while having a shag – president of the Vaginal Discharge Self-Help Group. Our relationship was based on more than just tawdry sex. We had a deep commitment. Goddamn it.
I
was a return-slip-tear-along-the-dotted-line-at-the-bottom signer! I was not going to degrade myself by trying to compete with the likes of
her
. It was good in a marriage to create a little intrigue, but that didn’t mean greeting my husband at the door in edible undies.
Cal finally squeezed into take-off position and shook his mad hair. Water drops flew off his curls like spangled jewels. As he careered down the street, contenting himself by making helpful corrective gestures at other drivers, I felt a rekindled faith in my husband. I’d overreacted. Birthday blues had made me feel vulnerable, that was all. Maybe it really
was
just a kiss. And what was that, after all? Just the anatomical juxtaposition of two orbicularis oris muscles in a state of contraction. It was clear that Britney Amore was nothing more than a fly on the windscreen of my life.
Awash with relief I rang Hugo to tell him how much I loved him. The hospital said he’d gone home for lunch. I rang the cleaner. She said Hugo had called to say he’d be staying late at the hospital.
We were outside Jamie’s school gates. ‘Where to now, ma’am?’ Cal asked, doffing an imaginary hat.
‘A whip emporium. Pronto. I need to buy benwah balls, banana-flavoured erecto gel, French ticklers and a vibrator with forward and reverse gears.’
Another thing a worldly, smart thirty-nine-year-old woman needs to know: up against a Sex Goddess, principles and profundity are about as useful as a eunuch at a whipped-cream orgy.
5
If I Can’t Have It All, Can I At Least Have Some of
Hers
?
THE FEMALE ORGASM is more of a mystery than the continued career success of George W. Bush. But, by God, I was determined to have one with my husband. An Academy award-winning one – better than any two-bit telly actress could pull off.
After a quick detour to a sex shop called Ssssh, Cal had dropped me, late, at the British Museum so I could go into Mother Mode. We got home from collecting Julia to find a message on the answering machine from Hugo, saying he’d be back at seven. I consulted my watch. That gave me one and a half hours. In between burning chicken nuggets and checking maths homework, I ran to the bathroom, showered and shampooed. I pffted with that spray and pffted with another, powdered armpits and nose, painted fingers and toes, trowelled on moustache bleach and spatulaed off depilatory creams. Then, finally, I shook out the lingerie I’d bought (with Cal fiercely guarding the changing room), threaded myself into the tight lace teddy, took a deep breath and dared to glance into the mirror.
Due to the pleasure of breast-feeding two children (thank
you
Penelope Leach), my boobs were like day-old party balloons with all the air leaked out. The most popular technique for flat-chested women to make themselves look ridiculous is the ‘Wonder-bra’ – so-called because as soon as you take it off, you wonder where the hell your tits went. My boobs were now strapped up on my neck someplace, like a couple of spare double chins.
Steeling myself, I let my eyes creep cringingly downwards. Well, it looked like that weed-whacker Hugo gave me was finally going to come in handy. A pelt of pubic growth sprouted from each leg hole. It was amazing my pudenda hadn’t been awarded National Park status. Snapping open the crotch press-studs, I immediately took to my pubes with a pair of the kids’ project scissors shouting ‘Timber!’ Ten minutes later I sneaked another look. Now my entire vulva just looked ragged. Oh, my God! And one of the pubes was grey! I cropped closer still. Soon the general effect was of a moulting shag rug. Frantic, I kept on trimming and shaping. Now my spiky fanny resembled a sea creature disturbed in a rock pool and prepared to attack. It gave ‘bad hair day’ a whole new
I
was a return-slip-tear-along-the-dotted-line-at-the-bottom signer! I was not going to degrade myself by trying to compete with the likes of
her
. It was good in a marriage to create a little intrigue, but that didn’t mean greeting my husband at the door in edible undies.
Cal finally squeezed into take-off position and shook his mad hair. Water drops flew off his curls like spangled jewels. As he careered down the street, contenting himself by making helpful corrective gestures at other drivers, I felt a rekindled faith in my husband. I’d overreacted. Birthday blues had made me feel vulnerable, that was all. Maybe it really
was
just a kiss. And what was that, after all? Just the anatomical juxtaposition of two orbicularis oris muscles in a state of contraction. It was clear that Britney Amore was nothing more than a fly on the windscreen of my life.
Awash with relief I rang Hugo to tell him how much I loved him. The hospital said he’d gone home for lunch. I rang the cleaner. She said Hugo had called to say he’d be staying late at the hospital.
We were outside Jamie’s school gates. ‘Where to now, ma’am?’ Cal asked, doffing an imaginary hat.
‘A whip emporium. Pronto. I need to buy benwah balls, banana-flavoured erecto gel, French ticklers and a vibrator with forward and reverse gears.’
Another thing a worldly, smart thirty-nine-year-old woman needs to know: up against a Sex Goddess, principles and profundity are about as useful as a eunuch at a whipped-cream orgy.
5
If I Can’t Have It All, Can I At Least Have Some of
Hers
?
THE FEMALE ORGASM is more of a mystery than the continued career success of George W. Bush. But, by God, I was determined to have one with my husband. An Academy award-winning one – better than any two-bit telly actress could pull off.
After a quick detour to a sex shop called Ssssh, Cal had dropped me, late, at the British Museum so I could go into Mother Mode. We got home from collecting Julia to find a message on the answering machine from Hugo, saying he’d be back at seven. I consulted my watch. That gave me one and a half hours. In between burning chicken nuggets and checking maths homework, I ran to the bathroom, showered and shampooed. I pffted with that spray and pffted with another, powdered armpits and nose, painted fingers and toes, trowelled on moustache bleach and spatulaed off depilatory creams. Then, finally, I shook out the lingerie I’d bought (with Cal fiercely guarding the changing room), threaded myself into the tight lace teddy, took a deep breath and dared to glance into the mirror.
Due to the pleasure of breast-feeding two children (thank
you
Penelope Leach), my boobs were like day-old party balloons with all the air leaked out. The most popular technique for flat-chested women to make themselves look ridiculous is the ‘Wonder-bra’ – so-called because as soon as you take it off, you wonder where the hell your tits went. My boobs were now strapped up on my neck someplace, like a couple of spare double chins.
Steeling myself, I let my eyes creep cringingly downwards. Well, it looked like that weed-whacker Hugo gave me was finally going to come in handy. A pelt of pubic growth sprouted from each leg hole. It was amazing my pudenda hadn’t been awarded National Park status. Snapping open the crotch press-studs, I immediately took to my pubes with a pair of the kids’ project scissors shouting ‘Timber!’ Ten minutes later I sneaked another look. Now my entire vulva just looked ragged. Oh, my God! And one of the pubes was grey! I cropped closer still. Soon the general effect was of a moulting shag rug. Frantic, I kept on trimming and shaping. Now my spiky fanny resembled a sea creature disturbed in a rock pool and prepared to attack. It gave ‘bad hair day’ a whole new
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