Ladies who lunch – alone.

The other day I was stood up on a date. I’d met this guy at a friend’s house, we’d  connected and laughed and the following week he invited me out for lunch. I said yes.

He was bright, gorgeous and filled with potential. At the very least he could be a new friend.

We set a place and a time and I arrived at the restaurant wearing jeans and a white shirt, a splash of perfume and a touch of optimism.

He hadn’t arrived so I picked a table, sat and ordered a glass of chilled white wine. Wine to match my mood. I read the menu, read the paper, read my phone, looked around for something else to read and tried to look calm and cool.

He was late.

I’m patient with people who are late; I am often late myself.

I’m not so patient with people who are very, very late.

Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I call him? Text him? Get angry with him?

I chose to do none of that.

I folded the paper, put my phone away and instead, ordered lunch. I was starving. The menu looked fantastic and I suddenly realised that it was absolutely fine if I didn’t have a date. I was old enough and big enough to eat on my own. It isn’t something that I do often and I decided it was about time that I learned how to do it.

Eat alone, not just a snack, but a full on meal – with confidence and in public.

I told the waiter I’d been stood up and he made me feel really good by saying ‘any man who stands you up is an idiot.  I quite liked that, and thought – it’s true.

A few years ago I would’ve thought ‘Oh God what did I do wrong, why didn’t he arrive, why hasn’t he called me and it’s all my fault’ – but now I just wasn’t taking it on. This was about him being the fuckwit, not me.

I ate my meal, which tasted especially good because I had had this epiphany that I was okay, and then – oops as I was paying the bill, he arrived. I was so glad I hadn’t phoned him and been all needy. He had the time wrong.

Actually, I had the time wrong; I was an hour early.

I sat with him while he ate. I think I oozed a confidence that I’m not sure I had oozed before. I could sense that he really liked me and the vibe that I was giving out, and it was a really fun, if very late, lunch.

Over my second slice of chocolate cake he asked me out on a second date. I was the one who said ‘Sure, but let’s just be friends’. I was suddenly enjoying my new found sense of ‘Hey motherfuckers, I’m okay on my own!’.

And I am. It is such a great feeling when you realise you don’t have to take on the whole world. When you realise that other people have issues and problems and that not all the issues are your own. And that everyone makes mistakes.

Tonight I’m going out for dinner. Alone. Same restaurant, because I don’t want to be too brave too quickly, but hey – I’m dining alone. And I have this quiet sense that finally, eventually, right now, I am quite happy with my own company.

dinner

Sex in the bedroom?

I haven’t had sex in my own bed for a long time, but the other night, that changed.

I invited my friend, the one with benefits, for dinner. We’re always at his place, which is perfect, but I decided I was ready to have him over.

I was nervous. I scrubbed every surface in my house, wiped down the cupboard doors, cleaned the windows and re-arranged my underwear. I changed the linen, plumped up the cushions, lit candles and made sure no vibrators were under my pillow.

I pretended I cooked but picked up food from the local Indian take way.

Showered, perfumed, made double sure the kids had no plans to come home, and then let him in.

The house sparkled, and so did I.

He opened the wine and poured two glasses. I served my Mirchi Murgh Massala and we had a fantastic night, eventually making our way to my bedroom.

Let me quickly add that I have not had sex with anyone in my bed ever since the divorce. It was quite a big step.

I may have had sex on my dining room table, in the kitchen and in the bathroom, but that is a different story.

Anyway, it was going really well. We were both in ‘the zone’.

Until, that moment just before, you know, before he was about to go inside me, when he whispered:-

‘Violet, the condoms…’

‘Where are they?’ I whispered back.

Usually, the condoms are at his house, in the bedside table, easy to reach – ribbed or flavoured or extra thin or ultra large, a somewhat amazing variety that are always accessible.

‘It’s your house, Violet.’ He stopped whispering. ‘You should have condoms.’

He’s very difficult this lover of mine.

I jumped out of bed, told him not to go anywhere and started searching. My bedside tables, the bathroom shelves, my handbags, the kitchen, cupboards, everywhere.

Not a condom in sight.

I did however, find the credit card I lost over a year ago, my passport, my Ster Kinekor card and a bonus one thousand rand.

I was more turned on than ever.

But no condoms.

I went back to the bedroom, with my fantastic stash of goodies, but a little sheepish. I did not know how to explain this.

It was okay. He was asleep. Cosy and comfortable.

I hesitate to use the word satisfied.

I smiled, climbed in next to him and went to sleep too.

Which means I still haven’t used my own bed for sex.  But I am getting closer.

‘Older man seeking younger woman’

What is it about older men dating younger women?  We women of a certain age are sexy. And interesting, experienced, bright, funny, and did I mention, we’ve very very sexy.

We bring a hellova lot to the party.

We might not be as toned as we were a couple of years ago and maybe we have a few wrinkles (just a few, dammit) but god we have so much else. We’re sexually aware and uninhibited.  We know what we want and we’re not scared to go after it.

So what is it with men?  My best friend is dating a girl twenty years younger than him and it makes me crazy.  I mean, I really like her, but – twenty years younger – it’s insane.

I come across this often. The older man seeking an ‘attractive young woman’.

Why?

I think older men want someone who will remind them that they are still breathing. Stroke there ego. Tell them they are fantastic in bed.  Give them back their power when they make a younger woman come.

And it does go the other way too. A lot of young women quite like the idea of an older man. And this is not always about love or  mutual connection. I think it’s about money and power which are both really appealing.

A man who can provide financial stability, pay for overseas tickets and keep a woman in a constant supply of French underwear and champagne can be kind of hard to resist.

In other words, a Sugar Daddy is fabulous!

I try and embrace my age. With age comes a certain confidence as well as a sense of adventure. We lose a lot of fear as we get older and are more willing to explore new things.

But we’re also aware we need to look after ourselves, work out, keep trim and healthy.

Which is why I go to the gym.

I spend a lot of time in the sauna where between sweating and death everyone talks. It’s a great way to get to know people.

Yesterday I was chatting to a young man. It was fun and we sorted out the South African education system, compared our favourite single malts and even flirted a little. I didn’t think of it as flirting though, but when we were walking out he asked for my number.

I choked. He was in his twenties.

When I said ‘no’ it was mostly because I was in shock and didn’t want to be seen as a cougar. And because I have been so judgemental about older men. And younger women. And everyone else.

But mostly because it terrified me. This young guy. With his man bun. Firm muscles. And gorgeously sculpted six pack. And what he might think of my not so perfect body.

Anyway. He persuaded me. He wouldn’t listen to my thing of ‘age’ and ‘what will we talk about’ because he reminded me we’d spent half an hour in the sauna and hadn’t stopped talking. He also told me I had fabulous legs.

So I said yes. And we’re going out tonight. And I’m very very nervous. I’ll let you know how it goes, dear Reader. Every single detail. Unless it turns out he’s a friend of one of my children.

In which case, I’ll be dead.

Anal Sex – yes / no?

My ass, my cute, little, quite boney ass, has always been off limits.

I like squeezing it into a tight pair of jeans, showing it off in a bikini, swinging it from side it side when there’s a cute guy behind me, but as a ‘back entry’ it’s always been taboo.

It may be because I remember my mom giving me ‘the sex talk’ and anal sex was something that sweet classy girl-chicks never ever did.

But lately I’ve become more and more curious, especially when so much has been written about anal g-spots, the anal orgasm, and mostly – about how so many women love anal sex. Ordinary women, even classy girl-chick ones.

It didn’t seem fair that I was missing out. If there were more orgasms to be had, I wanted them.

But, I was kinda terrified. My ass was virgin territory.

I called up my friend who is also my local Handyman.

‘Hey’, I said. ‘I’ve been thinking about something recently and maybe you’re the guy to help me’.

‘Not another free Handyman job’, he replied, ‘I can’t bear the thought.’

‘Not really.’ I said. ‘This is about my ass’.

It went really quiet.

‘I’d like you to go in me from behind.’

Deathly silence

Oh God I’ve pushed him a bit too far I thought. It’s quite different asking someone to fuck you from behind instead of the usual ‘Please help me, the toilet’s leaking’.

Anyway, he was delighted. He loved the idea so much that he let out a ‘Yes yes yes, let’s do it baby’, which was quite a departure from his usual ‘Violet, are you sure you need to renovate the bathroom?’

Of course he was delighted. No-one likes changing taps. But all men like the idea of sex without any ties. Especially when tight virginal bottoms are involved.

Usually for handy-work I have to book him weeks in advance. But for this, he was available immediately.

I wasn’t. I needed time to think.

We set the date for a week away. Seven pm. His house. He suddenly got very involved and suggested I wear a short leather skirt, high heels and no underwear.

I did not obsess over the skirt, the shoes or the underwear. I obsessed over my ass.

In those seven days I thought about anal sex a lot. I tried to imagine it, dreamed about it, questioned my girlfriends about it, asked strangers what they thought about it, and then on Friday I pulled on my leather mini skirt, slipped on my heels, put on French hand-stitched underwear because I wanted to and as a last minute thought, sprayed Chanel No 5 on my buttocks.

I rang his doorbell, my heart beating a little faster than normal. He opened and I’ve never seen him looking happier in his life. He was not wearing overalls and there wasn’t a hammer or a toolbox in sight.

We drank a lot of whisky and made the rules. Actually, there was only one.

If I changed my mind, we stopped. Immediately.

We drank, we chatted about my house renovations, the tension built and we started talking about sex.

He reached over and kissed me.

And then suddenly we were standing and I was against a wall, pressed against him while he kissed my neck and I unbuttoned his shirt. My underwear dropped to the floor, he lifted my dress over my head, and then I was naked. He was still in his jeans.

And he turned me around, gently, expertly, and pressed me against the wall. A true handyman.

My ass was bare, exposed and hesitant.

‘We need to go inside’, I whispered, very aware we were still in the garden.

Very aware that I was loving him touching my buttocks.

And very aware that we were going to do this.

We moved to the bedroom. He played with me, tickling me, teasing me, touching me. A little bit in, a little bit out, small gentle touches.

The Handyman was clearly an anal master.

Even so, it’s kinda scary having someone touch you where you’ve never been touched before.

I didn’t use the word ‘Stop’.

But I did use the word ‘Slow’.

And I’ve used the word slow a lot over the last few weeks. We’re still experimenting. One finger has turned to two and I’ve felt the tip of him against me and a little bit in me. It feels good and I think I’m ready for more.

I’ve bought a bottle of Moet to celebrate final entry. We haven’t opened it yet. But I think we will – soon.

We’ll drink it slowly. As we’ll do everything else.

And we might even share it with you, dear Reader. As long as you don’t share this story with my mother.

Tips for Anal Sex

– Only do it if you want to.

– There must be trust.

– Breathe, deeply – yogic breathing is good.

– Focus on the feeling. Really, really focus.

– Go very slowly, over days, weeks, months.

– Don’t be shy to use lube.

And mostly – enjoy the orgasm. And the Moet.

Sex and technology

I’m sitting in a restaurant and feeling incredibly anxious. I need to check my Facebook messages, my Twitter account and my Violet Online blog for comments. But I can’t. I’m out with my date and we both said how much we hated technology. It would be rude, and I hate being rude.

So, my phone is in my handbag and we’re actually talking. We haven’t been interrupted by a beep once. And it’s kinda nice. He has my undivided attention. I have his. But I haven’t updated my Facebook for about three hours and I’m taking serious strain. Actually, I am in agony.

I gotta do it. I excuse myself and my handbag and I head to the ‘ladies’. I lean against the bathroom wall and take out my phone. Status: Can’t wait for my date to go to the loo so I can check my Facebook. As I’m peeing, I get 4 likes. Not bad, I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on it. Reluctantly I put my phone away, head back to the table and look into my date’s eyes. They’re a very dark brown. Smouldering. Nice. We have dessert, and then we go back to my apartment.

I suggest he opens a bottle of wine. I pass him the corkscrew and tell him I’m just going to check my mails while he pours. I have to check them, I explain, it could be work. I open my laptop. I have 12 new emails, 14 Facebook notifications and my Twitter is going nuts. I don’t dare check my blog because that means danger.  I quickly reply to a few Facebook posts, update my Twitter – ‘On a Date and he’s gorgeous, worthy of more than 140 char…,’ and go back to the lounge.

He’s sitting patiently, on the couch, wine in hand, no phone or computer in sight. He’s really nice. We chat, we snuggle, we kiss. But I have a dilemma. I’d promised my girlfriends that if the date went well I would let them know just how well, via emoji.

One smiley face – if he was nice.

Two smiley faces – if we kissed.

Three smiley faces – if we had sex.

Four – if the sex was brilliant.

I had to sneak out and send a message. One smiley face. So far, so good. When I came back I noticed he was on his phone, typing a message. He was possibly sending someone a silly emoticon too. But he quickly put it back in his pocket when I came into the room.

‘Violet’, he said. ‘I’d love to spend the night with you. The whole night’.

‘Oh’, I said. ‘I’d like that too.  Give me a minute’.

I went to the bathroom, sprayed a bit of perfume, put on some gorgeous lingerie, instagrammed my panties, checked my phone one last time, tweeted how excited I was, then – with a little difficulty – switched everything off.

And so he spent the night. We had sex and God it was really really good. And then we had more sex and then again and again and  I had no idea a man could come three times like that and I loved it but hey, I also had stuff to do. I was really glad when he finally pulled up the covers, nuzzled my neck and passed out.

How do men do that, just pass out?

When he was in the deepest of sleeps, I crept out of the bed and fetched my laptop. Relief.  I climbed back in next to him and quietly went online. I sent four smiley faces to my girlfriends. Read my mails. Checked my Facebook. Smiled at my 32 likes. Updated my twitter. Wrote this blog. And finally,  I could fall sleep next to him. It was perfect.

God Bless technology

.

Friends with benefits.

When I first met my ‘friend with benefits’ he put his hand on my knee, looked me in the eye and asked me very seriously — ‘Violet, do you know what you’re getting into here?’

‘Of course,’ I replied super confidently, crossing my legs, showing off my bare legs, my new shoes and a hint of underwear.

The idea of seeing this gorgeous man every now and again for great sex appealed to me. He wasn’t the marrying kind. There would be no strings attached, no rules, just fun.

I liked the idea of ‘no strings’.

And for the next few weeks it was wonderful. We’d see each other once a week, sometimes twice. It was exciting, we never spoke about the weather and the sex was fantastic. We were friends, there was never tension, it was easy.

He had made it clear from the beginning though — ‘This is not about love, Violet’. He’d also made it clear that in-between seeing one another there would be ‘no questions’.

‘Anything else I do is not your issue. I may be with another man or a woman, but that is not your problem’.

‘Yes’, I’d said, rolling my eyes. ‘I know that’.

I had thought – Jeez, this man is arrogant — but it kinda suited me.

Also, I didn’t think he would be with anyone else. I am enough for one man.

Slowly we also started meeting for the odd lunch, dinner too, and while we didn’t talk about the weather it wasn’t only about sex.

I was starting to fall in love.

One night I suggested he get me a toothbrush to keep in his bathroom. He gave me an Airline toothbrush, from one of his business trips.

Another day I suggested a dog walk. He declined politely saying ‘That’s not really my thing, Violet’.

And when I suggested spooning after three orgasms he smiled and said, ‘I’m just not the spooning kind, sweetheart’.

Oddly I had never been the spooning kind either. But suddenly I wanted to spoon.

I ended the relationship. I could see it was never going to go anywhere. One person always falls in love. One person always wants more. One person was always going to get heartbroken and it was not going to be him.

When I think back, I’m not sure how I ever thought it would work.

Except – I miss him. I miss the sex.  I miss the friendship.

I might try it again

friends

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.