Headbanger

In certain publications recently, people have mocked the new series of Dancing on Ice. It has been called irrelevant.

On the contrary, I have nothing but admiration for the novice celebrities who learn to skate and then perform the complex moves of their Torville and Dean choreographed routines in front of a live audience after so little practice. As has already been seen, a small mistake can be punished by a great deal of pain and the possibility of stitches or even a broken bone. This is reality television that inspires me, rather than a group of rather unpleasant has-beens sitting around being nasty to each other in order to raise their public profile.

Just like its more famous sister, Strictly Come Dancing, in some ways it is easier for the female celebs, who can rely on the strength of their professional male partners to rescue them from any minor miscalculation. However, it does mean that they are encouraged to attempt the more dangerous moves sooner than the couples where the celebrity is male. Having seen one star hit her head whilst rehearsing the Headbanger, I applaud their bravery in even attempting such a move.

Their famous male counterparts need to learn to lead the partnership. Here, again, I must laud the courage of the female professionals who have to trust the fledgeling ability of their celebrity partner and allow themselves to be carried around the ice in ever more vulnerable positions.

The insistence on the inclusion of the headbanger reminded me of a very different scenario, where a less dramatic but equally painful version can occur.

As we perform our own patterns in the well-explored confines of our bed, occasionally I will lose my bearings so that my body becomes too close to the wall but be so engrossed in the ripples of pleasure coursing through my body that I'm unaware of it.

Eventually the thudding of my head against the plaster rises above the natural rhythm of his pumping. It is an irritation rather than a pain. All my receptors are otherwise engaged. Focussed on the wonderful sensations flooding into my brain. The drumming is in the background, an accompaniment, a condiment, the sprinkles upon the icing of a cupcake.

Sometimes an acknowledged and sought after additive to the thrill of the erotically charged moment. His hands holding firm on my hip and neck as he pumps harder and harder, each of us relishing the thud every time my skull hits the paintwork. It becomes a symbol of his possession.

But on other occasions, it is a percussion stridently at odds with the mood of gentleness and love behind the encounter. Until the pillow slides magically between my skull and the wall, damping the effects of its tormentor.

Never stopping the movement of his hips, his arm works independently to intercede in my dilemma and soften the blows. Eradicating the distraction and allowing my mind to be submerged and fly away, secure in the knowledge of his protective presence.

Some time later, when I resurface and smile a grateful thank you, his dismissive shrug demonstrates that it is all part of the package. My strong male partner, keeping me safe whilst he enjoys the ride.