Columns: Our lips are sealed

My unique situation with The Man means that very few people know what I get up to in my spare time.

In fact I like to think most would assume I enjoy quiet nights in with a cup of hot chocolate, a good book and a spot of needlecraft or baking. But I am not sure how convincing my image of wholesome rosy-cheeked mum actually is…

And I am not about to test it by throwing in any risky (or even risqué) conversational topics.

But even if I was in a position to reveal all, I am not sure whether it would go down well or create a sea of awkwardness, seeing as none of my peers seem to talk about sex any more. There’s gossip about so-and-so running off with thingummy-jig’s wife, but that’s as far as it goes. I am not sure if this is a by-product of being a certain age or of the majority being in long-term, settled relationships.

I go back about 14 years and a friend I hung around with at that time would be asking: “Did he have a big willy,” or “was he good” or even (after a few ciders) “did he do it up the bum?” She was exceptionally nosy, but then again we felt we could freely discuss these things without too much embarrassment.

In my student days, we also shared most things – clothes, shampoo, funny cigarettes, sex stories, even people. A few of us happened to sleep with the same person and compared experiences. “Did he try that thing on you – the one where he squeezes your bum and bites your bottom lip” – for example…

I also remember a student friend agonising with me about a night spent with someone who had strange lumps on his penis and another who was bitterly disappointed that the person she had pursued for weeks turned out to be abysmal in the bedroom.

With most women I know now having husbands or long-term partners, I imagine it is just not appropriate to talk about their sex lives – especially as their bedfellows are not disappearing out of their lives after one night. But in some ways it would be cathartic or therapeutic to have a no-holds-barred, but completely confidential chat with two or three others, even for reassurance that I am not the only person still obsessed with sex at thirty-ahem-ahem.

As for The Man, he is the paragon of discretion. He seeks no one to share with, not even in the traditional bloke pastime of sitting in the pub boasting to his mates that “I’ve had her – goes like a train” etc. The Man is not that sort of man. He keeps his private life private and if he feels the need to share, I can only imagine he converses with inanimate objects, such as his pots and pans or the rubber duck in his bathroom.

However, as a female, maybe I have an innate need to sound off, get things off my chest, so to speak, and at times, even though I have to hold my tongue, I find it very frustrating. Maybe I will have to get my own rubber duck.

 

Catch my blog at www.drunkenslutmum.co.uk

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