Ego v Libido

I was never sure whether it was my ego or libido that got me into so much trouble with girls. When I was younger they were as bad as each other in egging me on to do things that I knew I would regret.

“Hi!” A girl was suddenly stood next to me late in a nightclub once, many years ago. She was a big girl and not pretty. I smiled in drunken politeness. “You not managed to pull anyone?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“I’m not very good at chat ups. I never know what to say.”

“Me neither,” she said. “So let’s just go together?”

       I was not expecting that. I have never understood why women are prepared to face the social stigma and physical risks associated with one night stands simply not be on their own the next morning.

I went home with her. Obviously I did want to get laid, even with this unlovely stranger, and my libido was calling the moves. I excused myself for being drunk: the fruit with which Eve tempted Adam must surely have been well fermented.            

There was no romance, seduction, or even much foreplay. In fact, there was very little mutual interest but the act of copulation was necessary to justify our being together.

 Never before, or since, have I had such a loveless coupling, bereft of compassion or even sympathy, but it got worse. I squeezed one of her breasts too firmly and she grunted manfully.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay,” she replied, “I quite like it.”

“What?”

“I like it rough.”

       I felt the Devil’s hand on my shoulder. I slapped her. She moaned and tried to hit me back but I caught her arm, slapping her again with my other hand. Then ensued a most terrible episode, my slaps and her groans increasing with corresponding vehemence.

      As I stole away in the morning I was fearful that the daylight would burn me up. At least I knew that libido was the governing force; my ego certainly got nothing out of it.

Just somebody that I used to know.

I saw Violet recently at a meeting in Town. She obviously wasn't dressed as Violet, in stockings and figure sculpting maid's outfit, but the sobre business suit could not mask the distant memory of a dominant submissive who once captivated me for sevaral hours of intense excitment. But she blanked me completely. I said hello and she could not avoid that contact but then she pointedly sat with her back to me in the meeting.

 

It was a bit like being at school; being ignoed by a girl for some trivial matter. But should I have expected greater acknowledgement after 14 years of no contact? And why did it matter? I have no interest in her now other than as someone I used to know and perhaps that was it, as the song implies, she was not prepared to be that person. Perhaps she blanked me because I am just someone she used to know and now has no interest in.

Actually, I think it was it just my ego, which is like an annoying bloke that seems to follow me around. Along with my libido, it has got me into a lot of trouble with girls. On rare occasions the two forces have led me to places that I did not want to be at, and from where I escaped the following morning by sloping off before she woke, wearing my shame like an old overcoat.

Always in Trouble?

Sometimes it seems as if I’ve had trouble with girls all my life, from early teenage trauma right up to failed marriage in my thirties. I was recently reminded that I even had trouble with girls in primary school because last weekend I spent three hours trying to make a pair of “bloomers” from a pillowcase for my 5YO son’s school project following a story they read about the “Queen’s Knickers”. I see little point in setting homework projects that the children can not do themselves.

         Moreover, my son refuses to wear his bloomers and I support his view. So spending precious time doing something that is not supporting my son’s involvement at school seems pointless. Also, I can not see what they are trying to teach children by exploration (no pun intended) of this rather irreverent topic. There are many far better things that children can be learning about a monarchical diamond jubilee: its democratic nature, its global reach, its enduring support, etc.

         I am minded to complain but am concerned that this will cause undue friction. Am I being reactionary? Should I be sat up at eleven o'clock at night making bloomers rather than doing my tax return? Perhaps it’s worth doing because it's a social activity and it shows support for the kids' efforts and makes them feel that their play or assembly is a little more important. I think it is important to make them feel good and supported at school, even if he doesn’t wear the bloomers.

         Perhaps I am still influenced by an awkward event I had at my primary school which still haunts me. Our class ran a puppet production of Winnie the Pooh. I had the part of Tigger and my Mom made a glove puppet out of an old sock and acrylic fur. It was orange with brown stripes and button-eyes and a red tongue. It was easily the best puppet in the class. At least it looked like a puppet, rather than a sock.
         “Wow, Billy, look at your Tigger, it’s brilliant!” said Charlie Crest who was in the football team and praise from him was better than sweets.
         “I wish my Mom made me a puppet,” whined Graham Adams who was Top-of-the-Class and I smiled, reflecting in unfamiliar adoration.
It was short lived. The middle-aged dragon-teacher cruelly smashed my expectation of praise.
         “What have you learned by getting your mother to make it for you?” She was unnecessarily vehement, presumably because I had stolen the spotlight from her, and I replied with the unabashed malevolence that only a seven year old can muster.
        “I learned that I don’t come to school to sew.”
         Anyway, I decided to press on and make the bloomers without complaint and Son No2 took them to school and all was well until I asked him what he'd learned about the Jubilee.
"It's all about the Queen's knickers, daddy," he said.

Early Trouble

A contributor to an online fathers' community  that I engage with told of his early trouble with girls (TWG) as a 9YO boy dressing up as Toad of Toad Hall, complete with green tights and make up, in a school play. The girl he fancied didn’t talk to him after that and he avoided her all through secondary school. Things like that are hard to bear and they haunt you into adulthood. My own TWG at primary school pursued me into an all boys’ grammar where I managed to avoid TWG until sixth form.

Then I got into trouble with Emma Briggs. She was a statuesque blonde and there were times in life when I would have crawled across a field of broken glass just to sit next to her, but at school she was a different entity. She climbed, naked and uninvited, into bed with me at a drunken teenage sleepover party. She said nothing but slid her soft tongue into my mouth.  It was a wonderful sensation, enhanced by the feel of her womanly breasts pressed against me. 

I was terrified.

“What are you doing?”

 “I just wanted to get into bed with you.”

“Well, it’s only a single, there’s not enough room for two.”

I woke later to find Emma on her hands and knees, being taken from behind by a lad from the upper sixth. He bulled her with masterful strokes and her elegant rear rose gratefully to receive his attentions as her slender thighs flexed like a thoroughbred with each manly thrust, her fulsome bosom swinging daringly in the half-light. I shall be forever haunted by the memory of her pretty young face tormented with ecstasy as she was rhythmically shoved into the pillow. 

            TWG also found me at university where I was initially uncomfortable with the sophisticated women. They seemed so grown up and cosmopolitan, most of them having spent a gap year somewhere exotic. I went straight from school to university. 

 Melanie approached me early in the first term but I felt unthreatened because we were friends. I grew up believing that there were girlfriends you could shag and friends who were girls who you could not shag. 

“How are you settling in?” I asked, mainly because I was not.

“Fine,” Melanie looked at me over the rim of her wine glass. “It’s really cool being independent, having friends around whenever you like.” 

“Sure.”

“I’m moving room, actually. I’m getting a single.”

“That’s nice.” 

“In fact,” said Melanie lowering her voice, “I could make good use of your strong body this evening.” She placed her elegant fingers on my thigh and smiled.

            I relaxed then because, being a young Northern chap, I assumed that the good lady needed a hand to move her boxes and furniture.

“Should I get a couple of the rugby lads to help?” Melanie hurried off. 

My next disaster occurred whilst playing squash. Annie was also from the Home Counties and she was much better at squash but my inability did little to dampen her ardour and she manipulated me around the court, causing me to bump into her. 

After a particularly clever shot I flattened her against the sidewall and was too knackered to move. I leant against her cool, smooth skin for a second, panting and dripping sweat on her.

“I’m sorry.”

“No problem, Billy. You can press me up against the wall anytime.” 

I looked at her uncertainly.

“It’s your serve.”

Eventually, I got the hang of it and joined in enthusiastically but some of those early encounters still haunt me.

A lack of Response

Recently I met some old school friends. Blokes I have known for thirty years but only see rarely. In the years since we last met up our lives have changed, we've got older and less vehement about life. It was obvious  that a couple of the chaps wanted to discus something personal but were reticent to go first. I have shared a jacuzzi and French hookers with these chaps so had no reservations in admitting to the truth that as you get older the trouble with girls is that sometimes you can't respond as vigorously as you might wish. 
            The first time it happened to me was with my first wife. She suggested we do some massage.

"Excellent," I thought, imagining a bottle of Chablis, a few candles and perhaps some Ann Summers accessories but, no, she actually came to bed with a massage manual. She read it whilst wrangling me like a DIY project. I did not respond appropriately.

             My ex-wife, being a doctor, said I had a problem. I agreed but thought my problem was that my wife was too dull; Charlie Sheen would have struggled for enthusiasm. My previous girlfriend used to dress up for me. 

            “Oh, hello!” I said as my girlfriend walked into the lounge with a bottle of champagne one evening. “What’s your name?” She was wearing a French maid’s outfit, with high heels and bright red lipstick.

“Violet, sir, from the scullery.” She poured the champagne, which bubbled over the glass like an innuendo. “Cook says you are all alone and so I have to keep you company.”

“Well, that’s true, Violet, Cook is very considerate.” I took the proffered champagne glass and Violet leant forward and gently licked the spilt wine from my fingers. “What did Cook suggest you do to keep me company?”

Violet glanced shyly at the floor, looking very much like a timid wench.

“Whatever, you want to do, sir.” She lifted her gaze to look me in the eye with as much challenge as submission. I drank some champagne and kissed Violet with the bubbles still in my mouth. She responded with passion as I stroked her with my spare hand. I cupped a breast then ran my hand down her back and over her leg.

She knelt down in front of me to do Cook’s bidding with expertise.  I twirled my fingers in her hair with one had and had to hold myself up on a chair with the other.

“Violet, that’s good,” I gasped, “do you get much practice in the scullery?” She paused in her duty to respond.

“Yes, sir,” she said whilst stroking me smoothly, “Cook gives me to the stable boys if I am bad.” 

“What do you do that’s bad?” I queried, fascinated by her willingness to play this game. 

“Well, once I forgot to clean the grate in the kitchen so cook spanked me and took me out to the stables.” She spoke with a quiet, high pitch that drove me to a near frenzy. I pulled her up and pushed her forward over the arm of the sofa.

“Spanked you like this?” I slapped her arse and ploughed into her from behind.

“Yes, sir,” she squealed, pushing back forcefully. “The boys used me for ages, laughing whilst they took turns.” 

“How many stable boys have I got?” I asked, not really certain that I wanted to know.

“I’m not sure, sir,” panted Violet, “I lost count because some were using my mouth. At least six, I think.”

I digress. The point I am trying to make is that as a bloke gets older he needs more stimulation. His libido is no longer his best friend; i.e. always around and never lets him down. As I have migrated through my forties, friends have started alluding to this situation. Some discus it openly and most are primarily interested in “the little blue pill”. This is a rather typical and egocentric male response. Personally, I think it better not to worry about what you can’t do and focus on what you can do.  
           Massage, slow and deliberate, seems to help, making sure the room is warm and your partner is comfortable. Use a little oil or lotion so your hands don’t rub the skin. Don’t rush. Start with the shoulders and work down. Do not forget the feet. In fact, once you’ve down the top half, cover her with the duvet and concentrate on the feet for a while. Avoid intimate places, it builds some anticipation and lets her know you’re not only in it for the sex.  
           I'm a great fan of oral sex. Again slow and deliberate. Don’t pursue her orgasm; it’s not the bell at the top of the pole on a fairground attraction. Come up for air. Ask how it feels, where else she wants you to focus. But don’t push it if she’s not talkative. Just get back to it. Be gentle. Build up slowly, let her set the pace.  
          Then call in the cavalry. Don’t assume, ask first. In fact, you should have discussed vibrators or dildos beforehand. My favourite is the Rabbit from Ann Summers; it has “ears” on the top to stimulate her. Of course, it’s my favourite because it’s her favourite. Again, start slow and gentle. Ask for direction, guidance but don’t nag or appear too eager, you’re not trying to ring the bell. And if it doesn’t don’t EVER say “Never mind,” or “Next time.” You’ll make it seem like you’ve both failed.  
           Hopefully the long wind up will work for you as well.

I suppose what I am trying to say is that the focus of sex is different, perhaps with different outcomes in response to different activities and attitudes. Perhaps this is a situation where the Chinese proverb about the journey being more important than the destination is true.

The Assumption of Superiority

Now that I’m a grown up my trouble with girls no longer involves drunken philandering so much as friction over nappies and homework.

My wives’ friends are always moaning that childcare is such hard work and that men couldn’t cope with it. Recently, however, my beloved went to visit family abroad, leaving me to look after our three young boys on my own for nine days.  My wife’s coven were full of gleeful anticipation that I would not cope.

Admittedly there was some early morning chaos trying to get ready for school and some late nights for me doing the washing and ironing after they were in bed but we coped quite well. It’s not that difficult, you just need to be organised and firm with the kids, but every time I saw one of the coven they would look at me smugly as if they’re doing so much better than me. It’s so annoying that women assume this air of superiority in relation to childcare because it’s not true.

In the Garden of Eden

There was precedent, however, in Belize some years earlier when I was young and vibrant. My regiment was deployed there to protect the border against Guatemala. Life in the jungle was uncomfortable but it was uncomplicated and we enjoyed it simply because of that. We trained hard, were adept at jungle warfare and there were no girls. It was paradise, like Adam in the Garden of Eden. So, inevitably, Eve came and shattered the cohesion of our monastic Utopia in the form of a young girl called Debbie Miller. She was a medic. She came offering temptation and we realised we were naked.

One day we were alone together in the jungle camp and Debbie wandered off to a nearby waterfall for a shower. She walked past me smiling.

Lead me not into temptation but deliver me from evil.

I could imagine her, naked and soapy under the jungle waterfall, dappled sunlight on her lightly tanned skin and nipples standing proud, enlarged by cold water and hot anticipation.

“Come on Billy, fuck me harder!” she would have cried with breathless enthusiasm and a strong sense of triumph and for the rest of the afternoon I could have released the pent up lust of weeks spent in the jungle. But I had a girlfriend so I turned away, dropped to the ground and started doing press-ups. I quickly lost count but kept going until the pain obscured my throbbing libido.

Temptation

The Bible does not actually state that Eve tempted Adam with an apple. The Book of Genesis simply refers to the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge and the apple was just the interpretation of early renaissance artists.

            For me, final temptation was offered in a can of strawberry Fanta. It sat on my desk in Basrah Air Station, glistening with cool perspiration, ironically not far from Al-Qurna where the Tigris and Euphrates meet; the supposed site of the Garden of Eden.

            “Kiss me,” it said. So I did and then got into real trouble because she was a corporal and I was a major. Then we got married and I haven’t looked smart since.

            Being seduced with a can of Fanta in the desert surprised me. I’d gone there hoping to get away from trouble with girls. As it says in the Book of Proverbs, it is better to live in the wilderness than with an angry woman and I was walking away from a failed marriage. I was a late thirties, gnarly old soldier. She was in her twenties, blonde and pretty, and could have chosen any of the hundreds of lonely men wandering around the HQ.

            So I wasn't expecting the cutest girl in Iraq to be interested in me and, to be fair, I was not really expecting any trouble with girls. We were trying to find Saddam whilst simultaneously trying to stem a nascent insurgency and my attention was focussed elswehere. In truth, however, my greatest contribution to the war in Iraq was forming the Coffee Club. All that my first wife left  me with was a bruised ego and a coffee machine. So I took them both to Iraq.

Girls crease your shirt.

One minute you’re wearing a crisply ironed, oxford button down and then a girl comes along, all snugly and perfumed, and creases it by rubbing against you. There’s no point in remonstrating with them for they do it on purpose, to say to other girls: “Look, this one’s mine, I’ve creased his shirt already.”  

 

Although I had always had trouble with girls, I was thirty before I worked out why. I was on holiday in Thailand; during the monsoon. You’d think it would be the ideal opportunity to take refuge in the hotel with a bottle of champagne and some massage oil but my companion was not an enthusiast. We ended up watching Hollywood movies. I went kayaking in the rain to burn off some energy. That was when I realised that I didn’t want my shirt creasing; not by that girl, at least.

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