasn't flattering that particular asset and ignored him.

I was always a skinny child. My dad would hug me and call me his 'stick insect'. I wasn't hugely confident but I always had friends and, whilst not one of the class stars at school, I was a big part of the main bunch. I had an acceptable number of boyfriends to kiss but Peter G was the guy I adored. When I was 13, we were at a party and a group of us left for a while to hang out in the local park. Peter G seemed quite interested in me. He put his hand in my bra. Sadly, I was a very late developer, much to my intense chagrin as Little Sis had had 32Bs at age 10 whereas at 13, I was struggling to fill an A cup. Peter G didn't seem very impressed. We were sat on the roundabout for some reason. On those struts that go across for you to hold on to. I remember clear as day across all those years my shame as he put his hand down my trousers and groped around. It was horrible. I hated it. But it was Peter G and I would have done anything for him. I so desperately wanted to love him. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do in response. It certainly wasn't a very pleasurable experience! Eventually he got bored, removed his hand and started chatting about something else. I was mortified. I must have done something wrong. Some weeks later he started dating a girl in the year above us who was even skinnier than me. Their liaison continued for the rest of our time at school and, despite my doe-eyed devotion, he didn't look at me again until we were at college. He kissed me and groped me again (in a tent and in his bedroom as I recall) but, with hindsight, there was no spark between us so I'm not quite sure why I still carry a torch for him to this day.

I had one or two crushes and romances after that but it was not until my friend, Deb, and I discovered the local boys-only school in the next town that things really took off in that area. It would seem that being able to talk to boys is a commodity that should be very highly prized. The girls from the school across the road from the boys school didn't seem to be terribly competent so the guys just loved us. We began attending their school disco every other week and every other week, I was dating a different lad. There were lots of parties at weekends with lots of booze. I can remember my little sis lying flat on her back on a wet garden lawn having consumed the best part of a bottle of very very cheap whiskey. In retrospect, it was probably horribly dangerous and she could have died. One of us should have put her in the recovery position - if we'd known what it was!

There was lots of canoodling. Guys seemed to be attracted to me in a way that I wasn't quite used to and I never had a shortage of admirers. I permitted some of them to put their hands in my bra - things had filled out a little bit in that area and I was the owner of a couple of very pert B cup boobies which they seemed to enjoy fumbling with. I was, of course, completely unaware of the extent of their complete inexperience in matters sexual. They seemed to know where they should put their hands and their fingers but not quite what it was they were supposed to be doing with them! It was all very unsatisfying and to be honest I wasn't that keen on getting into those sort of situations because it all seemed so pointless.

But I'm not totally criticising the spotty herberts because I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to be doing with their little willies either. I had absolutely no desire to play with one, although I adored the feeling of a hardening member pressed through jeans against my thigh. I remember one guy took my hand and made me touch it through his trousers. I could feel it throbbing against my hand. He undid his zipper and tried to guide my hand down his trousers against the bare skin but I would have none of it. I wasn't ready for that at all.

Naturally I acquired a reputation as a tease but that didn't stop them trying to persuade me to go further. Alcohol was my number one enemy. We all over-indulged. We were only 15 but off licenses were not as strict as they are today and it was very easy to buy beer or spirits - vodka or bacardi being my drinks of choice. We could all get served in pubs too and spent most evenings at our local. I can remember my sister being asked to join the ladies darts team because she was so good. They were a bit shocked when she had to decline because she was only 13 and wouldn't be able to get to the away matches because she had to get up for school the following morning!

Things came to a head for me at a party where I got absolutely ratarsed. I can remember going upstairs to use the toilet. The next thing I remember, I was lying on a bed and someone was lying on top of me. He was the roughest, toughest lad that all the guys looked up to. He was always fighting and in trouble but with his long blonde hair, pierced ear and tattoos, most of the girls had a thing for him. For all his roughness, he wasn't the sort of guy who would just jump a girl, he had a sort of code of honour about him, so I suppose that we must have engaged in some sort of interaction prior to me waking up with him on top of me, but I have no memory of it. He was kissing my neck, grabbing my boobs and wrestling with the zipper of my trousers and I seemed completely powerless to stop it, even if I had wanted to - which I don't think I did.

The only thing that enables me to say that technically I remained a virgin was that I had my period and so the hole was stoppered by a Super Tampax, a fact that, in his drunken state, he couldn't seem to come to terms with. To be honest, I'm pretty sure he was still a virgin too because he didn't really seem to have a clue what he was doing - even less of an idea than the other spotty herberts with their fumbling, probing fingers - and I certainly wasn't in any condition to verbalise what the problem was! He tried manfully to penetrate the opening but was unable to get more than an inch inside me because of the obstruction. Afterwards, he told me I was now his girlfriend and he took my number so he could call me. It later transpired that he had had a crush on me for some time but, being a bloke of a certain age, had no idea how to communicate that to me. We dated on and off for about a year until he found a girl he could actually physically have sex with.

One bloke who was able to tell me how much he loved me actually asked me to marry him. We were both 15! 'The Girl of my Best Friend' by Elvis and 'Young Hearts Run Free' by Candi Staton were our songs and I still smile when I hear them today. It's probably worth mentioning that I had to decline his kind offer when we were all told later that evening that his 14-year-old ex-girlfriend was six months pregnant. She had been in denial and it was discovered only when her mother realised that she was safety-pinning her school trousers across the zipper to hold them together. Poor girl. She had the baby and they married after leaving school and lived miserably together for the next few years.

I became aware of the problems in my parents' marriage around this time. They were always arguing and I could hear them in bed. My father obviously trying to persuade her to have sex and my mother forcefully voicing her negative. Dad was always very affectionate with his girls and I think he used to hug my mum and kiss her cheek but he had alcohol issues. He wasn't an alcoholic but social enjoyment to him has always revolved around having a drink. He couldn't get past 11am without having to have a pint. I can vividly recall family holidays as kids where we would be in the car with a pineapple juice and packet of crisps each and my parents were having a pint and a 'morning coffee'. My poor dad used to have to scour the countryside's pubs hunting for a sign that offered 'morning coffee' before he could stop for his pint. My mum grew to resent his beer consumption, the money it cost and the frequent times he returned home from work late because he had to 'entertain clients'. I can still recall the odour of his suits when he returned home from work. A not unpleasant smell redolent of beer, cigarettes and newspaper print from the evening paper.

I was still a pretty, outgoing, relatively confident, popular girl but the combination of the strains of my GCEs, the obvious problems within my parents' marriage and a house move away from the security of the home and neighbourhood we had grown up in were all contributing factors to my eating problems which, by the time my mother left when I was 17, had deteriorated into a serious disorder involving bouts of both bulimia and anorexia...

... but no one seemed to even notice.

Copyright: having my cake

Thursday, 28 June 2007


During the intervening six months, I was at the hairdressers reading Cosmo. There was this article that caught my eye about a girl who enjoyed having her clit stimulated by... wait for it...

... an electric toothbrush!

She went on and on about how good it felt having it touch her through her pants or with the barrier of a flannel and I must admit the whole concept made me rather excited.

Could this be it? The answer to my whole 'thing' about not wanting to actually touch myself with my fingers?

But I couldn't get my head around it. The whole idea was anathema. It was a toothbrush for god's sake. I had to put it in my mouth and brush my teeth afterwards. Nonononononononoono!!!!

However, the article did pique in me a frisson of excitement about that other item that remained hidden in the hatbox, under the clothes, in the cupboard, behind the chest of drawers. I mean it wouldn't hurt to just have a peak at it... would it?

Since my kids were at school and I didn't work, I was alone in the house for a large part of the day. One afternoon, my curiosity got the better of me and I fetched it from the depths of its secret hiding place. After a glass of wine for some courage, I breached the plastic of its packaging and got it out onto the bed. It was sooooo Pink! And sooooo Plasticy looking. You can hear me turning my nose up as we speak can't you! But, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I popped in the batteries and switched the two switches. The thing virtually took off in my hand, all flailing pink cock and frantically waggling ears. I was a bit shocked to be honest. I don't know quite what I expected, but it wasn't that!

But this was no good, I couldn't be beaten at the first hurdle. I had to at least try! So I unclothed the bottom half of my body and set about trying to insert part of the cock bit so that the ears could go against my clit. It was hopeless. I can hear you all shouting 'What about the lube?' But back then, I was what I have now discovered is 'resolutely vanilla'. I didn't have a clue about how this sort of thing should all be done.

As an aside, when I performed the same service for an extremely innocent 'friend of a certain age' that my sister had performed for me, i.e. purchased her a rabbit, I made sure to include a nice bottle of lube and a verbal set of instructions. Needless to say, her first experience was infinitely more rewarding and she has thanked me on countless occasions since.

Looking back, I was so naive, so clueless, it is hardly surprising that the whole first attempt was a complete failure. It was doomed from the getgo and saw the thing discarded, cleaned and returned to its box, which in turn was placed back in the hatbox and despatched to its secret hiding place under the clothes in the depths of the eaves cupboard behind the chest of drawers. Phewwwwww! Never to be thought of again!!!!

A couple of weeks later, I had a very strange experience! I was signing people in at a class I helped out with, when I looked up into a pair of eyes that caused the whole world to stop turning and had the blood rushing in my ears. It was such a shock! I had never had such a perturbing encounter with a man. He was a new student, considerably younger than me and I had to inwardly beat myself about the head for being such a stupid idiot, but The Man sure had the ability to make me hot under the collar. He wasn't particularly good looking but there was just something about his eyes that made me melt. Maybe it was my age and the old hormones were starting to play up but feelings which I had resolutely kept contained and under control for some years suddenly started going haywire.

I kept thinking about the toothbrush article and, eventually, the curiosity was just too much. One morning, when the Husband, had taken the kids off to some activity, I was in the bathroom about to take a shower when my mind led me somewhere entirely different. The Man was in my thoughts causing havoc in my nether regions. I needed to do something. I needed to touch it but the revulsion evinced by the thought of using my fingers was going to be hard to overcome. The electric toothbrush was primed on the shelf. It drew my attention, it consumed my mind and before I knew what I was doing, I was leaning against the bathroom wall with the buzzing device pressed to my clit through my dressing gown. The shock as the vibration made contact through the fabric made me stretch upwards and away from it but then the waves started to engulf me. I could feel the warmth spreading from that tickly pressure, radiating outwards all the way to the tips of my fingers and the stubs of my toes, culminating in a soft buzzing in my head as that feeling I used to get when I clamped my legs tight together built and multiplied over and over until, mouth open and gasping, I was doubled over with the exquisite sensations rippling through me. And that's when it happened... the sudden gush of water from between my legs and the horrendous shame that I just might have peed myself.


I was an innocent then, remember. I didn't know that that sort of thing could happen. I hadn't heard about squirters and gushers. I thought an orgasm was that screaming display that Meg Ryan did in When Harry Met Sally and that was the extent of it. Obviously, I knew that the vagina and clitoris lubricate when they are excited but I didn't realise the exact glorious mechanics of the full female orgasm.

I'm actually quite embarrassed about that last sentence. I was 43 years old, had had two children and, prior to their conception, what I believed to be a completely fulfilling sex life. I loved my husband and he knew where the clitoris was and so I had had feelings that had made me cry out with pleasure which I assumed were orgasms. But they were nothing like this... nothing at all like this!

I was reduced to sniffing the carpet to ascertain that it wasn't actually pee that had run down my legs but some other colourless and, to all intents and purposes, virtually odourless liquid. I realised that further investigation and some re-education was necessary... but I wasn't sure who to ask or where to look and I certainly wasn't going to leave anything in the 'history' section of the computer that my husband might find. It was clearly going to be a long journey from my current state of complete innocence to even a modicum of awareness of what it truly means to be a woman.

But this time I was not to be deterred. I had tasted the forbidden fruit, the tiniest little mouthful and I wanted more... much more!

Copyright: having my cake


The advent of children into the marital harmony is a tough one. A natural progression and a blessing yes, but also a source of constant bickering over their upbringing. And of course the whole being too tired for sex thing. Unfortunately, neither of us had parents who were in a position to do much babysitting and our second was one of those sleepless children who required constant company all through the night in order to close his eyes even for a moment. And, once they got older, the whole 'shhhhh, they'll hear us thing' kicked in. Hence the deterioration and almost complete disappearance of our sex life, which had been on its way out before their conception if I'm completely honest.

The Husband is not the most exciting of men. He is reliable, kind, generous and funny but a little dull and very set in his ways in that if he doesn't like something, particularly my friends, he will make excuses not to see them. He is also the master of the acerbic putdown, which again is linked to my anorexia problems. Coming from a background of parents who divorced, I tried very hard to have lots of joint interests and things that we did together so I stopped seeing my friends when he made it apparent in a very subtle way that he didn't enjoy their company and so we socialised with his.

I wanted his approval on all levels and I tried very hard to please and to keep us as a cohesive loving family unit. I was always hugging and kissing and cuddling all members of my family, arranging days out with the kids so we could be together and they could feel that they were loved and accepted no matter what. The Husband, however, is not good at this stuff. His family are all very untactile. If I held his hand in the street, he would find a way to free himself as soon as possible. He never says I love you unless you've said it first. He is unable to initiate a cuddle without wanting it to lead to sex. I would watch the interaction of our friends, see them exchanging kisses and hugs purely for the pleasure of bodily contact with someone who was so special to them. I knew all this before I married him and had experienced a lot of doubts as to whether I was doing the right thing but my stepmother had moved into my old home so I didn't feel I could really return home and I loved this man. I had spent six years waiting for him to ask me to be his wife so when he finally did so in his normal very roundabout way, I settled down to arranging a wedding and trying to make it work. I thought I had enough love for both of us.

And for 20 years I did.

Tuesday, 26 June 2007


It was my younger sister who bought me my first vibrator. We'd been talking about our sex lives and she was astonished that I didn't have one. Apparently, all women of a certain age should. I didn't dare tell her that at the ripe old age of 42, I had never even masturbated.

I always enjoyed waking up from a particularly pleasurable dream with that tingly feeling between my legs and pressing my thighs together hard, welcoming the mounting pleasure that threatened to take my breath away before subsiding into a feeling of relaxed but not quite fulfilled wellbeing? Does that count as masturbation? I didn't think so. I had never even caressed my clit lovingly and certainly never inserted so much as a fingertip. A Tampax was the extent of my internal exploration and that, remember, has a cardboard applicator. I couldn't be doing with Lillets which involved manual dexterity and fiddling about to get it in the right place.

Truth be told, I didn't actually like myself very much... down there. I thought it looked horrible. How could anyone else ever want to touch it when I certainly didn't. It was only from watching an episode of Sex and The City (my, that series has a lot to answer for) and hearing Samantha exhorting Charlotte that she should examine herself with a mirror and learn to love what she saw that made me realise that I needed to do that too. To become less repressed, less anal, less ocd. On reflection, it all fits in with the food and self image problems I had at the time.

Again, Sex and The City had an episode where an artist painted the cunts of several women and displayed them at a gallery. Seeing all those different shapes and sizes, one after another was rather liberating. It wasn't cold and hard, the way they showed pussies in 70s porno mags which was my only other previous experience of other female genitalia - my sister, our friend and I had found a copy of Men Only in an alley when we were in our early teens and spent an evening perusing the pics and the stories when our friend's dad was out. The cunt paintings were warm and vibrant and showed that no-one had a picture perfect clitoris and vagina combo - they were all individual.

However, despite the above, I certainly wouldn't say that I didn't welcome digital stimulation and penetration by my Husband, which I must admit to enjoying very much - just not doing it by myself. That seemed somehow sad and rather disturbing, especially as I was married with children and shouldn't be needing to do 'that sort of thing'.

Oh, how we live to smile at the rigid beliefs of our past selves. Especially before the advent of the access-all-areas information-fest that is the internet.

The infamous episode of SATC where Charlotte bought her first Rabbit was the clincher and I started to realise that I needed to get with the programme and experience that side of life first-hand so to speak but I just wasn't brave enough to go into Ann Summers in person and the shame of having something like that arrive via post if ordered over the internet... A step too far. Then my sis announced that she'd been to an Ann Summers party and ordered two Rabbits as birthday presents - one for me and one for another yellow friend. The next time we got together, she produced it and I immediately hid it upstairs in my hatbox, under a pile of clothes in the cupboard under the eaves - access to which is obtained only by moving a chest of drawers. Oh, the shame! It burned into me knowing it was even in the house and I left it there unopened for almost six months...

Copyright: Havingmycake