What makes a man sexy.

He wears a kikoi.

Knows his whisky.

And his jazz.

Has stubble.

Fries a perfect egg.

Bathes.

Dives headfirst into rivers.

Dives naked headfirst into rivers.

Calls you darling. But never babe.

Knows your shoe size.

Loves dogs.

Stays fit.

Is often silent.

Can sharpen a knife.

And shoot straight.

Wears flannel shirts.

Buys you French underwear. And French champagne.

Can make a fire. Anywhere.

Gardens in the nude.

Phones his mother.

Uses punctuation.

Never texts in capitals.

Has hard strong upper arms.

Sometimes smells of sweat. Sometimes smells of gun oil.

Wears aftershave. Even if he doesn’t shave.

Buys art.

Drives a man car.  One you can haul firewood in.

Chops the firewood.

Has scars on his hands. But well kept nails.

Clean feet.

Wears a good watch. And no other jewellery.

Tips well.

Is always polite to waiters.

Smokes the occasional cigar.

Often runs your bath.

Gets in with you. Soaps your back.

Cycles to work.

Recycles.

Moisturises.

Looks good in a suit.

Throws a flyline.

Laughs uproariously.

Winds the windows down on a road trip.

And is self sufficient in every single way.

Until it comes to you.

Sexual fantasies.

My first fantasy takes place in a bar. I’m alone. A man walks in, tall dark and handsome. ‘A stranger.’  In my fantasy, he comes towards the bar, looks around, notices me, moves in and asks: ‘Is this seat taken?’ I smile and indicate for him to sit down. He buys me a drink. The air is electric. We sip. Chat. Eye each other out. Have another drink. Move a bit closer. It’s sexy. He whispers for me to follow him to the bathroom. He gets up first. I follow. The sex, against the wall, with people just there on the other side, is amazing.

In reality, I meet the stranger in the bar. We sit together. It’s quite sexy. There’s some electricity. We have a good time. His hand is on the nape of my neck.  He draws me closer to him.  We’re going to kiss, long, slow, sensual kissing. And then – I sneeze. My eyes start streaming and my nose starts running. It’s a Cigar Bar. I’m allergic to smoke. It’s a disaster. We do leave together. But to rush me to the casualty section at Milpark Hospital – I’m having a bad asthma attack.

A week later I decide to fulfil my next fantasy. I’m with a man on our way home from a delicious dinner date.  I’m driving. The evening has been fantastic; we both know we want sex. He has his hand on my leg. It goes up my thigh. Creeping, higher, higher. It’s so good.  I want his hand, stronger, harder, right there, between my legs. This fantasy has turned to reality. Dinner was great; the drive home is sexy, brilliant. But I’m struggling to change gears, his hand keeps getting in the way, and I’m driving badly. It’s almost impossible to focus. So I pull over to the side of the road.

It’s dark. It’s quite wild. I lean over. We kiss. Intense. Delicious. Sexy. His hand is up my skirt. I’m fiddling with his fly. Knock. Knock. ‘Step out of the car please Ma’am, Sir, we need to check…’ It’s CSS Tactical. They think we’re, well, I don’t know what they think. It’s mortifying. Embarrassing. Very unsexy. A shocker of an ending. Plus I have bruises all over my ass from the handbrake.

We acted out one more fantasy. This time it was his. He wanted to spank me. I was quite keen; this was of course my fantasy too. I wore a very short skirt, tied my hair in pigtails, took off my underwear, and bent over his knee. THWACK. He hit me. Hard. Really hard. Very hard. Much too hard. With a cane. I was expecting a ruler. Covered in fluff. But I got a cane. I called him a sadist. He called me a wussie.

A wussie?

I’ve given up on fantasies. And I’ve ended our fantastical relationship. It was a disaster from Fantasy One.

But please – send me your fantasies – I’d love to hear them. And, you never know, I might change my mind.

Woman with hands tied behind back

Shopping for sex toys.

There’s something about walking into a sex toy shop that is always a little intimidating. I shop at The Bedroom In Parkhurst which is magnificent and once inside it is private, gorgeous, beyond sexy and totally unthreatening.

But still – you gotta park outside, ring the doorbell and wait just a few seconds while they open up for you. And in those seconds you imagine that every single person driving past slows down, recognises you, raises an eyebrow and thinks ‘Oh my, what is Violet buying now.’

The women who work here are super professional. They make buying sex toys into the most delicious, personal and sensual but ordinary thing.  Which it is, and there is absolutely no need to feel embarrassed.

But still. It can be tricky.

This time around I was looking for a new vibrator. Mine, and I have two, have been brilliant but are getting a little worn around the edges.

They were both expensive (if you’re going to use a sex toy, which you should, use a good one), but also, I felt like experimenting.

‘Just looking’, I said to the lovely saleswoman who asked me discreetly if I needed any help.

Twenty minutes later I was still ‘just looking’. The range is enormous. How was I going to make a decision. It isn’t like you can test them in the dressing room and then choose.

I settled on the Swan range because oh my gosh they are just so sexy to look at and they all had fab reviews; but there are Silver Swans, Whooper Swans and Kissing Swans and how on earth do you know which Swan will be best for you.

Also, you can leave a Swan lying around and your kids will think it’s an artwork. Dinner visitors too. I know, because it happened last night.

Anyway…

I asked for help, which I got, in an accomplished and professional manner, and I selected my Swan. I then got a bit carried away in the lingerie section, bought a few presents for my girlfriends, gasped at the anal toys, decided I needed a second Swan, and eventually paid my bill and left with a brown paper bag in hand.

I lie. I had two brown bags.

Okay. Three. I’d bought a lot of goodies.

I made it to the car without tripping, still imagining that everyone driving by was staring at me, and I went to meet my best friend forever to give her her present.

She took it out the brown bag, looked at it, smiled, and said -‘Violet, thank you, darling, so useful, it’s just what I needed.’

‘Your hubby will like it too’, I said.

‘John? He couldn’t wear this, too small, too silky, but thank you’.

She wrapped the silk blindfold around her neck, as an accessory, thinking it was a scarf.

Oh, dear sweet Goddess, how was I ever going to teach her?

I groaned, very tempted to take it back and keep it for myself.

Thank goodness I didn’t give her the Whooping Swan. She would’ve used it as a kitchen blender.

vibe

To Botox or not to botox

I sat with a bunch of women at a birthday party in Sandton on Saturday. It was wild. We had six bottles of champagne, two platters of little cucumber sandwiches, sixteen cupcakes and between us all, we had just fourteen wrinkles.

All fourteen belonged to me.

It struck me, shockingly, that every single one of these women uses Botox. And they spoke about their Botox the same way they spoke about their facials and their manicures.

It’s the most normal thing in the world. You fill the fridge, take a daily shower, sleep with your husband, or lover, then get injected. It costs a small fortune, but they do it regularly, and they’ve been doing it for years.

This is what the conversation sounded like.

‘Doctor Solomon in Morningside is just fab, didn’t you know that?’

‘You should try Delilah’s, they’re brilliant.’

‘Yes babe, but Rob in Gallo Manor offers specials, you really have to, you have to go to him. What? You don’t know Rob? Doll. DOLL. Where’ve you been all these years?’

I didn’t know the Doctor or Delilah’s or the fabulous Dermatologist. In fact, I’d never had a needle near my face except for the one time my mother, in a fit of rage, threw her knitting at me.

I realized I’d been living in a Botox vacuum. All these women did look incredibly youthful.

I started having anxiety while looking at their smooth,  doll-like faces. Not one of them looked their age, or even close.

I excused myself graciously, disguising my looming panic attack for needing the loo, and rushed off to the ladies feeling totally inadequate. I just stood there, staring into the mirror.

Oh my god I have wrinkles!

Lines. Everywhere. On my forehead. Around my eyes. Even a few deep ones around my mouth. They seemed to get deeper and deeper as I looked at them. I’d oddly never thought of them as a big deal.

Anyway. I stood in that bathroom and examined myself closely. Yip. I had fourteen frightening, not for the faint hearted, wrinkles.

Women kept walking in. Not to use the bathroom, but to use the mirror. A bit of lipstick, a boob adjustment, a no-wrinkle check.

Mostly they looked fab. But the more I looked, the more I became aware of something – they did not look real.

Eventually the women in my party came to look for me. Apparently an hour is a long time to spend in a bathroom.  They found me, still standing in front of the mirror, but with a strange smile on my face.

I’d smugly decided that I liked my fourteen wrinkles. I’d earned them, and goddamit I was going to display them. And nobody, with their smooth Barbie skin, was going to make me feel inadequate.

I kinda like the natural look.

I still want to look good.  Of course I do. I use day cream, night cream, eye cream, neck cream and anti-cellulite cream. I  manicure, pedicure, colour my hair, wax my legs, thread my eyebrows and sweet jesus it costs me a small fortune.

And it’s true that I might panic when the fourteen wrinkles become forty wrinkles, and then maybe, maybe, I’ll consider doing something drastic. Maybe I’ll Botox.  I don’t want to judge those who do it (even though I just have) especially if it makes them feel good.

But right now I like real. And I really hope to keep it that way.

botox

Hi, I’m Violet and I’m an addict.

I park my car, pay the car guard and nervously walk in. The hall is large and musty. There are twelve chairs in the middle of the room, set out in a semi circle. Odd. I’d expected more.

Up front is a skinny, slightly fidgety woman. She smiles exhaustedly and welcomes me, gestures at me to join the group. Everyone seated around her looks sad.

I help myself to a cup of coffee, greet a few of the other pale faced people, think that the rings under my own eyes are not so bad, and pluck up the courage to introduce myself.

‘Hi.’ I say. ‘My name is Violet and I’m an addict.’

Group: Hi Violet.

They all look up expectantly. I shift nervously, not sure if I should sit or stand. I sit, swinging my legs, my hands under my thighs to keep them from fiddling.

I take a deep breath and continue.

‘I’ve been an addict for about four years. It started slowly, once or twice a day, for fun you know. With my friends, a good way to connect. Then a few more hits. Then all day. Then all night. It’s become really hard to stop.’

Group Leader: Keep going Violet. You’re with friends. People recover from their addictions every day. We understand you, honey. We’re with you. We’re here to help you quit, guide you through the process. This is the first step.

I look even more uncomfortable. My palms are sweaty and my skin feels prickly. I wish I could run, go back to my addiction.

‘I really want to recover’, I say. ‘I’m ruining my life. I know I need to stop. I just don’t know how. It always feels so damn good, so damn good’.

Tears start trickling down my pale cheeks.

Everyone nods in agreement. Sympathetic glances. The guy with the dark rings even gets up and gives me a hug.

Group Leader: You can beat this Violet. When did you first start using? You can live a full life without drugs, you know. Heroin is a disease, it hooks you in, holds you hostage.

There’s a long pause.

‘Heroin? Heroin? I don’t use heroin.’

There’s an even longer pause.

Group Leader: Then… why exactly are you here, Violet?

I feel more desperate than ever. For my computer.

‘I told you, I’m an addict. Is this… is this not the Facebook addiction group?

The Group roll their eyes. ‘Ugh, not another one.’ Room 217. Down the hall, on your right.’

I gasp. Grab my bag and dash down the corridor. This room immediately feels more familiar. Everyone has a laptop.

‘Hi. My name is Violet. I’m an addict. A Facebook addict.’

A million eyes look back at me. The hall is full. There’s a great buzz.

And brilliant Internet connection.

Group: Hi Violet.

I feel at home immediately. I’m among friends. I open my laptop. Type in my password.

I’m home.

face

Online dating guidelines – men only.

Pay attention men.  I’m about to give you an online dating manual.  It’s free.  It’s valuable. It could change your life.

1.Put up a photo. Check it really carefully and make sure that it is actually of you, because apparently it’s easy to make mistakes.

2. Do not describe yourself as a stud. Take the word sensual out of your profile. Carnal and lustful should probably go too.

3. Avoid copy and paste. I know how easy and tempting it is, but it’s a little obvious, barely amusing and extremely boring.

4. Don’t declare your undying love to your perfect match before you even know her name. I’d suggest a conversation first: Something like – “Hi there. You seem interesting. I’m Dave and I live in Sandton. Would you like to chat?”.

5. To the guy who says “I want to splash around with you like two birds in a bath”, just – no.

6. To the guy who says “You’re so sexy. What are you wearing?”, it’s mostly a yawn factor. There are porn sites for that.

7. Avoid using emoticons.

8. Unless you are a poet or a philosopher, don’t call yourself either. Be the carpenter, chemist or chiropractor that you really are. There’s nothing wrong with being a builder, or a baker. We girls like honesty.

9. Reminder: Keep your shirt on, and re-assess that photo.

10. Spell check. This is an easy one. At the top of your page, click tools, spelling and then grammar. It’ll even check your apostrophes for you.

11. Nobody, nobody, wants to see a picture of your dick. Yes, even yours – especially yours.

12. If you’re 60 and looking for a beautiful and athletic young woman (between the ages of 20 and 30), get real. Also, go fuck yourself.

13. This, dear men, is a tricky one. Remember: there is a difference between single and separated.  Single means you are most definitely on your own. Separated means you still have a wife or partner somewhere. There is a difference. While it may not be important to you, it is important to us.

14. And if you’re just looking for a quick lay, kindly refer to point number 6. Porn sites. There are plenty and some are even free. Make sure you hide the evidence from your wife.

There you are. I trust you read attentively and that you’re going to keep it real from now on. I’ll spank you if you don’t.

man

Phone Sex

Every Friday I have lunch with the same girlfriend. We’re outrageous. We order prawns and lobster, drink champagne, get mildly drunk, talk about everything from lunch boxes to anal sex, and then go home to nap.

We reconnect on the Monday to discuss our dire credit card statements and how we have to stop doing this. Until the following Friday.

Today was no different. We hugged hello, admired one another’s shoes and clothing and sat at our regular table. The special was Crab, and our waiter insisted we had it. ‘Spectacular’, he said.

Yum. He gave us the claw cracker things and tied the bibs around our necks. We were prepared to get fabulously filthy.

Juice spilled down our chins as we cracked our crabs, split open the legs and sucked the claws. Crab was flying everywhere, and we were giggling and laughing, sucking, sipping and moaning in delight,
But then, I noticed that I was the only one moaning about the crab.

Sarah was delirious over something else. With glazed eyes and juicy fingers, she was leaning back in the chair and typing on her phone, fingers at a crazy speed. Reading, texting, reading, texting. It was definitely not about our meal.

Beep: Her whatsapp.

Crack: My crab.

Oh: Her pulse.

Jesus: Me.

I put down the pincers, wiped my hands, picked up my wine, and watched her. She’d dropped her nippers, her breathing had quickened, her face had flushed and there was a thin band of sweat on her brow.

My friend, my best girlfriend, was having phone sex. While I sat on the other side of the table, delicately drinking chardonnay, she was having sex.

And nothing was stopping her!

After a few minutes of this delicious display, she leaped to her feet and disappeared into the ladies. She returned a bit later, looking relieved and relaxed, grinned sheepishly, and got stuck back into the crab. So did I.

Lunch resumed.

But then BEEP and the whole process started again. She must have had 10 orgasms before I finished sucking on the left leg.

I looked around. Wine glasses were crashing. Claws were flying. Everyone was laughing.

I have no idea if any of this was about the crab, but I do think I’m missing out. I decided to order a second one – just in case.

phone sex