Dating at a certain age can be very bloody difficult.

Dating at a certain age is very  difficult.  There are loads of whackos out there and huge amounts of excess baggage being carried around. 

I have my fair share I suppose, but mine is small and interesting and ha ha, who am I kidding. Anyway, when you do eventually meet a man who is not a stalker, mentally insane, broken, bitter, fragile, insecure, shaky or ill, and is also good looking, sexy,  and bright, you want to shout out from the rooftops “Hey, I met this guy, he’s perfect, he’s perfect.”

But because you’re of a certain age, it isn’t so easy to climb up the stairs to reach the rooftop – sore knees, sore back, fear of heights – so instead you giggle with your girlfriends over coffee, send your new beau tons of Whats-Apps, and try very hard to arrange the next knee- knocking date.

It is not that easy.

Children-  I have mine every second week, every third Friday night, on alternate weekends and really whenever they want to be with me.  

The man I’ve started dating has his every third day, alternate Tuesdays, on public holidays, birthdays and really whenever his fourteen kids want to be with him.

Food – I’m easy. I eat everything except chicken.  I often have cake for breakfast, love cheese burgers, hate spinach and most vegetables, and have this romantic idea of lazing in front of a fire with Chinese take outs.

He is not easy.  He’s a god-awful vegetarian, allergic to wheat, dairy and MSG, very precious about his caloric intake and really, a pain in the arse when it comes to food.

Alcohol – I drink whisky.  Single malt. And I’ve been known to down a bottle of champagne.  Good taste. Expensive taste.

He sips wine.  It has to be red.  Sulphur free.  And organic.  

He thinks my drinking habits are extreme.  I think his are odd.

But most importantly, and certainly the biggest negotiation, at this certain age – Sleeping!

I’ve been on my own for a couple of years.  And in those years, have still not ever, not once, never ever, rolled over on to my ex-husbands side.  Apparently this is not unusual; some women never roll over on to that side of the bed.

But, we had a great fourth date, and in the back of my mind I knew I was going to have sex with this guy, so I’d waxed and bathed,  primped and preened, changed the sheets, tidied the bedroom, lit candles, and I was right, we had great sex.

 And then he clearly had that fabulous content, snuggle for a bit then roll over gently and go to sleep feeling. 
Because he went to sleep.

On my side of the bed.

I did not have that same fabulous feel good feeling.  I lay there, wide awake, heart beating wildly, on the wrong side of the bed, staring at the wrong side of the ceiling.  

I shook him gently.  Nothing. 

I tried to push him over to the other side.  Not strong enough.

A gentle kick.  Nope, it hurt my knees. 

I thought about climbing over him, elegantly, but that hurt my back, and it was dark and the one dog was in my way, and the other dog started growling, and so instead I lay there, shifting, tossing and turning, in a state of panic.

I dozed off only when I heard the birds chirping.  And that was when he woke up.

“Morning Violet, what a fantastic night, let’s make tea, herbal, and I really like you and God I haven’t slept so well in years, and come here, snuggle a bit, and oh oh, you’re still not wearing anything, delicious…”

He eventually got up to put the kettle on.

 I’ve never moved so quickly, over to my side of the bed.  Bliss.  I was asleep within seconds.  

And he woke me up, this new lover of mine,  calling me a layabout and a lazybones and I don’t know why I just smiled and I never said a word.

Tonight is our fifth date, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to sleep over again. If I can sort out my children, the dogs, the food and the wine.

And I’m not going to primp or preen or do anything like that this time.

 But I am going to buy a new bed.  King size.  Fresh.  With no memories.  And no baggage.

Dating.  At a certain age. 

 Not just difficult.  Very expensive too.


A Brazilian Wax

I recently had my vagina waxed. A full-on Brazilian. It was a spur of the vagina decision. I went for a simple bikini wax but the therapist started telling me how excessively hairy I was.

“Oh darling you do have a rather wild bush”, she’d said.

So I thought, ‘What the hell, its summer, take it all off’.

Bejesus!  It’s not so much the agony of the Brazilian – it’s the intimacy of the Brazilian. A strange woman’s fingers on your most private and sensitive parts, waxing off or plucking out every last hair. It’s a little undignified…even a little humiliating.

But I let her wax and pluck and pull and I yelled out loud and I yelled at her and I cried a little and she mopped my tears, and then suddenly  – there was my vagina!

A little pink, a little swollen, a little thing that was quite pretty actually.  

I thanked her, handed over a ridiculous sum of money and called my girlfriends to meet me for champagne and cake. I thought I would surprise them with my new-found vagina but before we could start talking about smooth pink lips – a crisis- men.

As my gorgeous, but strictly feminist girlfriends spooned red velvet cupcakes into their small but slightly moustache covered lips, they also started bitching about men.  

Men who wolf -whistled, who opened car doors for women, who automatically signal for the bill and refuse to go dutch. Men who insist on changing tyres, who like women to dress in a sexy fashion and men who love women who don’t wear underwear .

I like men and I quite like all these things that men do. I can laugh at them, appreciate them, make use of them and even get turned on by them.

Apparently I shouldn’t like these things. They are “demeaning to women”. They are done to make women feel inadequate and weak. They turn women into the lesser sex.

 And it seems that waxing your vagina, is the worst thing in the world because it makes women’s vaginas look child-like and it turns all men into paedophiles.


I immediately signalled to the waiter to cancel the champagne, and sent him a note that said “Do not tell these women we are celebrating my hair free vagina.” 

I squeezed my legs together to make sure my lovely pink lips couldn’t burst through my undies. 

I never mentioned the bits of wax that were still stuck to my bottom and needed to be pulled off. I never mentioned how good it felt, and how much I knew I was going to love it but I did start feeling a little concerned.

I’d waxed my vagina (pudendum to be accurate) on the spur of the moment because the therapist convinced me to, and I’d thought “summer”.  Easy to wear a bikini. Cool. Sexy. Pretty.

I also wax my legs and underarms, I have facials, enjoy manicures and pedicures and I’ve even been known to have a bit of a collagen filler. 

I do these things because they make me look and feel good. I don’t over-think them. I need them, I do them, I love them and I pay through my very white teeth for them.

Honestly – I don’t only do them for me. I do them for men too. And for women. I want to look attractive when people look at me. Of course I do. We all do. 

I don’t go for that whole mumbo jumbo thing of men and women being equal. I think we are equal but different, and I love embracing the differences. It’s what makes being a woman so much fun.

So why, as per my girlfriends, is waxing a vagina such a terrible thing?   

Is it because all men fantasize about having sex with pre-pubescent girls? Is it because when they take Violet out for a night on the town, they don’t really want to be out with a fifty year old woman, but with a 15-year-old girl?

I don’t know. It’s a fine hair free line and one that needs thinking about. 

I’d love to carry on thinking about it, but I just found one rogue hair and I have a date tonight and I better get rid of it really quickly.

brazilian wax

Nothing to wear.

You look like a whore” said Cecilia, as I was dressing to go out on a date. With an old boyfriend. A gorgeous old boyfriend. One that I hadn’t seen for a long time.

I looked in the mirror. “Elegant” I thought, admiring my tight fitting black dress, fish-net stockings, high heeled shoes and thick red lipstick. She’d muttered something in Tswana under her breath, and pulled out a few dresses from the cupboard for me.

“Try this” she said, handing me the plain brown sack.

“Not my style”, I said.

“So why did you buy it?” she asked snarkily.

I had no ready answer for this, and tried it on anyway. I hated it. She made me try on a few other outfits. I went back to the tight black.

“Whore”, she muttered again.

“Shouldn’t you be cleaning the cupboards?” I’d sniped back, smoothing down the fishnets.

Cecilia and I had that kind of relationship. When she wasn’t yelling at me, she was giving me her opinion. I added a bit more lipstick and went on my way.

 I met Theo. We hugged, kissed and looked each other up and down. He didn’t mention my appearance. He didn’t comment on how elegant and sexy I looked. I thought he must be gay.

 He didn’t want to talk about my divorce, my children or my very difficult single life.

Selfish, I thought.

Two of his friends walked past our table. He leaped up to greet them. Kiss Kiss.

“Nice whore dress” they’d said in unison. I ignored them, said bye to the old definitely gay boyfriend who looked a little relieved the date was over, and headed to my car.

“Your car is still safe, Madam”, said the car guard, “I been watching it for you”.

I tipped him five rand. He looked me up and down. “Nice dress.”

He pulled out a fifty rand note from his pocket, proffered it my way, and said. “What do I get for this?”

I arrived home with a grudging new found respect for Cecilia and her dress sense. 

A few days later I was invited to a party.  I swallowed my pride and asked Cecilia to dress me. She chose the stylish blue conservative dress that I like but have never been a hundred percent convinced by. But, she obviously knew what she was doing, so I put it on.

I headed off, filled with elegant confidence.

The first person I bumped into was the old gay boyfriend.

“You look like a domestic worker” he said, eyeing me with pity.

“And you look a cunt!” I said, grabbing my keys and speeding home.

The next day I went shopping. And walked straight into Wizards and Witches. The most beautiful store in the world. No one can afford to shop there. Especially me.

 But – out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of them – irresistible, knee high, lace up boots. Sexy. I saw myself in them. I saw myself seductively unzipping them, my thigh high stockings underneath.

And so I walked in. 

The salesmen saw me coming. I think they recognized the look of a woman with only one thought on her mind. Men.
 They preened at the entrance, smiled invitingly, glided around, and showed me the most gorgeous dress to try on with the boots.

 The R 8 200 boots.

The R 3 000 dress.

The salesmen told me how perfect I looked. And I believed them. They showed me accessories. Camisoles, lacy bras, stockings, panties. I bought everything. 

I forgot that I had children and an empty fridge and a mortgage. 

I forgot that I had left my husband. 

I forgot that I had no money.

 I forgot everything.

Shopping can do that to you.  It makes you feel better.  Even if only for a little bit.


Dating across the colour line

I’d ticked the box that said White. Caucasian, actually.  I hadn’t give it a seconds thought, until my girlfriends yelled at me. “Come on Violet, its 2014, get with the country girl”.

Sheepishly, I’d changed my dating profile. Marked the black box.

Happy, ready, can’t wait to meet men of all size, shape and colour.

Immediatley I received a mail.

“Hi Violet. This is Thabo, you seem lovely. Join me, Saturday, grab a bite?”

I’d spat out my cappuccino and choked on my muffin. A message within minutes. From a much younger black man. He looked nice, his profile was interesting.  But he was black. And young.  And possibly well hung.

I stammered, I stuttered, I said okay, then I said No, then I said okay, then I thought I better be clear before I got fired from the dating site.

“Thabo, I’m unsure, I’ve never been out with someone like you. I’m white, I’m complicated, I’m newly divorced, I dammit, I’m just complicated, it’s not you, it’s not about colour, it’s just…”

He seemed mildly amused. “I understand,” he’d said, signing out. “Call me if you change your mind”.

 That was it. 

My friends were horrified. The more I tried to get them to understand where I was coming from, different culture, language, values, the deeper the hole I dug for myself. For the sake of friendship, I went on the date.

I got hold of Thabo, told him that I was taking a long hard look at myself and prejudice, and said “Yes. If you still want to, let’s hang out”. 

I over-thought this date so much, Thabo made it clear to me that it was just a date, not a marriage proposal. I started wondering if the complications that I spoke about were perhaps brought upon by myself.

 We went out. I changed clothes a hundred times, couldn’t decide on shoes, and found it even harder to choose underwear.

What panties do you wear when you lunch with a Black man – g string, briefs, nothing?

I had so much to learn.

We had lunch and it was surprisingly fabulous. Of course we had a few differences. He supported Pirates. I support Man U. He drove a convertible, I like station wagons. He lived in Soweto. I’m a northern suburbs gal. 

But he drank French Champagne.  And so did I.

 The conversation was good and he was incredibly sexy. I found myself moving closer to him, wanting to put my hand on his exceptionally strong, muscular leg. I was sure he felt the same way.

Until my mothers bridge friends walked in. They looked at me. Looked away. And looked again.

“You look remarkably like Sarah’s daughter” the one said.

“You can’t be” said the other.

“Let me introduce you, Thabo.”  I now felt completely confident with my new found younger did I mention, black, boyfriend.

“This is Hilda, and Sylvia, this one’s Betty…”.

They shook hands gingerly. And as they walked away, I could already hear Hilda phoning her friend. “You’ll never believe…”.

 Who cares. I was completely smitten. I laughed telling Thabo about my choice of shoes, underwear, and panic at finding the right restaurant. I didn’t really notice him looking at me with one raised black eyebrow.

 I was a little surprised when he didn’t tear my clothes off after dessert. He pecked me on the cheek, even when it was clear I was ready for a full on snog. 

He left, muttering words like too old, too white, and too sexy. He also used the word ‘ingrained’, and I think he was saying that prejudice is ingrained in all of us, whether we think so or not. I may have imagined the ‘too sexy.’

I never heard from him again. But I did hear from my mother.


“Yes Mom.”

“I believe you’ve been out with a man.”

“Yes Mom.”

“And I heard from my friends…”

“Yes, Mom.”

“He isn’t Jewish, how could you, such shame…”

My relationship with my mother may never be the same again.  But at least I redeemed myself with my friends.

I should've.

Tantric Sex

I have a friend – she’s fifty, single, sexy and extremely rich. She lives on lettuce leaves, uses botox, whitens her teeth, has perfect hair, a private gym instructor, wears heels, and fucks men for money. 

She gives great blow jobs, and in return, she makes sure that her ‘men’ give her everything that she could possibly want.  

She’s a high class hooker and I am highly bloody jealous. I would kill to have the kind of money she has.

But I would not be very good at sex work.

 My sexual encounters are generally disastrous. If I give someone a massage, I find myself allergic to the oil. I look pathetic tottering about in heels and my stockings are always laddered. I’m scared of injections so wouldn’t botox, too lazy to brush my hair, and I’ve never given a decent blow job in my life.

 In fact, my last sexual encounter landed up with the guy losing his tooth while opening a condom and crawling around the floor, naked, desperately looking for it.

Sex work was not an option for me to make extra money. 

But sex writing was. And so I applied to write for a new raunchy magazine – ‘Tantric Touch’. 

I got the job!

Violet Online was soon going to be called Tantric Violet.

 My first assignment: Sensual Sanctuaries in the City. Thinking of the dresses I could buy with my first paycheck, I plunged myself into internet research. 

God I had fun. Amazing sites for Tantric Sex.  Amazing pictures of Tantric Sex. Amazingly, I wanted to have Tantric Sex.  But then I remembered that this was work and I was on a deadline. So getting serious, I googled a little more, finding the mysterious sounding ‘’Bhoga Sexual Sanctuary’.

Bhoga means ‘Sexual enjoyment’. I was on the right path.  

In the name of research, I booked myself a  Sexual Energy Massage with Tantric Master Floating Eagle. 
Floating Eagle was charming, tall, toned and definitely naked under his loose orange robe.  He handed me my own robe and said “Don’t be shy. Take it all off”.

We sat opposite one another on our yoga mats, legs in lotus position, hands in prayer position.
He chanted about honoring my mind, body and spirit, and told me the only thing expected of me was to ‘surrender into bliss.’ That didn’t sound so difficult. I can do bliss quite easily. 

I disrobed, pretending it was completely natural to be naked in front of an orange robed floating eagle. The room was quiet, apart from his chants and tantric breathing. I focused for all it was worth on the Bliss yet to come. I kept my eyes firmly closed and avoided glancing down at his floating eagle, which I have to say, seemed set to soar at any minute.

Floating Eagle’s breathing got louder and louder.  Pleasurable sounds. Intense. Animalistic. Sex sounds. I started making sounds too.

 Mine started softly but slowly, coming from the bottom of my Yoni, up through my sensual feminine waters, and out through my mouth, where they became huge full blooded hysterical guffaws. My sounds were not sounds of sexual pleasure.

Floating Eagle was not amused. He stared at me while I dissolved into fits of laughter that only ended when I stooped to pick up my clothes from the pavement outside the Sanctuary.

 I dressed in the car, pulled up my laddered stockings, then called my Tantric Touch Boss.

“Don’t bother coming back. If you want to work for us, you need to put your full heart and Yoni into the stories”. 

I wish I had put my whole Yoni into that story. Even with all the intense research I did, I never got paid  never had a Tantric Massage.

I never learned how to give a decent blow job. 

And I still don’t have any money.

tantric sex

Cyber Sex

It’s as hard quitting scrabble as it is quitting heroin. I went back to playing and met Apoorva. From India. 

His profile pic was of his white underpants. Our game went like this: 

I’m here for sex, he says. Do you cyber?

It’s hot, the kids are playing monopoly, I’m lazing around in my underwear, and feel a slight tingle between my legs.

Me:  Sure. You start.

Apoorva: Pretend we’re in a hotel room, in Italy, getting ready to go out.

Me: K. I’m pulling a black dress over my head, putting on a pair of high heeled shoes, ready to leave.

Apoorva: You look really hot.  We’re walking along cobbled stoned streets, heading to the restaurant, hand in hand.  You’re not wearing any underwear.

Me: God, I’m feeling a little horny already.

Apoorva: I guide you to the table. We sit.  Order. Your dress rides up your legs, I can see your thighs. I look you in the eye, and ask you to sit closer to me. Come. Sit closer.

Me: God. Okay. Shit, this is nice. I’m going to take off my underwear.

Apoorva: Cool. Our food arrives. You drop your fork and lean over to get it. Your ass is almost in my face. I grab it under the table.

Me: What about the other people in the restaurant? I don’t want them to see my ass.

Apoorva: They watch. I like them watching.

Me: K. Um. Can we move from the table. Let’s run up to a hotel room. Get on to the be

Apoorva: You have a great ass. I feel it while you’re under the table, it’s big, firm, I like that. You stay under the table, turn around, your mouth…

Me: Wait. Shit. No. I can’t have cyber sex under a table. Please, let’s leave the restaurant.

Apoorva: I want you to blow me under the table.

Me: No. It feels too rough. I prefer it to be romantic. No.

Apoorva: Okay. We’re leaving. We’re running quickly along a dark alley, towards our room. We can’t wait. I push you against a wall…

Me: No Apoorva. Wait. I don’t want to have sex with you outdoors. Let’s get to the hotel.

Apoorva: Jesus, woman, this is just cybersex, stop being so difficult.

Me: I’m not being difficult, I mean, I’m trying not to be, but i like to be wined and dined, have some romance, not so clinical you know. Let’s leave the alley. Or at least, choose a street that’s romantic, beautiful lamps posts, the ocean nearby. Maybe we can run, through this street, arm in arm, to the hotel, romantic.

Apoorva: Fine. We’re back at the hotel. Drink a glass of wine for God’s sake, then take off your clothes, lie back, open your legs.

Me: Slow down. Kiss me first, hard, on the lips, hard. My dress is falling off my shoulder, kiss my shoulder too…

Apoorva: Kiss kiss. Can we move on to fucking yet?

Me: No. I need foreplay. Come on. Run your lips over my shoulder. Gently drop my dress to the floor. Admire my French hand stitched underwear. Tell me I’m beautiful. Pick up a bottle of oil. Rub it on me, slowly, beautifully, gently…

The chat light on my laptop has gone.

He disappears. 

I go play monopoly with the kids…

Here are some things you should know about cyber sex:

Everyone is doing it.

It can be fun.

It should only be done when teenage kids are out the house.

And their friends.
-It should be kept to the chat box only.

Film is not pretty.
-And if you call it cybersex, you are over the age of 50.

Should we all have cyber sex?

At least once.
-Okay, daily.

What should we do if our children start having cyber sex?
  Phone their father.

cyber sex

Internet Dating

I’d been on my own for months and was lonely. I needed new conversation and new experiences. I was also horny and Internet Dating seemed to be the way to go.  I created a profile, called myself ‘Violet’, and within days my inbox was full. 

So many lonely people out there. 

I chatted to a guy who seemed ideal.  A Pilot.

 A good friend, had warned me, in very strong language, to never go near pilots.

‘DO NOT GO NEAR PILOTS’, he said. ‘They’re all cunts and it will not end well’.

I should’ve listened.

Profile Name: Airbus Driver

Why should you get to know Airbus Driver?

I live on the edge and would love a partner to be edgy with me. Adventure. Challenges. It’s all the name of the game.

He describes his ideal match thus: Someone daring and risky, with good legs and a great heart.

General Information: Divorced. Whisky drinker. Bike rider. Airplane flyer.  Love the Rolling Stones.

Looking for:  Excitement.

The Pilot sent me a mail saying he liked my dating profile, thought I sounded interesting, and suggested a drink.

I said okay, we met, drinks turned to dinner, and hey, the night was fun. Easy conversation, stimulating, exciting. He had loads of flying stories for me, I had loads of deranged housewife stories for him.  He was good looking in that rugged pilot kind of way and found me attractive, I liked his smell.

He held my hand and kissed me goodnight. And when I drove home, my panties were wet.

I knew this was the man I was finally, thank you God, going to have sex with.

And so I went to stock up.  On contraception.

How does one buy condoms?


Even when the salesman at Clicks showed me where they were, I couldn’t see them.  And when I did, I giggled out loud.

So many different brands.  All shapes. Sizes.  Colours. Textures.

Ribbed.  Flavoured.  Edible. Very different to 30 years ago.

When I asked the salesman to help me make a choice, he giggled.

‘That would be up to you, Maám’ he said with a smile.

‘But what’s better? Ribbed or plain? Chocolate or Vanilla?’ Small, medium or large?

I was persistent.

 He blushed, and left me to make the choice on my own. 

I eventually left with a very heavy packet and R 2000 worth of condoms. Nobody could call me irresponsible.

As arranged, I drove to the Astor Hotel, for our liaison.  I was nervous.  He’d told me he manscaped.  

I waited.

And waited.  

And waited..

And wondered how long I should wait for.

 He never turned up. And I have never felt more humiliated in all my life.

When I got home after sobbing all the way in the car I chatted to the friend who told me to stay away from pilots. I never had the courage to tell him I’d been stood up. I just told him I’d chickened out.

He repeated – ‘Stay away from pilots, Violet.  They’re a bunch of cunts’.