I’m More Concerned About Trump’s Policies Than The Size Of His Dick

charles-deluvio-695754-unsplash (1)

There’s been a lot of talk about fruit and veg in the press this week. First, about the loonies here in Australia that think it’s funny to put needles in strawberries, and then there’s Trump’s mushroom-shaped penis, the image in my head of which, I can’t unsee.

It’s not that I actively sought out the flagrant details of the US president’s knob, but they are hard to avoid on Twitter.

Albeit a feminist, I’m not a fan of the “kiss and tell” or tit for tat memoir, and I’ll admit to something close to the stirrings of a loose bowel movement when snippets of Stormy’s passionate (?) affair with the President first came to light. Personally, I believe that if you are going to “tell,” a “less is more” approach can be far more salacious. And frankly, the detail of Trump’s tiny manhood – while deservedly humiliating for him – doesn’t alter my opinion of him. I’m more interested in the man’s policies than the size of his dick – although, it’s true that it would be hard for my opinion to sink much lower.

In a very sad way, perhaps the size of his todger is a tiny excuse for his behavior – “small man complex,” and all that.

But you have to admire Stormy, who must surely be cognisant of the avalanche that she has triggered in the media, and which is certain to descend upon her once they get over the titillation of her lover’s small cock. Give her a few days grace before they cut her back down to size and force her to pick up the mantle of the fallen woman again, in spite of Trump’s infidelity and his proclamations about the virtues of family life.

Monica Lewinsky has never walked away from the smear campaign against her, while Bill continues to be canonized for his roving eye. So I hope that Stormy is as strong as her name suggests, or that the revenue from her book is worth the wrath that she has ignited in the White House – particularly if Trump gets re-elected.

Telling the truth at the expense of a man’s reputation is a risky business for women, and stronger women than Stormy have sunk under the weight of their aggression in a duel. The #notallmen retaliation suggests that men are fighting back against what they believe are unfair accusations by women – even though it is only abusers that are being accused, so I’m not sure what the majority of them have to worry about.

In a world in which leadership positions are dominated by men, (and for the main part, by white men), women do not fare well when they stand up for their rights; particularly against powerful men, as proven by those female Liberal MPs brave enough to speak out after the government spill and the cartoon of Serena Williams in the Australian press.

Trump is not known for his forgiveness. He is now known for his mushroom-shaped dick, which, however vulgar that might sound, is still (sadly) unlikely to contribute to the worst parts of his legacy.


Sharing Your Fantasies On A Middle-Aged Weekend Getaway

She luxuriated in the fresh white cotton bedlinen of their four-poster bed as she looked up at him.  He lay over her, on his haunches, a quizzical look on his face, the muscles of his arms twitching. He was still beguilingly ripped for a middle-aged man.


She shivered as she watched him devour her body with his eyes, lifting his face back up to hers before they reached her belly. She couldn’t believe how big he looked above her, or how small she felt beneath him as the morning light bathed the room around them, highlighting the perfect angle of his beer belly.

‘Tell me what you want?’ he murmured into her ear again, before gazing back down at her body admiringly. Was that hunger in his eyes?

She turned her head to one side, feeling shy all of a sudden. As she felt her hot red cheek cool on the sheets beneath her, she thought about how to tell him.

‘Come on,’ he begged, tracing a finger from her chins down to her cleavage. ‘Tell me. I told you, this weekend is about you.’

‘I can’t,’ she admitted, coyly, still averting her eyes.  ‘It’s embarrassing.’ She bit her lip, forgetting for one moment how much that excited him. Could she really be that honest?

‘I want what you want…’ he persevered, stroking her hair with his builder’s hands.

‘Really?’ she giggled nervously, still unable to look up at him, the image in her head so naughty somehow, and yet too delicious not to share. It had been so long… and wasn’t that why they were here, she justified.

‘Of course. I’ve told you,’ he said, patiently. Whatever makes you happy makes me happy,’ he repeated, lowering his eyes to her breasts… and then lower. ‘Tell me what your fantasy is. Tell me what is going through your mind right now,’ he pushed her, licking his lips.

‘Okay, but you have to promise me not to be disappointed.’

‘How could I ever be disappointed in you, silly?’ he asked as she felt the heat of his desire push against her thigh and saw his eyes melt to liquid chocolate. She knew she had to be brave.

‘Bacon,’ she said, closing her eyes.

‘Bacon,’ he repeated slowly with a sigh, closing his eyes, his breathing suddenly heavier. Lowering his body closer to hers, she could smell last night’s three pints and Jalfrezi on his breath as he asked in a sultry voice – ‘Streaky or back?’ 

‘Back,’ she giggled, aware of the sudden warmth between her legs as she said the word. Had she really said it out loud? She began to stroke the insides of his arms as he flexed them above her.

‘What else?’ he asked, a discernible quiver in his voice, his body beginning to move rhythmically against hers.

‘Mushrooms,’ she said, losing focus on his arms as an image of the fungi exploded into her brain.


‘Fried,’ she answered in a guttural voice, her eye now firmly on the prize. ‘In butter. Yes! In butter,’ she gushed, raising her body to meet his, ‘with perhaps a pinch of Tarragon.’ 

‘Sausages?’ he suggested hoarsely, his hot breath on her face as his body searched hers, more roughly now, but touching her exactly where she needed him.

‘Yes, sausages!’ she repeated confidently before she shrank back into the pillow, her hand over her mouth. ‘Cumberland,’ she added, in a quieter voice. ‘Thick, moist… and floating in brown sauce.’ She enunciated the word moist slowly, secretly delighting in the look of pain that shot across his face. 

‘Now?’ he panted, unable to disguise the hope in his voice.

‘Not yet,’ she said, close.

‘What else?’ he asked, his voice strained as she heard him breathe in her skin.’

‘Those crispy potato things,’ she said, her voice rising with the increase in her heart rate, her brain unable to think clearly anymore. ‘What are they called?’ she asked him, her back arching, her body reaching for him impatiently. ‘WHAT ARE THEY CALLED?’ she screamed, soaring.



‘And eggs? Surely we need eggs?’ he shouted, panic in his voice as he looked down at her face for reassurance.

‘Fried!’ they shouted jubilantly, jumping out of bed to head down to breakfast.





Help! I Had A Sex Dream About Malcolm Turnbull

I had a sex dream about our Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull the other night, which was particularly disappointing having forked out twenty dollars that afternoon to ogle see Chris Hemsworth in the latest Thor movie.


220px-Malcolm_Turnbull_at_the_Pentagon_2016_croppedFor those of my international readers who don’t follow Australian politics religiously, and haven’t a clue what an understated sex god our Prime Minister is, let’s just say that he is no Justin Trudeau… or Emmanuel Macron, but a fairly conservative-looking, middle-aged man, in his early sixties, with grey-white hair who looks like his days would be better spent on the golf course. ie., not necessarily the man you’d choose to indulge the last strains of your sexual fantasies with.


Of course… when it comes to leaders of countries, it could have been so much worse.


Anyway, appalled by my infidelity, I turned to Mr Google to see why I could possibly be fantasizing about a multi-millionaire who owns so many vast properties around Sydney that he refuses to live in the small, waterside mansion that is the official Sydney residence of the Australian Prime Minister.


‘To have sex with a stranger may symbolize a new you that is emerging due to changes you are going through. The stranger may also indicate you are open to a change or a new opportunity that is underway.’


Upon reflection, my dream was as weirdly bizarre and disjointed as the usual dreams I have after a couple of glasses of red and a curry. Although for some reason, our awkward middle-aged tryst took place in the Oval Office at the White House, and while I was trying to remember how to do my “sexy” face and conceal my muffin top into my granny pants, Malcolm kept stopping to take important calls about security. It was pretty frustrating. And then Kurt walked through the room, music blaring, and I did that mom-thing and shouted at him to turn it down.


Malcolm is actually sixty-three, a mere decade older than me, and objectively, I would say that he looks relatively fit for his age. It is still interesting though, that on the rare occasion that I re-open the gates of my sub-conscious to “sexual thoughts”, it should be with an older man because I always saw them as, well, “old”, and not as attractive as, say, the son of Odin. You see, sometimes I forget that I, too, am a middle-aged woman and no longer the fantasy of every younger man I meet. And usually I am reminded of this when I go to Aldi and some old geezer – usually in his eighties – takes a second look. Although, in reality, he’s probably checking out the Wednesday and Saturday “specials” on display behind me.


I suppose it’s lucky that as we age physically our perceptions of what is attractive change in tandem. Not in all cases, admittedly, but that’s how I assume it’s supposed to work in terms of evolution – the old die out to make way for the next batch of breeders. Fuck knows how all these old men taking younger wives will change the natural order of things.


Creepily, and it’s not something I ever thought about before my dream, I do find Malcolm quite attractive and it has nothing to do with his millions in the bank, power or his pad in Point Piper. As for his politics… let’s just say that there would be a lot of post-coital banter on the topic of the Asylum-Seekers.


Perhaps my dream is linked to some Freudian return to the protectiveness of a father-figure at this later stage of my life due to the scrambling of my eggs and the depletion of my sex hormones that make me feel under-appreciated. Whatever it was, no curry for me tonight.



Romance Goals And How Sometimes It’s Best To Say Nothing At All

‘Have you farted?’ the old man said to me as he brushed past me to get into my bath water.


underwear-2613034_1920Not exactly the three words I hoped to hear when we said our vows nearly twenty-five years ago. But if he’d said ‘I love you’, I would probably have worried that he was hiding something. Not that we never say those words, but we tend to reserve them for special occasions like Christmas or for serious negotiations over the last cube of chocolate or drop of wine.


‘What’s for dinner?’ ‘let’s watch Netflix,’ and ‘can you unload the dishwasher?’ is our language of love these days. ‘Take off your panties’ – not so much – the sultry words whispered by Christian Grey to Anastasia Steele over dinner in Fifty Shades Darker, the viewing of which, (NC and I decided yesterday afternoon) counted as slightly more of an achievement than sleeping for two hours on the sofa.


Anastasia obliged immediately because she’s that kind of independent, modern woman that woman starved themselves for, who does exactly what she’s told, whereas I would probably have reacted with ‘YOU take off your panties,’ (more M&M than S&M) or the simplest words, ‘I’M EATING!’.


Even more entertaining was when she managed to inch down the itsy-bitsiest lace g-string over six-inch strappy heels which she obviously couldn’t take off first because a) they were sat in a restaurant and b) I imagine they took two hours to do up. Let’s get serious here: there is no way you could inch a g-string down your legs – no hands – without them getting caught on sandals with enough straps and buckles to look like an S&M torture device. I couldn’t help imagining my version of the scene and the camera’s lingering focus at the end on my huge granny undies caught up in my Hush Puppies to the crooning of Barry White.


Yep, romantic gestures change with age and the longevity of relationships.


A romantic gesture from the old man these days is a take-out meal or a bottle of wine that costs more than ten dollars; mine to him is permission to watch the rugby. Flowers are a rarity, that occasionally appear on our anniversary if I threaten to leave him and the last time I told him I loved him was when I got two consecutive parking tickets in one morning.


If you want a cinematic delight of a trip down memory lane to those early, heady days of young love, I suggest you don’t watch Fifty Shades Darker – the tale of two robots with dialogue that was obviously written by two kindergarten kids who forgot that both characters need lines, leaving the female protagonist stuttering and sighing  with frustration through every scene – or at least I imagine that’s what all that groaning was about. Although she does still manage to score the top job in a publishing house at the age of twenty-one so maybe I should try whimpering like a dog next time I want to nail a job.


I can recommend a good old-fashioned classic such as An Officer and a Gentleman, though. We caught the last half of it at the weekend and decided that nothing beats the chemistry between Winger and Gere, who hiss like a Chinese sizzle dish on screen. An anti-hero like Christian Grey, don’t expect awkward declarations of love from Richard “Love God” Gere, but if broody, smouldering looks, a confident swagger, a very nice chest and defined peen lines stir those dormant embers – sorted!


In the words of Ronan Keating, ‘sometimes you say it best when you say nothing at all.’




The 16 Best Comments To Get Out Of Sex When You’re Middle-Aged And Can’t Be Bothered



I know you hate me talking about sex, but here’s a bit of frivolity for the weekend…


  1. ‘Remind me where the dog goes?’


  1. ‘But it’s after 9 O’clock!’


3.‘I’ve got this new pair of support knickers you’re gonna love…’


4.The problem with peri-menopause is that you just never know when your period’s                  gonna turn up…’


5.‘I knew those pulses and beans were a bad idea…’


6.‘If you need Viagra tonight, that’s absolutely fine…’ 


7.‘Okay if I just lie here and watch the gymnastics while you get on with it?’


8. ‘And I was about to give you full control of the remote all evening…’


9.‘I think I pulled my vagina at the gym…’


10.‘Bit hairy I know, but I forgot we were out of winter…’


11.‘Let’s do some role-play. You’re Poldark reaping corn…


12. ‘That sounds like the kids…’


13.‘I’m pretty sure I can’t get pregnant any more…’


14.‘Or we could watch a western, action-packed Netflix series with lots of car chases and              gratuitous violence?’


15. ‘Do I really have to take my yoga pants off…’


16. ‘Five minutes is long enough, isn’t it?’






The Question That Divides A Nation of Parents Of Teenagers

A lot has changed over the past thirty years in terms of what teenagers can and cannot do.

young couple in bed
happy young couple in bed at morning

But nothing sets the cat quite as freely among the pigeons as the question of where parents stand on sleeping arrangements and privileges in the homestead, once teenagers enter into relationships.


As in, whether or not they can sleep with their partners under the family roof? Mainly because no parent likes to think of their kid shagging…actually, ‘shagging’ per se.


This dilemma has come up with Kurt recently, and although one tends to be a million times more lax in just about every parenting decision that ranges from piercings to curfews when it comes to the second or third child, the answer to this problem also has to depend upon the maturity as well as the age of your child.


The old man and I came from very opposing parenting rules when it came to sleeping together in our parents’ houses. His parents were older and stricter; his mother, a Catholic who wept the first time we went away together, made sure we didn’t share a bed (knowingly) in their house until after the wedding ring was firmly in situ on my finger. Whereas my father sat at the opposite end of the spectrum. A young parent, who found himself newly single again in his late thirties, (about the time I was entering my own first serious relationship), it would have been difficult for him to play the Victorian father in relation to my moral code when I never knew what was going to be at the breakfast table; and I’m not talking about the cereal.


From this first serious relationship, my father was straight with me and informed me that he’d prefer it that if I was going to do it at all, I ‘did it’ in a bed rather than the backseat of a car; although that concession was obviously only if I was in a committed relationship.


And I never abused his trust.


We took a similar view with our own kids, which wasn’t difficult with NC as she was well over the age of consent before boys became more important in her life than Harry Potter and the periodic table, and as The Astronaut is a few years older than her, it felt natural to allow him to stay over once she was ready.


But then there’s Kurt…a very different animal.


Kurt has not had what I would describe as a committed relationship thus far. Many lovely girls have passed through his young life, some of whom have lasted more than a couple of hours, even though Kurt’s poor concentration skills make it hard for him to maintain focus on any one girl for very long. Therefore, when he suggests that he should be allowed to have girls stay over because NC had boys stay over at the same age, it’s hard to explain my reluctance.


It’s not a problem for me that Kurt is only capable of casual relationships at the moment; many of the girls in his social group seem only to want FWB relationships, too. (And by the way, the new term for ‘friends with benefits’ is ‘Fuck Buddies’, which frankly makes my skin crawl). Monogamy doesn’t suit everyone, just as long-term relationships don’t, but this is our house and I refuse to be forced into my dressing gown for  a different girl every week.


And then there are all the extra towels to wash.


Kids stay at home longer these days and become sexually active younger so we parents have been put in an awkward situation. I don’t want Kurt shagging in public toilets because he has nowhere else to go, but equally, I can’t condone him bringing any girl home and treating us like a knocking shop.


I have to put on trousers when I leave my room even when The Astronaut stays over, and I like living in a tee and big knickers in the summer with this heat and associated hot flushes.


I remember some of our friends being horrified when we let The Astronaut stay over the first time in NC’s room and sensed some real dissension. Interestingly, though, most have caved on this issue with their second children. You find that if you try to maintain your Victorian principles in this arena, you risk never seeing your kids again. They are terribly inclined to stay over at the house that lets them shag in a bed and provides them with the best breakfast.


What’s your position on this?


Let’s Talk About Women and Middle Aged Sex, Baby!

I know EXACTLY what you’re thinking right now…




Let’s Talk About Women and Middle Aged Sex, Baby!
True Nature Productions – Sex After Forty – found on http://www.flickr.com








Don’t worry; I’m not going to give you the sordid, hanging-from-the-chandelier-details of the sex the old man and I have on birthdays and Christmas.




But it’s been a week of discussion about sex in the media. Not only has ‘Fifty Shades of Grey‘ been on trial in Australia this week, but we’ve been subjected to Valentine’s Day in the same week, so the pulse rates of the female population have increased in anticipation. And it’s not only the teens who are excited by the prospect of Jamie Dornan with his shirt off; there are plenty of middle-aged women out there, unashamed to admit to feeling titillated by the content of the books and film.




So, about women and middle aged sex…




First of all, men, I hope it’s evident from the reaction to the ‘Fifty Shades’ series that we middle aged women still want and like sex…occasionally, and possibly on our birthdays terms; but we definitely still want it… just as long as it doesn’t clash with anything important like Tyson’s chest on ‘I’m a Celebrity’ or if we’re feeling tired (which is what we really mean when we say we have a headache) or blue, or bloated and aren’t feeling particularly attractive.




You see, after we’ve produced babies and commenced that phase of precariously trying to balance being the perfect mother, perfect employee and perfect partner, something has to give.




And sorry and all that… but for a while, that can be sex.


Embed from Getty Images




And then those young children swiftly develop into horrible teenagers and we have to cope with menopause (and if they coincide it is truly horrible), and then there’s those shocking physical signs of ageing which knock our confidence about our bodies, and those evil hormone imbalances that make us irrational and irritable and even more tired than usual.




So I guess that what I’m trying to get at is that we may both may need to work a bit harder to reach the stars.




So don’t fall for the hype that all middle-aged women are those stereotypes who use up the affection they previously reserved for their partners on their children and eventually become shrivelled up and happy to settle for a platonic relationship AC (after children). The popularity of ‘Fifty Shades’ proved that we DO still get turned on and that we still like an attentive (un-controlling) man/partner, but we respond best when we are made to feel attractive and loved.




In our favour, we mature women know what YOU like by now. We’ve got experience on our side and because we’ve worked out what WE like too, there should be less fumbling around in an long-term relationship and a greater understanding of each others bodies, which leaves more time to experiment. But middle-aged women also recognise that good sex does not a good relationship make.




Sure, sex helps…but it isn’t the be all and end all in this phase of our lives. It’s the icing on the cake…like shared naps, and not having to drag small children around a busy shopping mall or worrying about awkward silences.




When I was a young women I always recognised the signs of a dying relationship when the the physical desire disappeared.




Women are like that. We’re wired a little differently to men. It’s not that we don’t want sex; we just need feelings and emotions attached to enjoy really great sex.




And I think that some men are a bit scared by that complication.




Middle aged, mature women might not have that brash impulsivity and recovery that we had in our younger years, but we possess an inner confidence, experience and the self-respect not to under-sell ourselves. We still love new adventure, in and out of the sheets, but love and respect is what truly turns us on. 




Too Middle-Aged For Trout Pouts And Cold Sores

New week, new outlook and new clients, I thought innocently on Monday morning.



Herpes labialis
Herpes labialis (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Is there anything as damaging to what self-esteem you have left than a fresh, newly- hatched cold sore on a Monday morning?


I’m not vain (much), but I’m sure that most people still associate the common cold sore with promiscuity. So I felt like Mrs Trailer Trash when I woke up on Monday morning with that tell-tale throbbing on my upper lip.


I’d hoped that the tingling of the previous few days was a minor case of sun burn. But nothing is that straightforward in my life.


My timing was as perfect as ever – it was inevitable that I would be meeting new, young and trendy clients yesterday, who were probably asking themselves how they ended up with the middle-aged Herpes Trollop for a consultant.


Little did they know that my cold sore was not triggered by an orgy of hot and rampant middle-aged sex, but a dose of too much western sun, post my job in Orange last week when I miscalculated what ‘no ozone’ actually means. It always sounds glam when you mention that you style properties, but in truth I spent two days lifting and unpacking boxes between five houses in 35 degrees heat.


Cold sores are like penises, where the male perception of their size is so much bigger than they actually are.


What NC kindly describes as ‘a minor collagen lip injection gone wrong’, actually feels like as though I have a golf ball attached to my top lip. It makes it hard to talk, eat and look in any form, human or attractive. There is also a blossoming blister forming, which is hard to pass off as a lip pout.


I was waiting outside the pharmacy at opening time; Kurt’s bike helmet in place. The pharmacist recognised my desperation and smiled pityingly at me and then blew her lying cover by insisting she could hardly see the football attached to my lip.


Cold sores are like zits – they are the shit young people have to deal with because they lead fun and exciting, sexual lives. Middle-aged people get back-ache, indigestion and 24hr tiredness – not the symptoms of shagging anyone they can.


For the record, I still get zits too.


My clients sat next to me at our lunch table, rather than opposite me. My cold sore obviously didn’t compliment their Pesto Salad with Fresh Parmesan.


And I realized just how hard it must be for people with a facial disfigurement – me with my pathetic little lump on my top lip, that made me feel like a leper.


I am obviously as shallow as I feared.


The old man laughed when he saw it this morning. Big Mistake! I gave the rim of his juice glass a huge lick before I passed it to him.

Middle-Aged Sexual Food Fantasies

In the thick of a texting argument with my much-loved son this morning – he was in his Ancient History class and I was attempting to work from home – I’m not sure why, but my mind kept wandering to French toast, cream, maple syrup and raspberries.

Picture of french toast
Picture of french toast (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Because sometimes I need a treat or some consolation for being this cigarette butt of a mother who gets trodden into the dirt when my boy has problems controlling his emotions.


When I was younger, it was much easier to let off steam or get a ‘high’ to make myself feel better. But getting kicks these days isn’t quite as straightforward.


In my twenties and thirties, when my morbidity wasn’t staring me quite so obviously in the face, I smoked this and that, had the desire and energy for multiple orgasms, a tolerance for more than two glasses of wine and the metabolism to eat every fucking pie on the table.


My fantasies these days have slowed down evolved with age and are slightly less exuberant.


In my twenties I still fantasised about having sex with my husband! In my thirties I fantasised about ‘ uninterrupted sleep’, and now I’m in my forties I fantasise about being alone and naked with a melting Chocolate Lava Cake.


English: Chris Hemsworth at 2010 Comic-Con Int...
English: Chris Hemsworth at 2010 Comic-Con International (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Stalking Chris Hemsworth has worked on occasion if I’m honest, as has Champagne, an erotic novel or a satiating splurge at Zara.


But there’s nothing quite as erogenous as FOOD and EATING to get the heart rate pulsing. It always hits the G Spot, whether it’s a bit of rough at Maccas (to quench the hangover from hell) or the finest Sushimi from my local Japanese.


So say, (in your truly, wildest fantasies), we were now in some middle-aged, female Utopia where you didn’t put a kilo on the minute you looked at, thought about, licked your lips in anticipation over, or (God help you), actually ATE ‘REAL’ FOOD – what would be your food fantasy?


Here’s a list of the sexual food fantasies that get my saliva flowing these days:


Smoked salmon, creamy cheese and dill

Chocolate Lava cake

Affogato with Tiramisu

Affogato from Tapped and Packed
Affogato from Tapped and Packed (Photo credit: Nick Ludlam)

Christmas pudding with brandy sauce

Vine-ripened tomatoes, basil, Boccocini and good Olive oil

Fillet steak and string fries

Mussels in a white wine and cream sauce with crusty bread

Ben and Jerry’s ice cream

Salted caramel ‘anything’

Fresh Guacomole and salty chips


Getting excited yet?



‘Bringing Sexy Back’ Into Your Marriage

'Bringing Sexy Back'
Real men go commando!

So everyone knows that maintaining a level of intimacy in our relationships with teenagers around is even harder than when the kids were little.

For lots of reasons, but mainly because they go to bed later, become aggressively interrogatory when doors are locked. If there is the mere suggestion that we have had sex since they were conceived, they make us believe that we have mentally scarred them for life.

The other problem is that after those first few torrid years of lust, and early days of feeling hot and bothered at the mere touch of our partner, menopause dictates begins to dictate our moods and needs and there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to fit everything in, and still make it to bed with Pinterest by 9pm.

I’m not suggesting that this is a definitive end to intimacy in our relationships, but it’s a stage where it takes a measure of stoicism discipline to keep it going.

Having said that, the old man managed to surprise even me the other night. But before you rub your hands with glee at the prospect of some uncharacteristic midlife romance, or squirm uncomfortably in your chair, let me remind you that you should know the old man a bit better than that by now.

Getting the old man out of the house these days can be almost as difficult as prising the lid off a jar with wet hands, unless it’s marked in the calendar weeks beforehand. But somehow, I managed to persuade him to come out to the pub with me last Thursday night.

So we shared a couple of nasty wines and made our usual drunken promises of finding some ‘quality’ time over the following holiday week.

And as we left the pub, ‘connected’ again for a few precious minutes, having been little more than ships in the night for the past few months, he bent down in a rare moment of intimacy and whispered in my ear, ‘I’m not wearing any pants!’

‘What?’ I said.

‘I’m not wearing any pants!’ he repeated.

Well, I haven’t laughed as long or as raucously for a long time. In fact it reminded me that I really do need to focus on my pelvic floor exercises a bit more intently now

And when we got home, we poured ourselves another drink, still laughing, and promptly fell asleep on our respective sofas to ‘House of Cards.’

How To Improve Your Sex Life With A Bicycle

The old man is onto his next new sports craze.

Apparently swimming made his skin dry and boxing was a bit frightening, so his latest venture into the world of extreme sports, (in his perpetual attempt to lose weight get fit), is cycling.

Dunkelblaue Radlerhose
Dunkelblaue Radlerhose (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not moaning. I’m all for him losing some weight couples having their own hobbies. It gets him out of the house (unlike during his Pilates phase) while he’s still grieving the loss of his weekly visits to Kimbriki tip.

Furthermore, it has reminded the whole family, during what have been difficult times recently, about the importance of being able to laugh….. quite raucously in fact…..as in almost to the point of pissing yourself, whenever he appears in his new cycling clobber.

‘NORMAL’ people, when they dip their toe into a new sport, make do with existing equipment until they are fully committed. When the old man takes up a new sporting challenge, this is his how his thought processes work:

  1. I’ve cycled a couple of times now and I quite like it.
  2. Maybe if I spend ludicrous amounts of money on new equipment I’ll become a really good cyclist.
  3. The problem with cycling is that it’s actually quite tiring and people seem to find the sight of me on a bike quite amusing. I can’t understand why.
  4. I might just take all that very expensive equipment (that I could have bought Louisa a new piece of jewellery with) to the tip (furtively) to give me space to reflect on the next load of sports equipment that I can fill the garage with and waste my money on.

During that initial first two weeks of ‘I’m going to do this until I die’ passion, (from the point where he suddenly decides that he is the next Lance Armstrong to the realization that he is not in fact a true athlete), the world stops revolving and absolutely nothing can come between him and his new hobby. Not even me.

He had never even shopped on-line before he got this new cycling bug – now he’s ordering cycle caboodle left, right and centre and the house has suddenly taken on the appearance of the back storeroom of Cycling World.

Lance Armstrong in the prologue of the Tour de...
Lance Armstrong in the prologue of the Tour de France in July 2004 in Liege, Belgium (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Have you seen what middle-aged men look like in cycling shorts? It’s not pretty. Lycra doesn’t leave much to the imagination, least of all the kilo or ten that the old man knows he should really lose off his beer belly.

The teens are mortified by the sight of their father in his little fluorescent orange runners, skin-tight top (that emphasizes his man-boobs saggy pecs) and my faux Rayban women’s sunglasses in their new city neighbourhood, just as they are trying to fit in. His lycra cycling vest is that tight that we’re all convinced he must have ordered it from the children’s section.

That’s the worrying thing – that he obviously has to cycle in public.

He is now cycling to and from work, OVER SYDNEY HARBOUR BRIDGE, which I suppose is quite generous of him, providing free entertainment to tourists and his colleagues at the office.

Maybe it’s just another in a long line of Midlife Crises, but he seems to veer from one craze to another these days, although unfortunately I am never the recipient of his attention. The old man is far more interested in bicycles than me at the moment.

Evening conversation revolves around pumps, gears and tyres, helmets and shafts these days – so much double-entendre – it’s enough to drive a girl mad with longing.

So I decided that if the mountain won’t come to Muhammed, Muhammed must go to the mountain. If it’s bicycles he wants, then that’s what he’ll get.

So I decided to use his new fetish as foreplay and began sexting him like this:

How To Improve Your Sex Life With A Bicycle
How To Improve Your Sex Life With A Bicycle

And role-playing too, waddling walking around in my old cycling shorts, provocatively, saying things like’ so when can I mount your bike?’ or ‘shall we pump it up right now?’ or ‘how hard shall I grip your handlebar?’

And I swear I’ve seen the suggestion of a far-off glimmer of interest in his eyes.

Sad but true – when you’re middle-aged and been married for a b*tch of a long time, you’ve got to use what you can.

That’s this month’s sexpert advice on how to improve your sex life with a bicycle.

My Personal Top Ten Genetic Mutations

A slight mutation in the matched nucleotides c...
A slight mutation in the matched nucleotides can lead to chromosomal aberrations and unintentional genetic rearrangement. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Last week, I inadvertently tuned into this super-intellectual series called Sex, Death and The Meaning of Life on tv.

I admit that I was channel-hopping at the time, in search of something mindless (that wasn’t tennis), and when I heard the word sex meaning of life mentioned, for some reason I decided to give it that cursory twenty-second window of opportunity to either a) distract me from the temptation of my third glass of wine or b) test me to see if I was mature enough to follow it.

Much of the programme’s content, (like how atheists prepare for death when they have no faith and hence no belief in an afterlife (WTF!), obviously flew completely over my head, but the highlight for me was a look at the Genome mapping of the presenter, Richard Dawkins.

You see I come from a family where genetic mutation has played a devastating role. Due to a particularly heinous gene in our family DNA, many of my maternal relatives have inherited the issue of high levels of ‘bad’ cholesterol in the blood, (hypercholestrolemia), and if left undetected this mutation can lead to heart attack very prematurely in life.

So the results of Dawkins Genome mapping were personally quite compelling. This study involves the creation of a genetic map assigning DNA fragments to chromosomes. My layman’s (idiot’s) understanding of the process is that those very clever scientists now have the ability to make a REALLY in-depth analysis of the genetic make-up of the individual, and can now spot all the mutations that a person may carry from their ancestors; and with such precision that they can even predict illnesses that people may be predisposed to in later life. The presenter’s Genome was so detailed that the mapping even confirmed that he is more likely to produce runny earwax.

Which got me thinking about some of the more minor mutations that I may have inherited; the ones that truly define my personality, and affect my everyday life quite intrinsically, such as:

  • My Obsessive Compulsivity – Because I am now forced to make a frustrating time allocation for the amount of time required to make a return journey to the house (usually 5 – 30 minutes after leaving) to check that I have turned off either the cook top, the iron or the aircon, when planning my day; I now refuse to enter the teens rooms if anything is littering the floor because the temptation to tidy up is too psychologically taxing; everything in my house seems to have evolved into a restful shade of Dulux ‘antique white’ (including the dog), and if a leaf lands on the lawn, I reach for a brown paper bag.
  • Not being able to say s…..ry – it rhymes with ‘lorry’.
  • Knowing I’m Always Right – I know this to be true.
  • My Lack of Co-ordination – proven by the permanent array of multi-coloured bruises that decorate my legs, the trophy stitches I acquired to my elbow during my first charity bike ride and the fact that I continually tip over during the balance poses in yoga.
  • The physical defect of having no discernible neck or inversion between my chin line and the top of my collar-bone, other than what appears to be an empty sack of tissue (embarrassingly similar in texture to the male scrotum). This means that 99.9% of photos taken of me have to be destroyed upon development.
  • My Un-roadworthy Driving Skills –see above for lack of co-ordination and the fact that I am always right, or this mutation might be linked to the fact that I even get lost with the aid of my GPS.
  • My Innumeracy – proven by the fact that no matter how many times the old man huffs with disbelief, I still cannot grasp the concept of the Exchange Rate system and spend much of my holidays abroad mistakenly believing that I’ve scored a bargain when I haven’t; or simply in a confused mental fug.
  • Wretching and convulsing at the taste of anything ‘sour’. The kids still think it is absolutely f*cking hilarious to pop a ‘sour’ lolly in my mouth when I’m driving. Which might go some way to explaining my questionable driving skills. (Executing Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ dance may also have something to do with my propensity for changing lanes without indicating).
  • My Infamous Dry Cough – the old man can testify to the dry cough that has haunted me for the last decade (luckily never metamorphosing into that terminal lung illness that I feared it would), with the unfortunate symptom of only appearing at night, when it is time to go to sleep. We have agreed to ‘separate bedrooms’ once the teens leave home and the pretense of still having a physical relationship can be put to bed.
  • My Intolerance To Small Talk – I can only talk to people who interest me and switch off rudely when bored. Don’t get me wrong, I want to be the caring, sharing type, pink and flowery and sugar-coated and my kids would undoubtedly have liked me to feign an interest in their passions of physics (!) and the history of the guitar (!!!). Unfortunately, the old man shares my intolerance so never invite us to a party because we are dull, dull, dull.  We cling to each other like limpets to a rock, and sneak out of the door at the first opportunity.

Which mutations do you recognise in yourself and who can you blame for passing them on to you?