Phoenix Fights

Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….

25 DAYS OF SONGS CHALLENGE: DAY 5 – A SONG THAT IS STUCK IN MY HEAD

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I have a confession to make.

I appear to be having the female/middle aged version of wet dreams on a disturbingly frequent basis, and wake up feeling as if I’ve just orgasmed or am about to.

Sometimes I can feel myself actually rearing and thrusting like a frustrated filly in my sleep.

Talk about ‘Giddy up Cowboy’….

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How disturbing/cringy/embarrassing.

Whilst it is no doubt a clear sign that my body is in good health, I treat it like a malady as opposed to a ‘happy ending’ per se.  That is to say in the way one treats a headache.

Your head starts throbbing, take a couple of panadol so that it doesn’t interfere with your day.

Your crotch starts throbbing, have a quick wank for the same reason.  To shut it up so you can get on with more important things.

Somehow, despite the menopause, despite the fact that I’m still taking meds, and over a year of my studiously ignoring it, my libido is once again stomping its foot, demanding to be heard.

I know, I know, sex is a wonderful part of life and doesn’t have to end after the menopause, and you can always get an understanding partner and buy shares in ‘slide and glide’, blah, blah, bleugh.

KY_Jelly____now_in_bulk_by_SleepyTim

It’s just that it’s just soooo….bloody inconvenient.

It’s hard enough to get a date in London when you’re in a job and the right side of 30, but an over 50 year old, jobless, post menopausal BPD depressive?

Seriously where do you start?

Get a fuck buddy, some might say?

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Not a bad suggestion, but I’m scared.  I haven’t been penetrated for at least four years, and (a) my mimsy might not allow a willie in, (b) it might (will) hurt, and (c) it might get stuck, and I don’t fancy being hauled off to my local Casualty clinging to the body of Mr A Nother as they are currently filming the TV series ’24 Hours in A&E’ there.

Plus it’s never quite as uncomplicated as it is on paper, I’m horribly territorial about my home as well as my body, and to be quite honest?

For probably the first time in my life, I don’t want anyone inside me that I don’t trust and feel something for.  Which is pretty unfortunate because I don’t actually trust anyone.

And in the meantime, this song is blaring in my ear mockingly, reminding me of my youth club days when myself and my other geeky friend danced and sang along to it, blissfully unaware of the sexual implications.

Ah, those were the days…

In the meantime my body keeps reminding me that whilst I may be done with sex, sex ain’t exactly done with me yet.

Whatcha say?

30/5 UPDATE – It happened AGAIN last night!

WTF IS HAPPENING WITH MY BODY?!!!  Is this some menopausal ‘last chance saloon’ thing?!

OH GOD, MAKE IT STOP BEFORE I START DRY HUMPING INANIMATE OBJECTS!

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ROLLING IN THE DEEP – PART THREE

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For the last 48 hours or so, I’ve scraped by in a bit of a daze really, but one good thing has come from this ‘Total Recall’ from hell.

I have learned to take comfort from the company of others.

Not for the entire two days you understand, no that would be too much of an about turn, but my twisted mind’s impetus to keep reliving and replaying all of the details of what happened that night again, and again make me at loathe to be alone with my thoughts for too long, which is something very new for me.

So much makes sense now.

  • My mistrust of men.
  • My wondering what they really wanted from me (as they couldn’t actually like me, could they?)
  • My low self worth.
  • My horror of rejection.
  • My inability to let myself be out of control.
  • My inability to fully relax when a boyfriend (or any man for that matter) stayed over in my home.
  • My secrecy and need for privacy.
  • My needing to be able to physically protect myself.
  • My always expecting and being prepared for the worst.
  • My always having an exit plan.
  • My readiness to ‘fight to the death’ when threatened.
  • My fury when presented with male aggression.

And all of this because some selfish, sexist, cowardly, misogynistic wanker could have a quick squirt and about 30 seconds of ecstasy that was probably forgotten within 24 hours (or once he’d fucked/raped someone else), whilst this has marred all of my relationships for over half of my life.

Don’t they realise this?

These rapists, these child abusers, these kidnappers, these opportunistic abusers?

Can’t they just have a wank over some porn like everyone else?

The darkest part of me would love to see them all gang raped up the arse by way of punishment so that they could live in shame, fear, self loathing and pain for the rest of their life, but that’s just ‘eye for an eye’ and nothing good ever comes from that.

Unfortunately.

I haven’t been able to cry at all.  I just feel frozen.

So many thoughts, so many realisations.

Babies never came for me, and I subconsciously used to wonder whether I was being punished, or that some fundamental damage had been done to me.

It was probably just as well, I’m so fucked up that any child of mine would have probably being a bit screwed up too.

Suffice to say, whatever libido I have recently recovered has completely and utterly disappeared, so this is probably a damn good excuse to stop seeing GM and/or going on any more dates for now.

But I don’t want this to turn me into a man hater.

I think that as part of a healing process, I need to spent time with all of the kind, gentle, safe men that I have in my life to remind me that there good ones are out there too, and hopefully this will heal my wounds, make me feel safe and thaw out the block of ice that is currently holding my heart captive.

Thanks again for all of your kind words, they nourish my tired, battered little soul, they really do 🙂

And to any guys who are reading or who have read about any of this, I guess you probably don’t know what to say and think it’s best to keep out of it?

I totally understand.

P.S. What has shocked and saddened me the most has been the number of bloggers who have had similar experiences to mine, and I’m touched by them taking their courage in both hands and taking the trouble to comment so kindly and supportively about mine.  Love and support right back at you xx

Namaste to all xx

 

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2013/06/05/rolling-in-the-deep-part-one/

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2013/06/05/rolling-in-the-deep-part-two/

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2013/06/05/thank-you/

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2013/06/18/rolling-in-the-deep-part-four/

 


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SEXUAL HEALING

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Oh I forgot to update you on my libido!

I’ve discovered (not telling how) that it does spark up when ‘provoked’, but happily stays dormant if left alone, so I reckon it will diminish entirely if I let it go.

So-oo, I’ve decided to try and masturbate with my hand held shower head in the bath at least every other day, endure the ‘less than earth shattering’ orgasm and hope that my G Spot and clitoris have ‘muscle memory’ and remember what they’re capable of instead of presenting me with such a weedy result for my efforts.

Plus a warm subtle flow of water is like being licked and it’s easier to fantasise when something’s not juddering in your hand like a pneumatic drill and making enough noise to wake up the entire building.

It’s also easier to wank in the bath as opposed to bed, where even the tiniest amount of twitching under the bedclothes incites homicidal curiosity in my cats and believe me, that ain’t no turn on!

2 days in and it’s still a bit frustratingly lacking, and I tend to feel over tingly and weak afterwards, but never mind, we shall overCOME….

And if after a month, it’s still crappy, I’m giving up, getting a loyalty card from my local bakery, retiring to a bungalow and buying a job lot of elasticated trousers.  The End!

Oh and I haven’t dared get hold of any marijuana yet, but as soon as I do, I’ll let you know if it helps at all.

Here we go, onwards and upwards! 😉


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RELEASE THE KRAKEN – MRS MOJO RISIN’ UPDATE 3

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I’m going to say this quietly as I don’t want to scare it away (yet), but it appears that my sexuality has slunk back in the door and is sniffing around, growling quietly to itself and sharpening its claws on the cat post in the corner as we speak.

Know how I know?

Well apart from the weird horny dreams I’ve been having of late, I am finding my encounters with some of my partners at ballroom lessons a whole lot more uncomfortable/exciting.

Since I hit 40 I’ve always managed to persuade myself that women who pray on younger men were tragic, and to date I only ever viewed boys as (a) little brothers (b) amusing/irritating in equal parts, or (c) a target for any tiny shreds of maternal instinct that I have left.

I have nephews, my friends have adult sons and I’ve had to deal with young, handsome men in the workplace for years, but my role was never in question then.  My natural instinct was to ‘Auntie’ them, that is to say give them the benefit of my experience of the world when needed/requested/essential (not in that way), cuff them around the head occasionally and bung them a tenner or the odd bit of cake when the mood took me.

Simples.

Everyone knew who they were and what their roles were.

Until now.

Now I find it increasingly difficult to look some of my partners in the eye whilst lumbering around the dance floor.  Especially one young, doe eyed Latin bloke who, like most mediterraneans has no problem with intimacy whatsoever, and locks eyes with me flirtatiously whenever we partner up.

I like to think that I am a sexually confident, formidable, sophisticated woman of the world who is beyond being unsettled by any man, let alone some little slip of a thing that can just about grow a beard, but the other night, quite frankly, I barely knew what to do with myself around him so I alternated between avoiding him, being silly (cue mad, overly dramatic tango promenades), and locking eyes with him, pretending to flirt and then being totally unnerved by the genuine chemistry that sprang up between us like, well, like a big, happy, bobbing man’s member.  Eeekk!

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I know I should be pleased that my Mojo has returned and I haven’t totally dried up like an out of date vanilla pod, but I find this attraction to men young enough to be my son absolutely mortifying, as it is something I never dreamed would happen to me.  In fact whenever I’ve seen an older woman slobbering over some kid (I had to use eye bleach for months after one  particular holiday in the Gambia – don’t even ask) I’ve told friends that if I ever did anything like that to put a bullet between my eyes.  Right. Between. My. Eyes.  Don’t even think about firing a warning shot or winging me, because if I’m behaving like that, I’ve already hit the slippery slope (missus) and there will be no coming back from it.

Not only that, but I’m not even good at going out with good looking men of my own age, let alone half of it, because, as a very insecure women who has little trust in those of the male persuasion (romantically albeit), I don’t like being the less attractive one, as, as far as my twisted logic is concerned, the odds are higher with regard to my being hurt.

Plus waking up next to someone who looks like a Caravaggio saint, whilst I look like Bette Davis in ‘Baby Jane’ is quite frankly, my idea of hell.

And then, if I had any doubt about it, the final bit of evidence came to light today, as I have spent most of this evening tearing various BT operators limb from limb because their service is shit.  In the end I had to put the phone down because I was shaking with anger and frustration, and my higher self was scared of what I might say, and that they might end up calling the police or needing therapy or something.

As I sipped a G&T to help me calm down, it struck me that I haven’t lost my temper like that for a long, long time, and then the final bit of the puzzle clicked into place.

My most angry, resentful, temperamental time on this earth has been during my potential child bearing years.

Anger = passion.

Passion = sexuality.

Sexuality – jiggy jiggy = cranky + Scary Man Juice = homicidal rage.

It’s official.  Somehow my Mojo has been rejuvenated and amped up my tendency to fly off the handle, and now, something that has teeth, claws and appetite is stalking around the periphery of my flat, glaring ominously and demanding to be fed.

But how?  Scary Man Juice hasn’t really worked before now?

And then I remember.  I haven’t taken my meds for two days.  And whilst I’ve always been aware that Sertraline is hardly an aphrodisiac, this is clear proof that it has been having a libido stifling, bromide like effect on me.

So I face an interesting dilemma; Sexuality v Sanity.

The choices here are:

1. Release the Kraken and potentially unleash a scarier, more unhinged Sista on the world?

Or

2.  Keep taking the tablets?

This I need to think about.

Lives are at stake here….


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BABY WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT – MOJO RISIN’ UPDATE 2

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So, I’m still applying Scary Man juice (testosterone gel) to try and hot wire my libido back to it’s former glory.

The good news is I haven’t grown a moustache :-).

The bad news is that I’m not getting any real urges down below to spontaneously follow up on :-(.

Take last night for instance. I went to a Latin American style dance show with a friend. We had great seats so were only about five rows from the stage. The dancers were fantastic and had amazing bodies. The men were largely topless and I could smell fresh male sweat in abundance, something that always used to give me something of a high.

So did this get me off? No. I watched unaroused, smiling indulgently like a proud nana as these ripped gods shimmied past me as they sambaed down the aisle before intermission, whilst simultaneous analysing their physiques in my head (the ex personal trainer in me) as they passed.

‘Great delts, has neglected his triceps though…that one’s a little lean, needs to develop his traps……Bar body! Do something with your legs sweetie, you look like Johnny Bravo…..yup, practically perfect in every way, which reminds me, I must take up dancing again…..’

The question is, if these magnificent specimens don’t float my boat, is a man closer to my age going to be able to?

So, I left shaken (forty dancers jumping around does that in an old rickety London theatre) but not stirred.

Which is probably all for the best as far as they were concerned, as no one likes to see a lecherous old woman drooling over chicken unless it’s with her Sunday roast covered in gravy.

So then, if it is the case that I’m no longer aroused by young men, how is it that instead of going to bed at a reasonable hour last night, I spent a good hour, maybe even two, watching videos of the boy band 5ive performing their hits on You Tube?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egZl1IyHOqk

And that’s not the worst of it. I wasn’t watching them as they are now on the Big Reunion i.e. in their thirties. That would be bad enough. No, I was watching clips of them from about fifteen years ago, at the height of their fame, when they couldn’t have been older than, erm…. 22?

God, WHAT IS THE DEAL HERE? I tell you something, I don’t embarrass easily, but I’m actually blushing from sheer unadulterated shame whilst typing this….

There have been times when I have really wanted to share my blog with various people in my life, but today I am fervently grateful that no one knows who I am as this is so cringe worthy! My friends would give me major shit if they knew about this (I can just hear them shrieking ‘Ohhh, young man!!’) and I would bloody well deserve it.

Please believe me when I tell you that despite how this appears, I was not turned on whilst watching this footage. Honestly. Why would I lie? At the height of their fame, I wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in 5ive. They were, and are little boys when compared to me as far as I’m concerned.

But I did feel something. A couple of members of the band would have been my thing when I was a teenager (ruggedly handsome rough diamonds for anyone who doesn’t know who they are) so this was probably part of the reason I was watching them instead of, say, Take That.

The more I think about it, whilst I was kind of marvelling at their beauty, sexual pungency, sheer vitality and potential, there was also a sadness, an element of mourning to it I think.

It was kind of like saying goodbye.

It also felt eerily familiar. Have I been in this place before? Is there such a thing as reincarnation? If there is then please God let my next life be one without depression where I could look at my 19 year old self, if not with love and admiration, then not with hate and loathing, and look at boys such as these and think ‘I am as worthy of this person as he is of me’. Because right now, in the world as I know it, there is no going back and living this life again, no chance to see boys as friends not enemies, and no chance to believe in young love and all the enrichment it brings.

Sigh.

As for the state of play re my orgasm, I still have no urge to masturbate and only do it once a week if I remember, rather like going for a run on a Sunday morning to get the papers. But the last time I did it (it was not last night, I swear) it was the same as last time.

Using motor racing terms, it was pretty much 0-60 in a matter of seconds, flying past the chequered flag at record breaking speed, a bit of a buzz, a thrumming engine I couldn’t turn off, so nothing worth getting RSI of the wrist for.

This is the point where I could very easily pull out of the race, bail on this project and forget all about jiggy jiggy, but there is one thing that I haven’t tested yet.

I haven’t been close to a real live man of my own age (as in on a date) for a good year or so, so actual erotic interaction with a real life specimen might be a different thing entirely.

You know I told you that I’d rejoined that online dating site? And had two guys contact me? And I swore I’d get back to them?

I lied. I didn’t :-(. Sorreee…

But I will. Today. Well they’ve probably buggered off by now, but I will interact and be open to meeting someone on there. For experimental purposes only.

I was also told by a very reliable source that marijuana is very good for helping the medically impeded climax, so I’m off to see a man about a dog, let’s hope I don’t get arrested….

Bye for now!


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TAKE ME BABY OR LEAVE ME

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If you ever have a sneaking suspicion that you are not living an authentic life that makes you happy, and want to check this out, I know a way.

Log into and check your last online dating profile.  And if you don’t have one?  Write one.  Don’t think about it, do it quickly without thinking too much and do the best you can.

Then (and this is the fun bit) analyse it and see how honest you were.

So, you might ask, what I am doing, rooting around in the ‘Last Chance Saloon’ of the dating world?

Well, in an effort to achieve at least some of my goals this year, I have decided to give internet dating one more try <groan>, so I have just logged onto the last website I was registered on, reviewed my old summary, and found myself asking ‘Who is this bitch?’

Firstly, I am of course anonymous (hey, I love a good nom de plume) but I stand by that having once being stalked to my workplace by someone very high up in radio, whom, after having been rebuffed, googled me, realised he knew some very senior people at my work, then implied to me that he had influence over them, and indirectly, my career, so perhaps we should meet up after all.

Creepy, creepy, creepy.  So, suffice to say, that ain’t changing.

I’d also put myself down as five years younger than I actually am; ironic seeing as one of my ‘dislikes’ is ‘people who lie’ 🙂 .

Why?  If I recall, my rationale was that any woman over 50 will not get any hits (which to be fair, is probably true) and anyway, I reasoned at the time, I don’t look my age.  That may or may not be the case, but already, I’m changing stuff about myself to make myself acceptable to people I haven’t even met yet.  Not good.

My photos were, however, relatively up to date and not 10 years old (like some people’s I could mention), but obviously the most flattering I could find, i.e. none showing me in profile which I hate.  The main shot is one is of me at a work function, champagne in hand, wearing a grey suit dress looking very corporate indeed, clearly indicating how much I was bought into that whole ‘job title = identity’ malarkey.

I hated work functions so why am I smiling? Then I remember that I was hammered from having been on the bubbles for 3 hours without any food in my stomach, and was chatting up this ginormous bloke who owned the club instead of making small talk with my clients.  Whoops.

Back to the profile; I’ve been pretty honest about my height, weight, colour of eyes etc. (what’s the point of lying about stuff like that?), but it’s the ‘About Me’ section that is the most tellling.

It reads something like this:

‘Slim, independent, attractive, professional woman living and working in the Capital seeks Batman to her Robin.  I work in Film/Marketing/Media, love my job, have a great social life with lots of friends, but am missing the icing on the cake in the form of like minded, professional, solvent alpha male soul mate for drinks, movies, dancing and maybe more!’

What an absolute pile of crap.  I hated my job, was too knackered to go out with my friends, so my social life sucked.  I was on all kinds of medication to get me though the day, but selling myself as this oh-so-together, spin-tastic go getter who loved her Blackberry more than her Rampant Rabbit (I was also too tired to even use that for the most part).

So the thing I hated the most about my life was the thing I used as my key selling point to prospective partners.  WTF?

I then go onto specifics re what I would like in a potential partner; I want funny, clever, in shape, solvent, generous, masculine, authoritative, sensitive, smoke free, spiritual, reliable, faithful, yada, yada, yada…

Who did I think I was exactly?  It’s as if I think I have access to some kind of ‘Build a Bear’ technology, and can create the ideal man, and that nothing else would do.  In hindsight, I’m amazed anyone actually bothered to contact me at all.

Also note the term ‘alpha male’. God you would think after years of dating big, muscle bound, chest-thumping, emotionally autistic dickheads that I might have learned something wouldn’t you?  Unfortunately for me, this is what has always floated my boat physically speaking, along with the odd rangy but super charismatic sexy bastard who would occasionally saunter into my life like Clint Eastwood circa 1972 (but with more attitude), and ironically, fuck with my head ten times more than he ever did with my body.

So why was I still looking for more of the same?  Is having someone hot more important than meeting a soul mate and best friend?  Evidentially it was at that time. But now?  Not so much.

When I look at this profile I marvel at how much I have changed; OK not totally for the better, but I certainly bear no relation to that highly groomed (but drunken) exec with long red nails, a politicians smile and a packet of beta blockers in her bag.

So, I can see I’m going to have to start from scratch.

But how honest can I be?

‘Slim, burnt out, once attractive woman living on a shoestring in the Capital seeks Rachet to her McMurphy.  I don’t work, have an almost non existent social life with a few trusted friends, but am missing the icing on the cake in the form of a like minded, tolerant alpha male soul mate to watch Real Housewives with, keep me calm in social situations, and, if you’re lucky, try and jump start my sexuality and see if my taking ‘scary man juice’ has moistened my muffin yet.’

Hmm.  Maybe not.

Something in the middle perhaps?

After about an hour and a half, I’m done.

I’ve updated my photos to shots that are more recent and reflect my new lifestyle; well, I’ve taken out the work snaps anyway…

My ‘About Me’ reads something like this:

‘Slim, independent, attractive female woman who has left corporate life and exploring new avenues seeks fun, attractive guy for high jinks and adventures.  If my change in lifestyle puts you off/scares you/makes you think you have to pay for everything, then you’re probably not the man for me, whatever I end up doing.  If however this intrigues you and/or makes no difference to your interest in me whatsoever, perhaps we can grab a coffee, chew the fat and see if we can put the world to rights?’

I’m quite jocular and bantering in the rest of the profile as that is how I am when I’m in a good place, and I have limited my relationship choice to ‘Just Friends’ for now, as that’s all I’m ready for, as I would have to share a bit more about myself and my condition if I was to see someone seriously, as that’s only fair to them.

So whilst I might be wasting my time and have lost 90 minutes of my life that I’ll never get back doing this, I’m proud of myself for finally letting go of everything that incorporates and connects me to my old identity, and have finally come out as a 51 year old writer/trainee yoga teacher who is still feeling her way in the world.

And if they give a damn?  They can ‘Take Me Baby or Leave Me’.


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SCARY MAN JUICE

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I’m sat on the edge of the bath, wrapped in a big blue towel staring in fear and loathing at a little tube of gel.

This can’t be right, surely?

I part the towel slowly and regard the suddenly goosepimpled landscape of potential application sites.

But where?

‘Not us!’ say my tits, ‘for we are the epitome of femininity.  It wouldn’t be right, in fact it would be downright obscene!’

Good point.

‘Don’t even think about it!’ shrieks my tummy, ‘your fucking ovaries are in here!  Are you mad?’

Not totally, but I’m well on my way thanks.

I open the tube, squeeze a bit of gel out and smear it between my fingers.  It stinks of some kind of chemical perfume, obviously added to mask the smell of man musk.

Urggh!

‘If you put it on us’ hiss my arms, ‘people will smell it!  They’ll think it’s your perfume!  They’ll think you want to smell like this!’

Shit, thats true.

‘Not us, not us’ plead my thighs, ‘put it on your calves!  No one will smell it down there!’

Yes, but it might be too far away from my core to work, plus it might get on my cats and they’re mental enough as it is without any additional testosterone.  There is no doubt about it, my thighs or rather one of my thighs is the only option.

I squeeze a pea sized blob onto my fingers, reach down to the spot above my right knee and pause.

Come on bitch! Do you want your va va voom back or not?

I’m hyperventilating now.

DO IT!

On the next out breath, I smear it all over my knee and lower quad, then hang up the towel, run into my bedroom and yank on some jeans.

That’s it.  It’s done.

I can still smell the cloying sweetness half an hour later, so decide to put on some body lotion.

I strip and look down at my right knee, half expecting to see a thatch of newly grown hair like a werewolf’s pelt.  Nothing.  But the smell is overpowering.

‘You may not have a hairy knee,’ whispered my right thigh, clearly piqued at being singled out ‘,but what you end up with is very hairy legs, like a geezer. And it won’t be fine hair, oh no; it will be thick and bristly like a badgers arse.’

Oh God.

‘That’s right,’ chipped in the left thigh, ‘I can feel it growing on me now.  Can you see it yet?  You’re going to look like a geezer from the waist down.  A big, rugby playing, alpha male, hairy arsed geezer.’

As quick as a flash I’m back in the tub, hosing down my legs, grimacing in horror as man juice dribbles down my calves. And not in a good way.

‘And nor is it likely to be ever again is it?’ said my nunny, clearly unimpressed by my blatant cowardice, ‘Well done you. Don’t expect to get any co-operation from me any time soon.’

But I don’t care. Bollocks to sex (pardon the pun), it’s a highly overrated activity as far as entertainment is concerned anyway.

That’s not true.

My memory isn’t anywhere near as bad as my ability to delude myself is good.

I’m just not quite man enough for man juice yet.

😦