How to give a decent blow job – and other unusual tales.

Hey Luce, how ya doing’.  I was so excited to hear my best friend on the phone.

‘Oh my god, my neck, I’ve hurt it again, I landed up in the hospital.’

When she didn’t want to tell me how, I knew immediately.


It’s easy when you’re in your twenties to contort your head in a million different directions. In your forties it is just silly and in your fifties it’s just bloody dangerous.

I asked her if she’d given her man pleasure before rushing off to Emergency.

‘Of course’, she said. The look on her husband’s face had been one of ecstasy – there was no way she could stop half way.

I suggested that maybe next time she didn’t look at his face while doing the deed. That may have been the problem.

I gave her a set of rules.

– Put a cushion under your knees.
– Keep your back straight.
– Shoulders down.
– Neck upright.
–  And eyes looking straight ahead.

Do not, under any circumstances, make any sharp movements to the left or the right with your neck.

We both laughed. It’s very hard, in the heat of the moment, to reach out for a cushion, or to worry about your posture.

And it’s almost impossible not to move your neck.

Unless you do yoga where you learn to never move your neck no matter what.

In fact you learn tons of things at Yoga, which are all good for your sex life.  The one thing I learned, that I have never forgotten – open your mouth and stick your tongue out during orgasm. Even if you look ridiculous, it extends your orgasm. Try it but just make sure the guy is taking you from behind and cannot see your face!

Also squeeze your butt muscles. Apart from him loving the feeling, it strengthens your orgasm and makes your butt look pretty damn good.

Sadly, you have to do these things before your partner hurts his neck, puts out his back, bites his tongue, or has a heart attack.

I told Luce about my last sexual exploit.

Claude. Sixty. A very energetic lover.

The last time we’d been together, the sex was fantastic. He knew exactly how to turn me on. I was moaning softly, about to come, when suddenly…

He stopped.

And clutched his chest. Dramatically.

It’s every woman’s nightmare.

I stopped my moaning very quickly when he started his.

My thoughts were not ‘Oh my God he’s having a heart attack, I need to call an ambulance, help, I don’t want him to die’.

My thoughts were ‘Oh my God he’s going to die on top of me, I’m never going to get out, who will find me, how will I explain this, Oh my God, please, please, he cannot die…

He didn’t have a heart attack. But he’d had too much red wine which set off his angina.

It was really scary.

My friend Luce gave me her own set of rules for dating older men.

– Time is of the Essence. Get down to business ASAP.
– Don’t over exert him.
– Always be on top.
– Have his Next of Kin contact details handy at all times.
– Remain semi clothed for a quick getaway, just in case of collapse.
– And whatever you do…


sex tips

The problem with load shedding

Last night I had my phone stolen. I’d had a great evening watching the rugby, waving my flag and feeling fabulously patriotic.

Going home on public transport made me feel passionately South African, and it was only when I sat down on the bus that I realised I’d been pick-pocketed.

My proudly South African moment ended there.

And the night ended with a phone call to my Cellular Service (You are number 3005 in the queue, your call is important to us), another phone call to my Insurance Company (you are oddly enough also number 3005 in the queue, please don’t hang up), and today rushing around to buy a new phone and get a new Sim card.

Of course there’s been load shedding all around the country so my Cellular Service which is always offline, has been even more offline than ever.

So, dodging potholes, I drove to my cellular provider in The Rosebank Mall.

The system was down so they directed me to their store next door to Clicks who were also offline and sent me to Killarney but they were in the midst of a rolling black out and so I came home to do a bit of work and have a drink.

And then the power went out at home so I decided to brave it and went to Campus Square where my provider was under renovation so I had a bacon sandwich at Woolies where the kind man told me there was a new store a bit further out.

I went there and midway through the sim swap the power also crashed BOOM BANG KAPOW and not being able to breathe, I gave up.

So I didn’t get a new phone. And my power at home had still not been restored.

Which meant I had loads of time to sit around and not text anyone, not call my children, not cyber sex, and in fact, do nothing at all but reminisce. And write a story. By hand.

About all my other phones that have been stolen, lost or sadly forgotten.

The Nokia that went through the washing machine. That was a huge trauma. It may have been traumatic for the phone too, but I didn’t have much fun watching it go round and round with soapy bubbles and stained underwear.

The Samsung that I threw into the river when I meant to throw a stick for the dog. The one that the dog refused to fetch, because he cleverly knows the difference between a stick and a phone.

Phones that have been dropped in the loo, splashed free spiritedly into swimming pools, been abandoned in bars, or just mysteriously, disappeared out of bags, or even with bags.

While sitting in the dark, writing this story by candlelight, I had a moment. I stopped thinking about phones. I started thinking it was all quite nice actually. It felt kinda warm, cosy and old-fashioned.

Maybe, I didn’t need to get a new phone. Maybe I could live without electricity. Maybe these were all signs about a life change.

Time to sell my house, relocate and find a small town. One that has no electricity, no phones and no potholes. One where I’ll have solar power and grow my own veggies. Maybe I’ll even meet a man there, live side by side with gas lamps and home grown tomatoes…

Oh hang on. IT’S BACK ON. I HAVE LIGHT. Be right back, rushing off to Rosebank. Thanks Eskom, I love you.


Dating in the suburbs.

I love the idea of meeting men. Slipping on a pretty dress and strappy sandals, a little lipstick and a splash of perfume.

Having my hair washed, smelling like a strawberry, and then, heading out into the big wide world, to hook up with somebody new.


Exciting, but also – such an effort.

The reality of driving to a date, after the waxing, moisturising and perfuming, is a drag. It’s not that easy to change gears in heels. My dress gets crushed and crumpled underneath me in the car and I come close to death every time I take to Johannesburg’s roads. It’s tricky giving the finger, while keeping the window closed for the air conditioning.

And it’s really hard to text and say ‘I may be a little late’ when taxis are pushing in to my lane.

So on my dating profile, I am very clear that men, in this big wide world, must live within a five kilometre radius.

Not only am I a snob and would prefer to meet a man from my area, but I would never dream of driving out to Alberton. Or, even worse, Centurion.

Imagine! The horror.

The long journey.

The moustaches. The paunches. The odd hairstyles.

The conversation. And the sideburns.

Perhaps I’m a little mean. Because there are some nice men from those areas. And men in my area have paunches too.

The truth is, I am just very lazy. And my laziness has led to many a problem.

Laziness has led to the loss of lust.

Laziness has led to the loss of liaisons.

And laziness has led to the loss of many a good lay.

Yesterday morning I met my girlfriends for breakfast. The local coffee shop. It felt like running the gauntlet.

‘Why are you blushing?’ Sara asked me.

‘Because Parkhurst is sitting outside.’ I said.

‘Who’s Parkhurst?’

‘The guy I had dinner with last Saturday. It didn’t go so well.’

‘And the guy who just called you over, the one you tripped over and pretended not to see?’

‘He’s Blairgowrie. Check out the facial hair…’

‘Ah’, she said. ‘What about him, in the white shirt, you stopped to chat to him ?’

‘I think he’s Saxonwold’, I said. ‘I’m not sure. I’m not even sure if I dated him. They all look the same’.

I was very clear about the guy who was sipping tea at the corner table. He was my ex husband.

He was not alone. And he was smiling.

Behind him, nursing a cappuccino, sat my ex lover.

At least he looked miserable.

I was so uncomfortable I asked my girlfriends if they minded moving to the next door coffee shop.

No problem. Because they felt uncomfortable too. They’d also gone through most of the men.

Next door was no better.

I saw Rosebank, Delta Park and Westcliff. All together at one cosy table.

Sara had slept with Rosebank, Lucy had dated Delta Park and well, I’d kind of done Westcliff.

So much for the five kilometre radius.

It was a disaster.

I have no choice but to extend my low mileage rule.

I’m going to have to put on flat shoes, wear a dress that doesn’t crease, wind down the windows of my car, and put the music on full blast.


Hello Alberton, hello…

driving in heels

Dating – just like The Hunger Games.

Dating Games are a lot like the Hunger Games. Except that the Hunger Games are much simpler. They always end in death.

Which is not to say that dating does not end the same way. It’s just drawn out and much more painful. And it usually ends with one party feeling a lot like ‘argh, fuck this’.

I’ve met men in different ways. Sometimes, it’s through a friend of a friend. Other times, online dating sites.
There’ve been chance encounters in coffee shops and bars, and I’ve even tried Tinder.

Each has its difficulties, but hey, we should be open to them all. Because it’s not so much about how we meet the man, it’s about the man himself.

There are several profiles.

The Serious Dater – not to be confused with the Serial Dater. The Serious Dater is looking for a life partner.
This is a good thing. He wants commitment. The Serious Dater usually falls in love with you on Date Number One. He tells you everything about himself in the first hour and keeps no secrets.

He talks about his divorce, his house, his children, his finances, his fondness for walks in the park, even his shirt size. He is kind, caring and always pays for the first date.

But it’s in his eyes. Those puppy dog eyes. The way he looks at you. The way he wants you to care for him. Swaddle him. Coddle him. Nurse him.

Stay away from the Serious Dater. He’s needy.

The Serial Dater – The signs of a Serial Dater are there from the start. Be vigilant. I dated one of these guys recently, and missed every bloody sign.

The eyes that glazed over when-ever I spoke about myself. The click of his fingers, every time he spoke about himself.

The late night phone calls from other women that were explained as work. What I didn’t miss was when he got disgustingly drunk and told me how many dates he’d sat with at the very same table that I was sitting at. Not surprisingly that offended me.

He was offended that I was offended. We ended up offending each other a lot.

Personally, I wouldn’t go near the Serial Dater. He’s offensive.

The Quick Fix Dater – oh my, he is so exquisitely exciting! He’ll meet you, woo you, bombard you with messages, make you feel fantastic, flirt like crazy, seduce you and get you to do things that you never thought you would do.

‘Don’t wear underwear’. He’ll suggest.‘Wear this kind of underwear’. He’ll smile.‘Wear my underwear’. He’ll insist.
He’ll have a great time with you, then drop you as soon as he’s had his fix. He’s the adrenalin junkie. He’s mad.
He’s fun. He’s edgy. But he’s terrified of anyone really getting to know him. He fears rejection. He’ll make you be fearful every time the wind blows and your panties are on show. Be careful. He’s an easy one to fall in love with, he’s the one who’ll break your heart.

Back away from the Quick Fixer. And his underpants.

There’s The Online Dater – He’s the guy you meet online but never offline. He’s intense. He’s intelligent. And he’s devastatingly handsome.

Of course he’s handsome, he’s been photo-shopped. If you suggest meeting him offline, he makes an excuse. I say, if you have more than three good online conversations without a meeting being set up, avoid him. He has something to hide.

Delete the Online Dater.

The Tinder Dater – I tried this once. Tinder is a phone app which picks out your nearby possible matches. It showed me my neighbour. My neighbour, who was recently arrested for having sex with his dog. I took myself off Tinder. I never went back.

I think there shouldn’t be a Tinder.

My last resort is The Twitter Dater – I’ve met a really lovely guy on Twitter, and we’re going out this weekend. He sounds cool. Genuinely. He sent me flowers before the date.

I loved that, and thought I should send him something too. I sent him this story to read. He really liked the story. And I know, I just know, we’re going to fall in love.

The Twitter Dater – try him. He may be your last resort.


When the sex is just so good.

I slipped on a new black dress and admired myself in the mirror. Nice, but I dropped it to the floor.

Pulled on jeans and buttoned up a crisp white shirt, but no, whipped it all off. I tossed a skirt on to the growing pile of clothing, a lace bustier, a kimono, a hat, went back to the first black dress, then rushed out to the store to buy another one.

On the way home I picked up the lobster, bought a few bottles of wine and chose a shiny new lip gloss. All pretty expensive, but hey, it was only money.

A luxurious bubble bath, a splash of my new perfume, sexy stockings, and I was ready when he rang the doorbell. The wine was on the table, tulips in the vase, dinner bubbling away in the pot.

He walked in. Hot. My knees felt weak. My heart nearly exploded. I said hi, took him by the hand and lead him to the kitchen.

Before I had time to pour a glass of wine, he’d pushed me against the wall, kissing me hard. Within seconds my stockings were torn, my French underwear ripped and my dress off and over my head.

He was holding me, kissing me, messing my hair, smudging my lipstick and pushing himself deliciously against me, into me.

The oven timer was beeping as I wrapped my legs around him and he carried me to the dining room table. Crash. The Clementina Van Der Walt dishes, beautifully set up for dinner, shattered on to the floor. Whoosh. The wine bottle went flying.

Smash. The glass candle holders burst into a million pieces, the sofa caught fire and there were flames licking the tips of the curtains.

He went down on me, on that table, glass everywhere. I came. Once. Then twice. It was so good. We were both on fire, and it had nothing to do with the flames all around us.

He cracked open another bottle of wine, poured two glasses, then picked me up again and carried me, gently this time, to the bedroom.

We had sex. Sweaty. Messy. Magnificently. For hours.

Afterwards, we lay on top of the bed, stained sticky sheets, sharing a cigarette and a glass of wine, breathing in the soot of the smouldering sofa.

When I got up to go the bathroom, I could barely walk. He rubbed arnica gently between my bruised thighs. I gave him panado for his headache and removed shards of glass from his feet.

He left in the morning. I swept up the damages, showered, called Davenports to come fix the oven and Fabriports to re-upholster the sofa.

I gathered the sheets, tablecloth and dresses and dropped them off at the Dry Cleaners. And then, because I was going to see him again, and again, and again, chose another new black dress.

And a pair of high heeled black shoes.

I still don’t know how the heels broke on the ones I was wearing.
But I know I need new ones.

And stockings. And underwear. And curtains.

Sex with me – or him – PRICELESS!

Tulips – R 140
Wine – R 400
Lobster – R 600
Dress – R 800
The other dress – R 800
The stained dress – R 800
Stockings – R 200
Underwear – R 600
Dry cleaning – R 300
New crockery – R 900
Medication – R 150
Candle holders – R 1200
Upholstery – it has to wait.
Stove – it has to wait


A very expensive blind date.

I can be impulsive. So a while back when a guy from Canada that I was quite attracted to online said ‘Let’s meet in France’, it took me all of three minutes to say ‘Oui.’   He had loads of money and was delighted to pay. I was delighted to accept.  
I’m a hopeless romantic and always open to new experiences, love, adventure, and possibility.

Online he was perfect.  Witty. Charming.  Mysterious. Bilingual. And of course, sexy. Offline – who knew?  But I was willing to take the chance.  He could be the right guy for me.

And so just a few weeks later I found myself bound for Paris, sipping champagne in business class, popping caviar in my mouth, and being a terrible flyer, waiting for the plane to crash. I probably deserved to die, leaving my children behind and going off on a wild adventure.
 But we didn’t crash, the plane landed safely, and I checked in to the magnificent hotel, the two bedroomed suite that he’d arranged.

I was a little nervous.

 A lot nervous.  We met in the hotel bar. I’d arrived first, and was perched on a bar stool, in my sexy but not too sexy dress, a few scotches under my suspenders to calm my nerves.

He walked in. Oh my. 

Every bit as good looking as his profile pic. Better. Suave. And very ,very stylish.

This was going to be good. We kissed hello, a little awkwardly, and he sat down next to me.

You know – you know immediately if you’re attracted to someone. It’s this thing where your heart beats fast, your inner thighs tingle, you have this euphoric feeling, this ‘oh my god this is amazing feeling’, this ‘I just have to reach over right now and touch him feeling.’

I did not have this feeling.

 Because he was incredibly anxious.  His hands were shaking, his bottom lip trembled, and droplets of perspiration lined his upper lip.

 He ordered a coke. In English.  And drank it in one go.

 And then a cheese burger.  

A cheese burger. In Paris. In the most beautiful bar, filled with olives and oysters and escargot. I went with it, not wanting to question his choices. Or to rush to judgement too quickly.

 But here’s the thing. 
He had not been honest.

All his online stuff about living on the edge, loving to travel, speaking French, being an intrepid explorer. It was a lie. 

Turned out he  was a Canadian who had never left Canada, and the adventure for him was merely leaving Canada and being able to say to his friends – ‘Hey, I’m meeting a strange chick in Paris…’

And I was the strange chick who said yes. The week was a disaster. 

He developed a cough, Heisenberg  status. I knew it was an anxiety cough, but he spent his time in Paris meeting different doctors and instead of sampling French delicacies, he sampled French antibiotics. 

I saw Paris on my own. I didn’t mind too much. I love Paris – smoking Gauloises on a pavement café, and sipping wine, window shopping, popping into galleries and museums. But I felt cheated. Not because there was no romance, but because he hadn’t been honest.

He wasn’t a serial killer. He wasn’t dangerous. I never once felt threatened. He just was not who he portrayed himself to be. We called it a ‘misadventure’. I never confronted him, because he had a fragility about him that I did not want to take on. And I wondered too if perhaps in a way I had misrepresented myself as well.  Perhaps he was enormously disappointed too.

The most difficult thing was coming home. I mean, I loved coming home, because it’s home  and because it’s real, but he kept mailing me as if everything had been totally normal and that we were still  good online friends.

 And I tried to explain that we couldn’t be online friends because we hadn’t managed to be offline friends.
 And he never got it. He still doesn’t get it. ‘Didn’t we have a great time?’ he says, and I guess in a way, we did have an adventure together.  Even if it hadn’t worked out.

I have learned this. 

I am never meeting a stranger in a strange city again. Don’t even think of asking me. It’s too stressful. And things are never quite what they seem. Unless – 

Italy, you say? 

Florence. Cobblestone streets. The statue of David? Maybe!  paris

Ex husbands and new girlfriends.

In a moment of emotional fragility, I signed up at the gym. 

The staff, all super enthusiastic with tight bottoms and huge white smiles, weighed me, rolled their eyes at my body mass index, and then with great joy and jubilation, they recognised my surname.

‘Ah, your husband comes here too, lekker to have you as well’ said Ivo, a huge man, the personal trainer I’d just met.

‘No, no, we’re divorced, I just haven’t changed my name yet, you know….’

‘Eish. Oh kay.  Well then.  We have work to do. I’m going to make you look so frigging good, your ex husband will regret the day he left you.’

I raised my left eyebrow.

‘Actually, I left him.’ I said, in a very even keeled tone.

Dead silence. And then the big guy, the very strong one, the one with all the enthusiasm, left the room.  Never to be seen again.

Clearly, women should not leave men. And clearly now, I did not need to look fabulous.

Anyway, I called my ex to tell him I was joining the same gym and checked he was okay with it.

‘Sure’ he said.  ‘Just don’t come on Saturday mornings between 7 and 10, when I train with my girlfriend’.

We were both very mature about it. 

Until, on Day One, I bumped into him in the sauna. I love the idea of unisex saunas, although I find it ridiculous that we have to stay covered up.  It’s 2014 for God’s sake.

But I digress.

There, in the sauna, sweat dripping into his paunch, was my ex husband. And next to him, his girlfriend.  

Not a single drop of sweat dripping into her paunch.  Because she doesn’t have one. As I sucked in my stomach, I remember thinking ‘Dear sweet Jesus, I should’ve brought my hip flask’.  

As well as – ‘Who is her personal trainer and how can she look so fucking good in a sauna?’

Anyway. I sat down. Gracefully.  Elegantly. Quickly. After slipping in their sweat, burning myself on the coals and stumbling up the step.

I am never at my most attractive in a sauna. My face goes bright red, my hair stands up on end, and if I wasn’t wearing a full bloody stupid swimming costume, sweat would pool into my paunch too.

 But I am also never at a loss for words, even in a 300 degree hot sauna.

‘Don’t either of you work?’ I said. ‘It isn’t Saturday. You’re not meant to be here. I think you should leave.’

As my ex husband was about to get snippy, something he was always good at doing, there was an intervention.

Ivo. The big trainer, the one with no sense of humour, walked in. He beckoned the girlfriend. ‘Ten minutes up’ he boomed. ‘Time for your lengths.


She wasn’t leaving without my ex, who according to Ivo, had another five minutes to go. I wasn’t leaving either, it would’ve seemed petty.

 So we all stayed. Ivo too. And sweated, and sweated. Until we slowly started talking. And it was all pretty good and grown up and groov.


We agreed to meet at the gym again, but in the steam room next time. Ivo won’t be there.  He has a new job as a Mediator with divorce attorneys. 

I’ll be there. But wearing a bikini. Because I’m going to the gym every single day, five times a day, until the next time. No sweat is going to pool in my stomach in front of her again!