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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