RSS Feed

Category Archives: A funny thing happened on the way to the bathroom

Rose’s warped sense of humour, on sex and related topics.

Do I REALLY want to have sex with a 22 year old?

Frankly, no.

On a dating site I recently joined, a 22 year old guy emailed me to see if I’d like to get to know him better.  It was a very odd email, I’d have to say.

I stumbled upon your profile by sheer happenstance and admittedly I am quite intrigued, which is why I wish to express a desire to become better acquainted with thee, shall you permit?

Granted, there exists a disparity in age although I assure you that I am quite ‘mature’ for my 22 years.

I have recently joined this service, I have yet to complete my profile albeit I would describe myself as a debonair gentleman who endeavours to appropriate all actions to the utmost decorum; have you any questions, please do not hesitate to ask.

I thanked him for his decorum, and said he was far too young.

Too young for WHAT? he asked.

Too young for…for…

Sex, actually.  I’m 49 and I may look kind of 42ish but I’m still not on for sex with 22 year olds. For one thing, when you’re lying naked together on those purple satin sheets, HIS stomach is all flat and full of muscles I can’t even name, and mine is kind of, not.  HIS skin is bursting with youth and smooth young tumescence.  My skin is just hanging around watching.  It makes me feel old.  I know.  I’ve tried it.

And then there’s the question of HAIR.   For instance, one Mr X.  He was a buff young thing, not completely boring, handsome in a sort of Neighboursey way, and I was experimenting.  We did the deed.  Afterwards, he texted me to say that at first he was shocked to find that I actually had hair down there…and THEN he wanked off to the thought.  So at least I’ve taught the younger generation something of value, huh!

Then there was the six months I spent having intermittent romantic/dirty weekends with a 32 year old, when I was just 44.  He was sweet, clever, kind and gorgeous in certain lights, when you got used to him.  One day we went to David Jones to look at Man Perfumes, as we were in the process of exchanging gifts.  Anyway we sprayed various intoxicating substances onto little bits of white paper and sniffed and laughed and got all confused, and eventually ended up at the counter with a bottle of Brut or something.

Oh no, says the saleslady, you don’t want to buy THAT.  That’s for older men!  A YOUNG man like you should wear..’ and she pulls out whatever a YOUNG man should wear, all the while looking sidewise at me as if to say ‘You should know better than to buy your little toyboy Brut, honey!’

I realised even then I wasn’t cut out to be a sugar mummy.  But evidently young men THINK that if you’re a woman of a certain age, you’re going to be hanging out for some lusty young bull.  I REALLY prefer 40 year olds, I really, really do.

An ode to hunting

The lioness, with glistening jaws,

High heels, and freshly polished claws,

From corner bar, surveys the scene.

No longer young, her pickings, of late, lean.

She wonders, which to cut out from the herd.

A juicy, handsome buck? A shy and grateful nerd?

The young are chewy, over-muscled, difficult to catch and eat,

The old and lame less pleasing on the plate but relatively easy meat.

She fixes on her target with reddened lip and glittering eye,

Her lingering claws stroke shoulder, hand, thigh.

He breathes her musty, feline scent,

He thinks her cleavage heaven-sent.

An image, fleeting through her disco-tousled head,

Of prey dragged home, ripped bare upon her bed.

Prey!

In Jurassic Park (1) there’s a scene where workers tether out a goat, to tempt T Rex to come out where the zoo-goers can see him. ‘THAT won’t work!’ says one of the expert visitors previewing the park, ‘ T Rex doesn’t want to eat tethered meat, he wants to HUNT his prey’.

In a similar situation – down at the pub on a Friday night – I realised just how true this is. Recently I’ve been lackadaisically dipping my toe into internet dating, looking at profiles, responding to the occasional ‘kiss’, and agreeing to the occasional ‘coffee’ interview.  If I think a guy looks good on paper, I’ll meet up with him, we’ll ask each other the kind of questions that total strangers with a mutual interest in romance ask each other (what??), then we’ll have the awkward business of working out whether we like each other over the next three dates.  Yawn yawn.  Hang on while I go have a nap.

In contrast, down at the pub, demonstrating to a friend how to make a total arse of yourself, I engaged three strange men in conversation and enticed two of them onto the dance floor.  Exchanging what I fondly hoped were alluring smiles with one guy young enough to be my nephew, and then shouting sweet somethings into each other’s ears as we clasped each other on the dance floor, I felt a long-missed zing of exhilaration, a brightening of the eyes and a question mark in the spiderwebbed loins.  I was Hunting!

Yes, that’s what’s missing, I thought – the thrill of the chase  The looks, the touches, the steadily rising tension ‘if I play my cards right could this man be in my bed tonight’, the mystery – the fact that I don’t know a thing about this guy on paper or off it – only now, cheek to cheek, mouth to ear, a female stalking its prey – MAN!

Of course I didn’t make any lewd suggestions to young Mr Thingummy and if I had he probably would have said ‘Excuse me madam, but my mother told me not to talk to older women’.  But still – I remembered for the first time in ages what it was like to be (slightly) turned on.

What is a douchebag?

Ok I admit I’m just time wasting.

What the hell is a douchebag?

Is it something for maintaining vaginal hygiene? Like, you have this bag full of douche, and you fling it at your fanny, and it dispenses all of its fragrant feminine douche all over you much to the delight of your lover who can now go to the deep south without fear of asphyxiation?

Or is it something you actually stick up yourself like a sort of slow-release tampon, so that when your boyfriend sticks his penis in, it comes out smelling of lily of the valley instead of anchovies?

Ok it’s time to google….

A douche bag is used as an aid for feminine hygiene purposes. It is usually filled with warm water and some cleansing solution.  OR, the container for a douche. A douche is a stream of water, often containing medicinal or cleansing agents, that is applied to a body part or cavity for hygienic or therapeutic purposes.

So THAT’s what a douchebag is.  Actually it sounds quite nice.  Fragrant, hygienic, sexy, totally unnecessary, and you have to have a degree in physics to use it…just like ME!

Pictures of Fairyland

Maybe a consistent theme of my life is starting off as an emotional blank page, having no idea what people are on about and then later on thinking ‘oh, so THAT’s what it must have felt like!’.

Normal Deviations has pointed out on his blog that I’m not always happy.  So doing a little introspection, I went for a walk and thought, aren’t I happy? And why not?

Much of the time, I AM happy. I live in heaven (or at least, fairyland). My children are lovely and loving, as are my three dogs and my little grey purring cat. I’m not working in the land of the living dead (ie for the government). I’m writing.

To the extent that I’m NOT happy, maybe it’s because of ‘him’ – and it is wearing off.  I can’t understand the effect – some complicated chemical reaction in the brain, I guess – but I can feel it. This was someone I loved more than anyone (except maybe my cat).  Eventually I realised that he was an incurable liar, cruel, egocentric, an actor who couldn’t stop acting even when the lights went down.  Worse than that, I realised that he was, in a way, stupid.  What else do you call it when someone can’t look outside themselves to see the inevitable effects of what they’re doing, when someone can’t understand you no matter how you try to explain, but falls back on tired clichés like ‘I suppose you’re a saint, then!’ and ‘women are always trying to control me’.  More than anything in this world, I get tired of stupid people, people who refuse to really see, hear, think.

And there you have it, the two reasons why I’m not entirely happy.  One, I realised that the man I once loved was a poor deformed thing who tried to suck the life out of me and almost succeeded – I’m still licking my wounds.  I know he loved me and didn’t want to lose me.  I know he was in many ways a thing of beauty.  I know that living with a disability aint easy, even if it’s a moral/emotional one.   I’m tempted to say he couldn’t help it, being what he was, but he could. We all can.  And two, my inability to find, not a partner (there are beautiful men available) but someone who is able to know me, who can meet me on my own terms.   I’ll end up compromising for cuddles, but I feel wistful.  Where’s the person who can finish MY sentences…..

Oh, and here’s Fairyland.  Again. Could anyone NOT be happy here?

And now for something REALLY scary!

I can’t count the number of articles I’ve read about not wanting to talk to people on public transport.

The classic scenario goes like this. You’re sitting on the plane, getting out your headphones or your newspaper or whatever.  The guy next to you looks across diffidently.

“Headed to Melbourne?”

You say, with a polite but firm smile, “Yep.” And then you clamp on your earphones, glare down at the paper, and pretend to be completely absorbed in it for the rest of the trip.

Or how about this one?  Your car’s being fixed so you have to catch the bus today with the POOR people. There’s the ones who mumble at the bus driver and can’t seem to count out their change, the mentally disabled (or additionally abled?) people who happily grin at absolutely everyone and shout ‘Guess what I’m doing today!’, the drunk men who lurch around complete with their own atmosphere, the old foreign ladies with unlikely-coloured hair who smile at each other and talk in Czech, the pensioners with their free bus tickets, the moody teen who’s just got out of juvenile detention and is discussing the pros and cons of jail with a like-minded friend, the gaggle of girls with panda eyes and muffin tops, and the middle-aged greenie who still believes in public transport…and YOU.

“Have you read Dostoevsky dear?”

“Where are YOU going today?”

“I’m not drunk you know.”

So you carefully pick out a seat where you’re not opposite anyone, and sit on the aisle so no one can sit next to you, at a point equidistant from all other passengers (but, if you have to be closer to one in particular, you obviously pick the greenie, who is at least semi-sane).

I don’t understand! Sure we all have off days, but public transport is a god-given chance to find out about some fellow human being we’ve never met before and will never meet again!

YES!!! A boxed set of the encyclopaedia of humanity, a documentary made for us alone, our very own moving Oprah!  Why DON’T we want to talk to people or be talked to?  Is the prospect of chatting to someone we don’t know, so VERY scary?? (To me, no – I like it. I mean, who ELSE is gonna talk to me)

That said, when the drunk man sicks up, don’t forget to lift your feet.

Planet of the Anals

No this isn’t about anal sex. Sorry.

I’m always going on about ‘anal’ people – I mean people who are WAY more tidy and orderly than me.  To wit:

  • a long-ex boyfriend who ironed his y-fronts and never went anywhere without a small case stacked with the full range of masculine fragrances. (And if you’re wondering about the pic, I just COULDN’T go past this ad for undie stuffers).

  • an acquaintance who hung all his knives and forks and stuff up on little hangers. God, it’s hard enough to summon up the energy to take the damn things out of the dishwasher!

  • a dear friend who refuses to date anybody from his ‘work’ – an organisation which in total employs THOUSANDS of people. And on that subject, here’s a site for people who are seriously anal about their dating – http://www.dailydiapers.com/
  • a woman I used to know at work who refused to drink tap water because ‘fish have peed in it’.

Anyway today it occurred to me, what the hell IS anal anyway? I mean, what does organising your jelly beans by colour have to do with producing ‘chocolate icecream’ as one blogger’s mum called it.

Well here it is:

During the anal stage, Freud believed that the primary focus of the libido was on controlling bladder and bowel movements. The major conflict at this stage is toilet training–the child has to learn to control his or her bodily needs. Developing this control leads to a sense of accomplishment and independence.

According to Freud, success at this stage is dependent upon the way in which parents approach toilet training. Parents who utilize praise and rewards for using the toilet at the appropriate time encourage positive outcomes and help children feel capable and productive.  However, not all parents provide the support and encouragement that children need during this stage. Some parents’ instead punish, ridicule or shame a child for accidents. If parents take an approach that is too lenient, Freud suggested that an anal-expulsive personality could develop in which the individual has a messy, wasteful or destructive personality. If parents are too strict or begin toilet training too early, Freud believed that an anal-retentive personality develops in which the individual is stringent, orderly, rigid and obsessive.’

Ok so there are NOT ONE but two types of Anal.

And I’m probably one of them.