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


What makes a man sexy.

He wears a kikoi.

Knows his whisky.

And his jazz.

Has stubble.

Fries a perfect egg.


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.



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.


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.


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.