'Mr Sex' watches smoke leave his lips and fill an empty room

Readers of TT may be pleased to hear that while Sam's inner cynic has died, mine has been ripped from the grave, reassembled itself like Terminator 2, and is currently lurching around and scaring kiddies, utterly impervious to bullets and guided missiles.

Long story short; for more years than I dare admit, I have been wondering with creeping dread about how I would react when my ex - the woman who I consider to be the love of my life, the first and only I-want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you, I-can't-wait-for-you-to-meet-my-Mam-and-Dad, when-are-we-having-kids partner, the one I still dream about and tell friends never to mention in my presence, the one who it still feels like I'm cheating on whenever I'm with someone else, the one who... fuck it, THE ONE, full stop - got married. I have spent an embarrassingly huge chunk of my adult life with a self-imposed gun to my head, waiting for the bullet to strike.

Said bullet arrived six weeks ago, approximately 110 pixels tall by 200 pixels wide, due to an accidental click of a mutual friend's Facebook profile and saw a thumbnail I could have done without seeing. So that's it. The door - that was slammed, locked and bolted a long time ago - has now had a lorry-load of wet concrete deposited against it. There is absolutely no coming back from this one, even though I knew there never was.

So, this is how it feels;

1. You feel numb as fuck.

2. Then, you have a million questions, even though you know that the answer to any of them would be like a knife in the chest. What song did they dance to? (was it something I introduced to her?) Was her Mam happy? (I hope so - I miss her almost as much as I miss her daughter) Did her Dad (who never liked me) lump me in with the abusive shitbags she went out with before and after me in his speech? Did I cross the mind of anyone there who knew me?

3. (The one question you don't need to ask, of course, is 'Who did she get married to?'. Because it doesn’t matter. There's only one proper answer to that; 'Not me')

4. Then you want to thank all those mates there for not telling you beforehand, as you don't want to think about what you would have done that day if you'd have known.

5. Then, when its sunk in, you refuse to talk about it, for fear that 'Yeah, I heard my ex got married' will come out as 'Oh, by the way, I really fucked everything up, did you know?'

6. Then, you resist the urge to mentally lacerate yourself by playing this, this, this and especially this.

7. Then, when some semblance of lucidity returns, you calmly and rationally despise the world and everything in it. And then, through a process of elimination, you whittle that number right down to one; yourself.

8. Then you feel the urge to apologise to every girlfriend you’ve had since, for pissing them about and letting them go because – despite the fact that they were all attractive, intelligent, considerate and understanding – they all committed the crime of Not Being Her.

9. Then you feel the urge to apologise to every one of your mates who went from one relationship straight into a better one, as you realise that, no, they weren’t being heartless bastards while you were keeping the faith – they were behaving like grown-ups while you were continuing to be a hopelessly naïve martyr.

10. Then, you let on to your friends why you’re being such a horrible, pinch-faced shitbag, and try to accept their sympathy with as much grace as possible, even though none of then could ever understand your predicament because what you’re going through has never been experienced by anyone else, ever. And you bite your tongue when they try to cheer you up with videos of fat dads dancing really badly, not realising that every clip is set at a wedding reception (it made me laugh, though).

11. Then you don’t feel like updating your sex and relationship blog for ages, because you don’t want to think about either. Ahem.

12. Then you write a massively rambling post, stating that you’ve finally realised that you can’t live in the past, what you had is gone forever, it’s never coming back, and you know that. Yes, you’re still numb, and you know that one night - when the beer’s been consumed and someone says the wrong thing or the wrong song comes on - it’s going to properly hit home with an outburst of remorse and regret and snot, but at the end of the day, there’s still time to find what you really want, the world is rammed out with amazingly brilliant women who could make you happy, so you’re going to have to remove the crushing weight of your past, get hold of one and do it right this time.

13. Then you start worrying about how you're going to react when you hear she has a kid.

Danonymous Dan: Hair today, hair tomorrow . . .

Who remembers Teenwolf? It is an awesome movie, in the rubbish way that so many ’80s movies are. Luckily for Michael J Fox he was able to take the hair off when the director yelled ‘cut’, but for some of us that isn’t possible, we have to live with a visual eyesore sprouting from our chests like the devil’s own cress.

I have to be honest here, I feel bloody cheated! I had older brothers and grew up watching bastions of the chest toupee fighting and ‘tearing shit up’ in movies as a kid. Programmes like Magnum PI nurtured in me the belief that hair was good; it was the sign of a man. Grrrr. Rugged. Hair was a signal to all that a massive membrum swung pendulously between the legs of a manly man who took what he wanted and damn the consequences. All the ladies swooned at the sight of the white jacket (with rolled up sleeves) and gratuitously open Hawaiian shirt that said ‘I’m here, I’m hairy and there is enough of me to keep you all warm on a chilly night.’ But now? Hair is seen as a sign that you’ve got an extra gene, probably from incest.

Luckily, I don’t have a hairy back… but time is no friend of the hairy man – it’s going to happen. My current girlfriend was a little shocked by what she refers to as ‘my condition’, as being a Californian she was mainly used to waxed or naturally hairless Baywatch types. I don’t know if there is something in the water in California but a lot of guys are really hair-less over there.

In any conversation I’ve ever had on the topic of body hair (and I have had a few, usually initiated when somebody sees for the first time that I have hair) most people – especially the girls – conclude that hair is grim and should be removed at all costs. I’ve had various reactions to my chest-tinder; thankfully nobody has reacted with utter disgust despite my general chat above. However I have had shock and a few ‘OMG (laugh) you’re so hairy…ooh its soft like dog’s fur,’ which is great for the personal confidence. However, I have on the whole noticed a difference between the hair-hating rhetoric and my own experiences with the opposite sex. Perhaps they were just being nice and trying not to hurt my feelings, but nearly every girlfriend I’ve had comes to love it. After the visual shock of the devil cress has passed, it’s always head on my shoulder while a snaking arm starts rubbing the chest and stomach – I guess there is something tactile about it.

While I wouldn’t class myself as a metrosexual (I don’t fuck free newspapers – boom boom) I’m no stranger to trying to remove the hair. I’ve tried the cream stuff, but that just burns like napalm and gives me a nasty red skin colouring for days; by the time the redness has gone the hair is growing back. Totally useless!  I remember somebody once saying to me, “don’t worry about it, Ron Jeremy is covered in hair,” I am pretty sure that it wasn’t Ron’s hair that gave him a triple decade career in porn but more likely the fact he can suck his own nob.

When I was about 19, I fell asleep drunk and some friends decided it would be funny to wax a strip out of my chest. The shock of it (and the fact I had inhaled two bottles of Jack Daniels) made me throw up – ruining the coat of the person who’d waxed me. Payback’s a vomit-coloured bitch. So with summer dawning, I was left with a ridiculous looking strip running from my ribs up over my nipple. So I bought some Veet strips and then – pencil between the teeth – attempted to finish the job. Fucking hell. The stomach was the worst part, the process took me three days and the bruising I caused myself was epic. I looked like a jaundice sufferer who’d been attacked by an acupuncturist.

So there we go. I’m boyfriend and furry fire hazard all rolled into one. They say that fashion rolls around in a circle which means the time of the ware-man will come again – no doubt I will be 70 by then and in no safe state to wear a white suit. Crap.

Sam: You can't have everything

One of the most common things that I see in my clients is that their love lives have been destroyed by the myth that you can have everything. This is particularly true for women who are in their mid-thirties. They have been told they can have a fantastic career, they can be financially successful, they can get a great education, the house they want and of course, love, a man and a family.

Well it’s just not true. If you are going to spend your entire life focused on your career, then something has to give. And generally it’s relationships. Finding a relationship takes time, unless one drops in your lap through friends, work or university. Even then a relationship takes maintenance. I sometimes wonder if our modern working ethic and hours are leading to the death of love, but that’s another topic for another time.

This situation is really common with my female clients. Suddenly they are about to hit 35, their biological clock is about to pop and there is no man on the horizon to provide love and family. Even then it is often a real struggle to get them to actually put aside the time and effort that is required to really find a partner.

What is quite intriguing is that I don’t have many men who are in the same situation. Usually my male clients are either in their early twenties have missed out on some early lessons and need to get thing moving, or they are in 40s and have come out of long term relationships and are pretty much clueless as to what to do next. Or perhaps more telling, I don’t have many clients who come to me who are in the same situation.

So what is happening to all those single men in their mid-thirties? Are they just hanging out with their mates at the pub and watching sky sports? Or at home playing x-box? From what I’ve read from the National Bureau of Statistics there are pretty much as many single men in their thirties as single women. Maybe single men in their 30s aren’t so quite focused on their careers and are too busy hanging out and enjoying themselves to worry about sorting out the fact they don’t have a wife and kids? Or maybe they are enjoying the benefits of becoming a Silver Back and just having fun with women ten years their junior? Any thoughts? I certainly haven’t found the answer to this one.

Sam: Culture of Two

I was talking to one of my clients the other day about an embarrassing moment when he was out with friends and let slip one of those silly things that you normally only say when your partner is around. His friends were aghast and taunted him mercilessly for the next hour or so. This led us to having a conversation about some of those words that only seem to get created when you are in a relationship, that make sense to the both of you, but are hideously embarrassing if discovered by the outside world. Some snuggle related examples that came up were:

• Snoozle – having a snooze and a snuggle
  
• Ruggle – having a read and snuggle
  
• Tuggle – watching TV while having a snuggle
  

And then of course there is the topic of the pet names people give each others parts. Clive James once mentioned in one of his books how in a relationship you develop a society of two – with it’s own special language that only the two of you share. A wonderful thing to be shared with you, but rather embarrassing when it slip out into the big bad world.

Sam: Cultural Confusion

It’s Christmas party season, and I’ve been out chatting as usual. My most recent interesting conversation was with a very attractive and very single Italian woman. She was totally confused as to why, after years in England she had failed to snag a boyfriend.

Since these things are endlessly fascinating I started asking her some questions. Were the only guys that actually approached her idiot womaniser types? ‘Yes! How did you know?’, She asked surprised. How did she feel about making it clear that man was interested in her ‘Well I couldn’t do that, I’d be acting like a slut!’. Things started to become clear this was a case of cultural confusion. The thing is that in Italy if you give out any signals at all (e.g. making eye contact or smiling) you are pretty much seen as being totally up for it. You can start to see why friendly American women get into so much trouble and feel totally sexually harassed in Italy.

The interesting thing is that while all cultures tend to use the same basic flirting signals, the whole flirting dance changes in every county you go to – in some places it is as different as the language.  Sometimes it is louder, sometimes more subtle. The problem for this Italian woman is that in Italy the rules are very different to the UK. In Italy a man is interested he will relentlessly pursue his woman only giving up after a long and heated chase. ‘Of course in Italy No means yes!’ She proclaimed. ‘It is like a film I saw set in Rome, there is a man, who has just seen a woman, he runs up to her, proclaiming his love. She slaps him, tells him to fuck off and to get away from her. The next scene he grabs her and they both kiss passionately!’. Try the same thing in the UK and they would probably be calling the police.

So this poor Italian woman had completely turned off all her public flirting signals (as is appropriate for Italy), which means British men presume she is unavailable and she only attracts the womanising rule breakers. It would be nice is someone could get around to publishing the International Languages of Love. Would lead to a lot less confusion for everyone.

Sam: Glastonbury with a Twist . . .

Well, I have to say that when I found out that TT was nominated as a finalist for the Blog of the Year for the Erotic Awards I was pretty chuffed, but what really caught my attention was the invitation to the Night of the Senses afterwards – otherwise known as the ‘Glastonbury of sex’.

For every other big awards ceremony people surreptitiously sneak off to go and have drug fuelled orgies in hotel rooms. At this one, it was all upfront and you could do it in between buying a beer at the bar. You’d think as a sexperty type I’d have been along to all sorts of stuff like that; well, actually, no. So for research purposes, I decided to get myself a chaperone, get permission from my fiancée (with strict rules attached) and give it a go.

Let’s face it; every red-blooded male has secretly fantasised about going to a sex party and tupping off with loads of women. But the fly in the ointment is you’ve got to have a woman to accompany you. Have you ever tried (when you are single) to convince a girl to go along to something like that? Then of course for most people in a relationship it’s strictly off limits too. Catch 22 for 99% of men.

Now not only did I have an invitation, but I was being accompanied by a highly attractive female friend and had the status of being a finalist (then winner), both of which made my chances of becoming the secret envy of every red blooded man the highest they have ever been, (or will be) in my life. But for me it would be pure window shopping. A bit like a diabetic taking a tour through a lolly shop with assistants constantly offering free candy.

We started our tour of what was on offer, politely declining to ‘Fuck for Forest’

“Ya vell, you just lie down here, ve have ze cameras and zen once you are done ve vill put it on ze webzite. People pay to vatch, and ze profits are going to buying ze rainforest in guatamala. You should use your zexuality to make ze vorld a better place.”

Typical of Scandinavians to come up with the idea of shagging outdoors, filming it and then turning it into a charitable cause. They are naturists at heart.

After several more 'no's' my chaperone decided to get into the spirit of things, getting a good spanking, walking in her high heels all over a man’s back, getting a lap dance (with a super hot lap dancer) and then suitably warmed up left me standing outside the ‘women’s womb’ (read bi-curious love fest) for so long eventually I just gave up and wandered off.

So much for keeping an eye on me. Well, at least she enjoyed herself.

Now I have to say I’m not really turned on by a Shemale rolling around in Heinz Spaghetti, or putting live fish in your fanny and showing it on a video screen while on stage, but I have to put my hand up and say that I really admire the British approach of do whatever turns you on behind closed doors.

The whole atmosphere was incredibly polite, respectful and egalitarian. Women approached men, men approached women and both were very polite if knocked back. Everyone wants sex, and here people were just getting down to what turned them on. And to be frank, some of it was really hot.

The night was summed up for me when I was buying a drink at the bar. A woman in a wheelchair rolled up beside and made a confident attempt to pull me within a stones throw of the boudoir where a dozen or so couples were at it like rabbits. Where else could that happen? In a bar she’d get laughed at, at a nightclub she wouldn’t have a hope. Here, she grabbed the drink I bought her and set off enthusiastically for someone who wasn’t just window shopping. Roxy the Rabbit and Millie the Mouse would be cheering!

This was a place with people dressing up, having fun, and getting down what we all love to do, have sex. Hurrah for the Glastonbury with a twist, I say!

'Mr Sex': Aw, they grow up so quickly, etc

My gorgeous little nephew reached a very important milestone in his life this week; he got caught singing his first dirty song by me Mam. He was sitting on the settee eating steak and chips (proper chips, mind - none of this oven bollocks) and watching the telly when the Muller Rice advert popped up, and he came out with "Got my legs, got my bum, got my WILLYYY". Eeh, what a shame I missed out on that. I would have been roaring like a jessie with pride.

Because, apart from the obvious sperm-and-egg palaver that goes on at the beginning (and if we're very lucky) dirty interpolations of music (more often than not taken from adverts), is almost always the first contact we have with sex, isn't it? At that time, you don't know how life-affirming, horrible, enjoyable, embarassing, perfect and depressing sex is. You don't even know what it is. All you know is that, for some reason, it's funny as fuck. So let's go back and share a few of those old-school classics, in a Stars On 45 style and fashion. First off is an all-time classic that was taught to all the kids on the street by my next-door neighbour's big sister...

(To the Wrigleys Spearmint Gum advert)

Wrigley's Spearmint Gum, Gum, Gum
Stick it up your bum, bum, bum
If it don't fit, fit, fit
Have a little shit, shit, shit

(To Snoopy V The Red Baron by the Royal Guardsmen)

10, 20, 30, 40, 50 or more
Frank got Betty down on the floor
Kissed her once and he kissed her twice
Pulled down her knickers and said "Ooh! Nice!"

(To Tea for Two)

Tea for one
It's only just begun
Tea for two
We're gonna have a screw
Tea for three
He sat her on her knee
Tea for four
He got her on the floor
Tea for five
Her legs are open wide
Tea for six
He pulled down her knicks
Tea for seven
It felt like heaven
Tea for eight
The midwife's at the gate
Tea for nine
The twins are doing fine
Tea for ten
Let's start it all again.

All very innocent (yet confusing - how do you get someone's knickers off when their legs are wide apart, for example), I'm sure you'll agree. It's only when you hit your early teens that things start to get a bit malicious...

(To Lip Up Fatty by Bad Manners)

Piss off fatty, ah, piss off fatty now you're preggy!
Piss off fatty, ah, piss off fatty now you're preggy!

(To the Milk's Gotta Lotta Bottle adverts)

(Girl you fancy but she's not interested, meaning she's a slag, somehow)'s worked in a - lotta brothels!
(Girl you fancy but she's not interested, meaning she's a slag, somehow)'s worked in a - lotta brothels!

Sadly, I got detenno for that. But anyway - let us care and share. What were you singing when you were a nipper, even though you didn't know what the fuck you were going on about?

Sam: Oh shit I'm Old

Todgers, I’m wondering if you have had the ‘Oh shit I’m old’ moment yet.

Mine came just the other night. I was out with one of my old clubbing buddies celebrating his 30th birthday. The first sign of trouble was that I started involuntarily wincing as my friend constantly mentioned his 30th birthday and wife to every new person he met - who were all clearly just out of school.

Next was a strange moment on the dance floor, with myself in a shirt (quite stylish I thought) surrounded by girls who were dressed just like Amy Winehouse but younger and without the bleeding toes. Looking at the guys there I started to feel distinctly out of place since I wasn’t wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with skulls and cross bones and my hair wasn’t long and stylishly moussed.

Then there were my fellow pals mumbling to each other ‘I wish the music was a bit more funky’ (translation, I wish they would play music which is now 5 years out of fashion).

It was awful, I felt a bit like a dirty old man hanging out at a school gate. Not what you want on a night out where I was supposed to be out with my mates, having a good dance and celebrating his birthday. I’d like to blame him and his choice of venue – but no solace there. This club was where we all used to end up on Sunday morning at the end of our very big weekends. And I’m sure there was more funky house music then.