C'est la vie, say the old folks...

I got married in 1997. Throughout my marriage I was excessively faithful. This meant that during the whole of the twenty first century I'd only had sex with one person. I think that I may have held hands with a man who was not my husband, but the details are vague, and I suffered enormous guilt. One of the things that I liked about being married was the idea that I'd never have to take my frock off in front of anybody new, and I'd never have to pretend that my vagina could perform amazing tricks.
  Obviously, when my marriage ended I had to reappraise this position. I became a bit preoccupied with the idea that all the rules had changed, that I'd be laughed at by all the cool kids who were having incredibly adventurous congress. Nobody wants to be last years news sexually. As I said to someone at the time I couldn't really go up to people in bars and say, " Hi, I'm Clem, I like whisky, and slide guitar. What's new in the world of sex?" I also figured out fairly quickly that the first non Bounder shaped person that I slept with was bound to be, by its very nature, a bit odd and discombobulating. I'm not going so far as to say I viewed it as something to get out of the way. I'm not actually a big believer in the idea of meaningless sex. I think it always has meaning, even if that meaning is something as shallow as, " I'm wrecked, and you look pretty. " I was also adverse to the idea of calling upon any of my friends for a restorative seeing to. I figured that I was already dealing with the fall out from one relationship demise, I didn't want to risk complicating another one. So, yeah, not something to get out of the way, but, possibly, something that I had a fairly functional attitude towards.  Sorry, not especially romantic, I know.

So, one night, I got chatting to a boy in a bar. He was perfect in his unsuitability. He was, considerably younger, prettier, smaller, and more groomed than me. I don't know if there is any such magazine as Hoxton Hottie, but if there is then he would have made an ideal cover boy. All ear plugs, ironic badges, and cravat pins. Smelt good though, and I do like that. After I'd uttered, the always enchanting lines, " do you have any idea how Old I am young man?", we had a nice chat about all manner of nonsense, and made plans to meet up the next week. The plan was to meet for a drink, then back to mine for Scrabble, cake and music. The perfect hipster date.  That would have been a lovely evening. It's not what happened.

What happened is that I had a bit of a freak out about the mechanics of dating, the passing of time, the fact that I'm legally married, whether I'd be able to talk to, let alone kiss, a male human being who was not my husband. A very wise friend shared with me her one piece of dating advice which was, " For God's sake have a wank before you leave the house". I'm now planning on writing a book of relationship guidance with that as the title.

So, nervous, on edge, and no dinner inside me as I'd been faffing around applying false eyelashes, and baking a Victoria sponge cake, what could possibly go wrong? Actually it all started quite nicely. He was a good combination of sweetly geeky, and artistic, with just enough of an edge of roguishness,and slight shadiness. So, talking, drinking, bit of hand holding, and a lot of wine. I think that I had the best part of two bottles of red booze, and several Whisky chasers. Lawks, and indeed, a mussy, I was quite undone. Obviously, by now my ardent beau had missed his last train home, and anyway, I had made a cake, and it would have been a shame for the baking to have been in vain.
Back to my house. The marital home, the place I'd shared with my husband, and was now about to defile quite spectacularly. All my fears about just how much the world of courtship had progressed in my enforced absence were about to be realised. And then some. Just to clarify, although I do a good line in Outraged Victorian Virgin, I'm not a prude. I'd even go so far as to say I'm reasonably open minded, vanillary sluttish ,if you will. Moderately minxish .My friend, Moll, likes to claim that I'm actually a ginormous perve, but this is a,slight, exaggeration.  Bear in mind, that the combination of alcohol, shame and denial mean that I've tried to repress the worst of this, but to no avail, some of the memories are just too hideous to stay down. It's kind of like my Vietnam in many ways. So, ( hides head in hands, blushes a colour which clashes with my hair, and rocks backwards and fowards) some of the nights' highlights for your delectation and delight were,

1. Being bitten hard enough to leave discernible teeth marks, in a variety of places including my thighs. My response of " bloody hell, that hurts" was misinterpreted as delight. It wasn't. I do bruise easily, but the next morning I looked like I'd been beaten up by a gang of rabid wolf hounds. Not especially hot. 
2. Being asked if I had " any toys, so I can do both ends at once" I'm sorry, is this what passes as pillow talk these days?  Doris Day would have been horrified. 
3. I think that he left his socks on, but they were quite nice socks, and in the scheme of things this is a trifling detail.
4. This is the most delightful thing of all. My young gentleman caller attempted to, erm, impale me bummily, without asking if it was OK, and without any additional lubrication. Yep, dry bumming. On a first date. Really, is this normal?????? Do all boys do this nowadays? Do all girls love it, do they actually request it ? Is it so much a part of first date behaviour that it passes off without mention, does it now go, meet, have a drink, talk about films, flirt a bit, go home, perform greekish act, have a cup of tea, leave?? Am I a freakish prude, should I get me to a Nunnery?  I was simply staggered, and made my displeasure felt most vocally. Exit, stage right, pursued, if not by a bear, than at least by a cat wearing her best, " You're not my Daddy, and WHATINTHENAMEOFALLTHEBLESSEDSAINTS are you doing to my Mummy?" expression.

So, yeah, that was my first foray into the world of dating. Just lovely. I've learnt from it though. I now have a self imposed three drinks on a first date limit, and have learnt that Victoria Sponge is clearly code for unsolicited anal penetration. Am considering getting cards made for future squires. They will say something like, " Hi, I'm Clem. I quite like having my hair pulled a bit, as long as it's reasonably gentle. I am probably prepared to do some manner of pretending to be a girl held captive by Albanian revolutionaries type nonsense. I may even indulge your, frankly odd, thing for long johns. But under no circumstances, even if you're Richard Armitage, it's your birthday and you come bearing vintage Champagne, and exquisite, hand crafted, silk underwear, should you attempt to commit acts of a bottomish nature upon my person on a first date, without asking first. Thank you. xxx"  I think it just makes things clearer for all parties, and I've come to realise that clarity is quite important.