The Dirty F***ing Truth in And The Rest.

How did I end up here?

Everything I know about sex, I learned in all the wrong places with all the wrong men, with hot and horny frustrated men who weren’t free to be mine. Young, unattached and wide-eyed in wonder at the thrill of the filthy illicit, I opened my mouth wide when it counted and kept it shut the rest of the time. I never asked for affection, I I never asked for commitment, I never got caught. A dirty-little-secret whore whose only charge was the grubby copper coins of self-esteem.

In stockrooms, offices, across the back seats of cars, I learned the power in the pleasure of licking, sucking, teasing, tempting. The blinding-white lungburst lightning of being full to bursting with a hard, thrusting man. I fucking love sex. Not romance, sex. Hard, dirty and frantic, bordering on rough. Grab my hair in handfuls, grab my hips and fuck deep. Leave scratches, leave bruises, I don’t care, I love it. I’m noisy, I moan and whimper and swear. I’m active, energetic, I move and writhe and experiment with abandon. I like giving as much as I like taking. I swallow and smile.

How did I end up here? My husband, a virgin of 34 when we got together. Can’t keep an erection if I touch it, let alone try to put it inside me. Even with the blue pills, I have more than enough fingers to count the times in six and a half very long years. For the first four, I absolutely believed we would fix it. With patience and talking and love, with counselling and effort, with whatever it took. I still don’t know what it would take, because we haven’t found it, and I’ve given up.

He finds his own fix in porn channels populated by girls he likes the look of more than me, their chests stuffed with bouncy plastic polyfilla, their beach-ball butt-cheeks round and full. This does not require the assistance of little blue pills, and somewhere on the sea of sexual starvation, my good ship Patient Sympathy finally ran aground. I stopped being quiet and supportive and not placing blame, I started feeling bitter and hurt and resentful, I became a shameful opportunist cheat.

I never pick up strangers, but colleagues and friends; when that face-flushing world-brightening bubbling giggle of the incipient crush rises in me, I don’t fight it, I ride it. I end up riding them, of course, every time. He leans in to my ear, his hands hot on my waist and his firm hips too close. I’d fucking ruin you, he murmurs and I’m history, I’m his for the night, transaction complete.

So I still find my fix, more than ten years later, in all the wrong places with all the wrong men. Full circle, almost, but this time I am the one who is deep in the wrong. In beds I shouldn’t be in, down dark alleyways, across the back seats of cars, I get what I need in the same seedy exchange of my willing body for second-hand self-esteem.

Just another reason the future’s not bright. At the moment I’m still young (looking) enough to get away with it, somehow men still seem to want my pseudo-youthful body and tight underused snatch.

But in five years time?

I’ll be screwed.

Or more accurately, not.