Tales of Stupidity: WOMEN

I’ve a collection of special stories – Tales of Stupidity. All the stuff that my civilian friends do under the impression that they improve or create a relationship. I’ve done some idiotic things too, but unfortunately not too many as my work soon provided me with enough experience to avoid silly mistakes. Some of these stories are sad, like a married woman getting pregnant after a one night stand with a sportsperson she had been a big fan of. He took off the condom without telling her. And some stories are silly. So I thought I’d share some of them just for the fun of it. I’ll also tell you about stupid things men do, but ladies first.

I have this friend (let’s call her Friend) who has recently started dating online. She’s a lovely woman in her late thirties, with a mature mind and a responsible attitude. She is happily divorced and works for a major bank (so no bimbo). She registered with a paid dating site: she reasoned that men who pay for membership will be serious in their intentions. So she came across a male member there (let’s call him X) whom she liked, and it appeared to be mutual. Besides, he worked in the bank across the road, so after a few e-mails and a couple of phone conversations they finally met for a dinner. This is what she tells me:

Friend: He picked me up after work and took me to a little restaurant nearby. We spent 3 hours there, just talking! Why do they say online dating doesn’t work? I had so much fun!

Jewel: (yawning) Aha.

Friend: He’s never been married, but he had 2 relationships, both lasted about 10 years; now that he’s 40, he’s ready to find someone to spend the rest of his life with. I told him I was planning to move outside London because it’s better for children to grow up and he thinks it’s a great idea! He even suggested XYZ area because he already has some family living there! [15 minute long monologue about all the ideas and values that X seems to share with her.]

Jewel nods (off) silently.

Friend: So we shared the dessert and he asked if we could go to mine! Can you imagine!

Jewel: (putting the book away) I know! The cheek!

Friend: But you know I couldn’t take him to mine (luckily for her, she really couldn’t that week) and we couldn’t go to his because I wasn’t really ready to meet his parents yet, besides it was too late in the day for it.

Jewel: He told you he lived with his parents???

Friend: Yes, and because there was nowhere to go, we had sex in his car.

Jewel silently picks up her mandible from her lap – the unlikely bodypart meeting facilitated by the word “car”.

Friend: And it’s been 2 days now and he still hasn’t called!

Jewel: Well, if I were him, I wouldn’t call you either.

Friend: Why do you say this? (pause) You think I acted like a prostitute?

Edinburgh escortsShe could have used so many other words. But she chose “prostitute”. And I haven’t met a single prostitute who’d have sex with a man in a car for a promise to bring up children together in XYZ area. So I reassured her that at this rate she will never come even close to a prostitute, and pointed out that a 40-year-old banker who still lives with his parents is either not worth meeting, or is lying to conceal a wife and kids in XYZ area.

For me the real issue here is neither the parents nor the lie. I’ve had sex with 50-year-olds who spend all their holidays at their parents’, and I’ve had (bags of) sex with married men. They showed more respect for me, a prostitute, than X ever had for Friend. None of them even dreamt of suggesting their car. If they couldn’t invite me to theirs, they either rented a hotel room, or paid me to do so. And it’s not even the car sex. I won’t be seen dead having sex in a car, but it doesn’t mean I judge others for doing it. I don’t care where you do it and with whom, as long as you enjoy it, use a condom and make sure your morning-after expectations match the occasion.

To be fair, he e-mailed her eventually to say “sorry, but I’m sure you noticed there was no spark”.

February in London, Part 3

Continued from Part 1 and Part 2.

The following morning the Nutter comes to pick me up from my hotel. The weather is slightly better and we walk to the Royal Academy of Arts to visit the Manet exhibition. We queue outside in the snow for something like an hour: the Academy is very English and very Royal in this respect. The exhibition is a joy.

I’ll be honest, I’m not big on art. My favourite movement is Pre-Raphaelites, that should tell you enough. But I am captivated by portraits and figure painting. Now, before you accuse me of neglecting the beauty of nature in art – you’re right. It’s true, landscapes bore me out of my skull. Seascapes – not so much, but close. Still life, on the other hand, is fascinating as long as it’s a flower painting. Anything other than a bouquet in that composition and as far as I’m concerned, I’m looking at a landscape again. The Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge has a whole room dedicated to flower paintings. If there is anything the Dutch are good at…

Anyway, figure painting. I’m not a connoisseur, I don’t care much for brush strokes and techniques. I enjoy the story the painter tells me. Figure painting is like blogging. When I blog about a client, I tell you how I see him. I’ve never seen him at work, or with his children, or at a funeral, so my blog entry is not a well-rounded and truthful depiction of a man, it’s a description of my experience of him. I can bet all you want that his wife would tell a very different story. Similarly, looking at a portrait we see the person the painter saw. We can only guess about the actual poser. The painting tells us more about its author than about its object. Olympia, the notoriously controversial painting of a prostitute. It’s not like she’s the first hooker to ever be painted, far from it. But very few of the thousands of sex workers painted before her looked so unrepentant, unashamed and unabashed. She wasn’t caught unawares when dressing or spied on when bathing. No, her accessories show that she’s naked by choice and she’s very comfortable with it. Moreover, she looks dominant. She knows what she’s doing. I guess that’s the real controversy. What do we know about her now? Nothing but her job. The way she looks here is the way every other sex worker would look when naked (I am now really curious to see Dana’s photos of me). Does it tell us anything about Manet? He is evidently very comfortable with female sexuality. He doesn’t want to own it, he celebrates it.

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Fair enough, the woman in the painting is a model, but any real life sex worker could be painted very differently in the context of her job by another painter. Of course, not all painters are good story-tellers and not all portraits are there to be heard. That’s why the exhibition was a beautiful learning experience. And I was taken by his signature: “Ed. Manet” on most paintings. It was hard not to poke the Nutter in the ribs with my elbow and say loudly, pointing my finger: “Look! Another good one by Eddie!”

Out of the Academy, we walk a little around Piccadilly and then he takes me to a little restaurant in Jermyn Street for lunch. The lunch conversation is an eye-opener: we go through our “history” of 5 dates. First time he came across my website, he thought “She’s bloody arrogant!” First time he came to see me, he assumed I was older than the website said. And I have to say that the first time I saw him he looked and acted much older than the Nutter I know now. So maybe it’s all in the eyes of the painter. Has he changed since? He says he has. He is now more sensitive and considerate to others’ needs. I don’t know about that. I notice his increased confidence around me (and his new talents in bed) and his attention to his clothes. Unlike the first time, he’s now a tasteful dresser, understatedly elegant. If I were to paint him, you’d see a very sexy 60 year old man.

Time flies when you’re happy and it’s 2.45 before I know it. I have to leave the Nutter at the table and rush to Praed Street clinic for my appointment at 3. This is the first time I am at the clinic dressed for going out (shirt+skirt), not for blending in with the other clinic attendees (jeans+T-shirt) and suddenly I am treated differently. Even my reply to the same old question of “how many clients a week do you see?” (why do they have to ask every time I’m there? To check if I’m lying?) doesn’t inspire a raised eyebrow.

Thankfully, the Nutter leaves for his hometown from Paddington, 5 minute run from the clinic, and I make it there just 10 minutes before his train leaves. We walk to the gates, stop to say good bye and I reach to kiss him. As our lips touch, he drops his suitcase. He bends down to pick it up, mumbling something along the lines of “clumsy old fool” and I give my usual line of “I tend to have this effect on men”. But I can only wish. This is the first time a man drops something other than his trousers when I kiss him.

Naked men and their atavisms

– Hi Jewel. My name’s G. I saw you last year, and I was wondering if I could see you again tomorrow.

Hmm. I’ve only ever seen 2 Gs in my time in Edinburgh and it’s neither of them: the accent doesn’t match up. But I’m human and therefore prone to forget.

I open the door and he walks in. A very attractive man in his late 50s. Clean shave, stylish haircut, sexy glasses, very well dressed in a trendy jacket and good shoes. He looks vaguely familiar, like someone I may have seen on TV or a book cover. But for all I know, I have not met him before.

I take him to the living room, offer a drink, start a little chat – all these things I usually do. Meanwhile my brain is working overtime: he found the flat so he must have been here before. He acts like he knows me so it must have been me he was here with. But who on earth is he? Maybe I’ll recognise him when he’s naked.

If you’re laughing – don’t. First of all, a lot of the time my clients are naked. This is how I’ll remember them. Secondly, I have no memory for faces. When a client leaves, I can tell you what sort of person he is and what sort of lover he is, but if you show me 10 mug shots of white middle-aged men, I won’t be able to point the one who’s just left unless facial hair is involved. And I’m not exaggerating. Last week I ran into George from Scot-PEP. He was parking his car, I was rushing by – Walter was waiting. If George hadn’t looked and smiled at me, I wouldn’t have noticed him at all: men who don’t pay don’t exist. But he did, so I looked back, acknowledged the fact that I’d met this man before (and he’d obviously met me) and proceeded to trying to picture him naked. Your mind is dirty. I have sex with naked men most days of the month. I don’t have the need to fantasise about it. I was simply trying to figure out who he was. By the time I realised I’d never seen him naked in the first place, I already turned round the corner.

So all this is running through my mind while I’m chatting with G until he mentions something about our previous date and I go:

– Oh yes, I remember you telling me this!

It’s a lie. I do remember someone telling me this, but not him. Anyway, something to work with. Any other memories linked with this? Oh yes!

– You also told me that about your parents, didn’t you?

– Hmm, looks like I did.

This has another memory attached to it and soon I recall the booking with that someone who told me all that. NO WAY!

– But your name wasn’t G! It was…

– It was S, yes, it’s my middle name.

Still, NO WAY! I remember S – the old nutter – like it was yesterday and G must be his twin from the parallel universe where men have sense of style and follow fashion. Where is his grey matted hair and thick-rimmed glasses? The bushy beard is also gone, together with his shyness and awkwardness. He looks so happy, healthy and confident! Some things stayed the same though. I make myself comfortable in his lap, kiss him, tell him how attractive he looks this time and ask if it’s because he made an extra effort for me today. He thinks for a second and

– No, not really.

If there had been a desk close by, I’d have been sure to hit my head emphatically against its surface to get my point across. In the absence of a desk, I have to roll my eyes. Seriously?! Here is the list of tips The Old Nutter inspired last time. Please read it again if you’re a man because it looks like men have short memory. And the tip that’s not included there: if your woman sees that you’ve made an effort, the right answer is “Yes, honey, I have”. Whether you actually made the effort or not and if you know at all what she’s talking about is irrelevant. Considering how many men out there struggle to make their women see how much effort they put into their relationship, you should feel lucky to have it noticed.

Rant aside, it’s a pleasure to see how S turned into G, even if only physically. Just makes me wonder what prompted the change.

If you would like to know how things developed with the Nutter, here’s our next date.

Sex. You either have it or talk about it. You can’t do both.

Long ago, one of my first clients, a journalist, asked me if I had a friend who knows about my job and whom I can talk with. I looked at him with large innocent eyes:

– What’s there to talk about?

This was partly because I really didn’t want to talk to him about my job and other clients as he was trying to initiate, but mostly because there really isn’t much to talk about. Not with someone who’s not a sex worker. That client (and I’m sure there are others like him) clearly had this fantasy of a bunch of hookers talking sex and dirty stuff. In reality, when I meet with other sex workers, sex is the last thing we talk about. When journalists get together to talk about work, how likely are they to discuss the news? Hardly. They will probably talk about different ways of presenting news, importance of some events over others, their interest and knowledge of one particular subject – I really have no clue what journalists would do when they get together to talk about work, but I’m pretty sure it’s not

– I’ve just seen the mayor and he has this NEWS! Can you imagine it – NEWS this interesting! And wait till you hear the details! You know how some mayors have good NEWS but no clue what to do with it? Boy, did this one know what he was doing!

– Oh I interviewed a mayor yesterday and he had some NEWS too, but it took me ages to get him talking and his NEWS was nowhere this interesting! Do tell me more! Exactly how interesting was this NEWS?

And just like journalists, when we get together, we discuss safety at work, marketing and media, different ways of presentation, secrets of creating a certain look or atmosphere, importance of some events over others, our interest and knowledge of one particular subject which we specialise in, etc. We may share experience of working with a particular type of client, give advice or ask for it, tell others about something new we came across that can help in our work – so much interesting stuff to talk about! Men and sex are the last things on our minds!

And it’s the same with my non-working friends. They don’t know about my work so we rarely discuss men or sex. From their point of view, what use is asking for an opinion and help of someone who’s never been in a relationship? What can she possibly know about relationships? On my side, I will try to avoid talking about men because I disagree with most things that my non-working friends believe to be true. I may give advice if they ask for it (although by now they’ve learnt not to because my sense of humour is far better developed than my sense or compassion) but I will never ask for their opinion because what use is advice of a woman who’s only ever had sex with 3 partners (all of whom were not the type I’d ever have sex with even if they paid me) and who knows nothing about men? For example:

A non-working friend in distress: [a 30 minutes long soliloquy which can be summoned by] My husband stopped having sex with me. What do I do?

Another non-working friend: Try to spend more time together. Spend the evenings home, cook him a nice dinner, light candles, make him talk to you, discuss your relationship. Or his work – maybe there’s something going on at his work? And buy some sexy lingerie.

Jewel: Get a new hobby. Or revive an old one. You danced before marriage, didn’t you? Start dancing again. Go out more, make new friends, have fun! And don’t waste your money on lingerie – the only woman who buys her own lingerie is a single one.

Maybe things can really be improved by stuffing your husband with a home-cooked meal and forcing him to talk about how he’s feeling and what he’s going through at work – I don’t know much about relationships. I know about men and if you want a man’s interest, you need to be interesting. A wife who’s always in the kitchen is not interesting. A wife who has a life outside the marriage will keep his thoughts going:

– She took up pottery. Why would she do it? Did she meet someone there? Honey, how did your class go? So you had fun, did you… She’s hot, of course other men will want to flirt with her! Listen, how about I join you next time, I’m really curious to see how pottery can be fun. And hey, maybe we could pop to a shop on the way back and get you something… you know… so you could have fun at home, too. With me.


My sweet Stirling adventure

There is no “Welcome to Stirling” sign. Whether it got blown away during the hurricane or covered in snow that followed the hurricane – I don’t know. Or maybe people of Stirling see no reason/ no suitable weather conditions to waste money on such a sign. Walter meets me on the platform, takes my suitcase and we head for the hotel.

In my room, Walter surprises me with a box of chocolates and a little something that, thanks to its transparency and area of coverage, should be described as ethereal rather than material, but is, nevertheless, called the jewel knicker (no prizes for guessing why he wanted me to have it). The knicker itself is barely visible but the jewel is there (in Newcastle I had a client who used to kiss his way down my stomach and say: “And here’s my little jewel!” Once he even clapped his hands. I’d be lying there looking at the ceiling and thinking: “I really need to change my name!”) and this jewel is set in just the right place and it does not freak me out. We set off to explore all the possible ways of using it.

A couple of hours later we go downstairs for a dinner, and then Walter is gone. I return to my room to find the barely touched box of chocolates. I’m so stuffed and tired that the box goes into my suitcase straight away.

In the morning I move into another room in the same hotel (for reasons only known to the management), fix my hair and meet another client, W. (First of all, isn’t it great that Walter has a name! Secondly, Walter and W live pretty much next door to each other (Oh I’d love to see their faces as they read this! Will they be able to leave home without looking over their shoulder now?) in a place which is so far away from Edinburgh that it’s only fair for me to make an effort to meet them half way at least once). Believe it or not, W also shows up with a box of chocolates. But somehow, although I know that he loves them even more than me (read it whichever way you like, it’s still true), two hours later, when he leaves, the box is still full. And it’s a large box!

This is my first time in Stirling, so I pop a few chocolates into my handbag and jump in the cab that takes me to Stirling castle. I’m just in time for the last guided tour, and I’m the only one there. The first 15 minutes are disconcertingly intimate, with the (male) guide asking me all sorts of personal questions, until two (male) American tourists join us and start doing it for him. Isn’t it funny how by replying “I’d rather not say” you provoke even more questions? The guide professionally explains it to them that Mary prefers keeping herself to herself and at last the tour starts.

The tour over, there’s still time to explore the rest of the castle and we go in opposite directions. But on the relatively large castle grounds it’s impossible to lose two American men. I give up eventually and we walk together which is great, because when at 5pm the castle is closed and we’re outside, I realise that I’m in a bit of a trouble. I am on top of some hill, most probably miles away from civilization, it’s darker than in the Middle Ages, I didn’t take the business card of the cabbie who’d given me a lift here and apart from the two Americans there’s no-one around to ask for the number of a local cab service. In fact, I’m desperate enough to ask for directions to the nearest bus stop (and for instructions on how to use buses in Scotland) but the large square in front of the castle is empty except for me, the Americans and their car.

The Americans offer me a lift. My mother would go grey at the thought that I can get in a car with two strangers. Their wives would go grey at the thought that their husbands are not even half as gay as they would like them to be at that moment. I go grey at the thought of a possibility of a bus and searching for it in the dark. In high heels. Besides, the Americans are harmless, so they clear the back seat for me and Larry starts the engine while Jerry turns to me:

– Look, Mary, we opened this box but only had one chocolate each and now that we need to get on the plane, would you like to keep it?

And he passes me a box of chocolates. The first chocolate I don’t even chew; it meets my “you’ve got to be kidding, guys” on its way out and both stay firmly inside.

My saviours are only passing Stirling on their way to Edinburgh airport to catch a late flight to London. They don’t know this place at all, and the first ten minutes are spent driving up and down dark narrow and winding cobbled streets looking for any sign at all. Eventually, luck brings a passer-by who’s not particularly sure of his own whereabouts but nevertheless points in a vague direction and soon we find ourselves on a motorway with signs for both Stirling and Edinburgh. If not the 2 boxes of chocolates left in my suitcase in the hotel, I’d have gone with the Americans all the way to Edinburgh. With the chocolates in mind, I ask Larry to drop me off anywhere that resembles this village’s green. 10 more minutes and we hit a place with street lights and people. The guys drive off and I go in search of a taxi rank.

Early next morning a train brings me back to Waverley with 3 opened chocolate boxes in suitcase and a firm desire to never leave Edinburgh again. At least not this year.

A Complex Post, Part 1

This post is about maturity, responsibility, making informed decisions and getting to know oneself through gaining experience, in short – boring, so feel free to skip it. It’s been forming for years now, but inexplicably April was rich in clients who could be a perfect illustration for this post.

The first time I consciously thought of it was 4 years ago in London, chatting with a regular client. He frequented me (and a lot of other ladies) because he wasn’t getting what he wanted out of his marriage. No, he wasn’t after some exotic practices. He enjoyed kissing, cuddling and pleasuring women orally – an average man, if you please. His wife, however, was a Catholic, and a good one at that. For her sex was means of procreation, not a source of pleasure. She didn’t want to be pleasured or kissed, as both were dirty (involving saliva and germs) and useless (not leading to conception) practices.

No matter what woman you complain to me about, be it your wife or another sex worker, I will always take her side, even if I disagree with her. In this particular case it wasn’t hard. Was the woman a Catholic when my client proposed to her? Yes, she was. Was he aware of it? Yes, he was. Did she have the right to be Catholic/ Rastafarian/ Alien if she wished so, and in the fashion that suited her? She sure did (in fact, it’s great to see that she stuck by her principles and didn’t go along with his desires just because he was a man and thus more important than her, as some women believe). They didn’t have sex before marriage (I told you she was a good Catholic) and didn’t talk about it either.  So he made an informed but irresponsible decision to marry her in the hope that she would change, which she, being a good Catholic, didn’t do. 30 years down the line he was busy with his face between every single pair of woman’s legs that he could persuade to open, and she, knowing this, wouldn’t divorce him to find another man to be happy with because she was a good Catholic. Two people hating each other for the miserable unfulfilled lives they’ve had – a true marriage blessed by the church (sorry, but I had to do it at least once).

This was an extreme case. Most other clients with similar issues are happy with their marriages. But the issue is still there. The issue, as I see it, is that they committed to a life with another person, not knowing if this person is right for them. In other words, they haven’t had sex before marriage.

I’m not saying all the virgins are bound to get disappointed in their marriages. I’m sure there are lots of successful marriages where either one or both partners were virgins. But I obviously don’t get to meet these people, so I’m concentrating on the ones that I do come across. The post itself is for those who are still virgin; let’s face it, it’s no help to ex-virgins unless they want to find more reasons to kick their own butt.

Virginity is way overrated from my point of view. For the record, I don’t think there is anything wrong with it: I kept mine till a month before my 22nd birthday (and to be honest, I now think I should have waited a little longer). I am not promoting promiscuity here either. And I believe that the first time is better with someone whom you trust (emotional attachment and physical attraction are optional), regardless of the sex, sexual experience and need for payment. But I do think that it should be done before Mendelssohn is played and not after.

My reasoning to follow in Part 2 as this one is long enough already.

Sex Work: Myths and Reality, Part 4

Myth: Only sad people pay for sex.

Reality: Some sad people do pay for sex. Sad people also pay for haircuts, plumbing, dental care and others services. Stating that only sad people pay for sex is the same as saying that only people who have no car use cabs. A lot of punters are people with cars, sometimes even a few, but isn’t it a pleasure to just sit back and enjoy the ride with no obligations?

If you want something done exactly the way you like it, you have 3 options: A. do it yourself, B. pay someone to do it for you, C. forbid your children to do it. A lot of people think that there is also option D – ask someone to do it as a favour – but it has a lot of drawbacks if you think of it.

Why do men pay for sex? Let’s see…

1. No car (i.e. wife/ girlfriend or such) – if you are not in a relationship and don’t want one (and even if you do, it doesn’t happen overnight) then you are left with options A and B (I hope no-one took option C seriously with relation to sex work. It works a treat in a lot of other cases though). Option A is probably not much fun third week in a row.

2. You’re married (in a relationship) but your wife has no time for you/ is totally not interested in your sexual preferences (and she is entitled to her own opinion on things so you can blame yourself for having married her but you can’t blame her for not taking part in everything you fancy) – see the paragraph above.

3. If you are married (in a relationship) but you can’t/ don’t want to share your fantasies with your wife (because you think she will disapprove and think bad of you, or she will agree and enjoy it in which case you will think bad of her, etc. In short, whether she says yes or no, it will change the dynamics of your relationship and you want to avoid it) – see paragraph 1 again.

4. Married or not, you just like variety. In this case option A is not even an option.

So what’s wrong with option D? Mostly, the fact that for someone to have sex with you as a favour you will have to return the favour if you’re a decent person, so it won’t be exactly the way you want it, it will be a compromise. Not to mention that even in 21st century a lot of people still think that sex is more than just a bodily function, and so you will be expected to call the next morning and so on. I’m not even talking about how long it might take you to find someone who you relatively fancy (age, sex, shape, colour, origin, relationship status, state of sobriety, etc) who will also fancy you.

So yes, some sad people do pay for sex. But mostly sad people are the ones who deny themselves the pleasure of paying for it. Most punters are men who know what they want and how they want it, they value their time and don’t want to waste it looking for freebies. Nothing sad about it.

The know-how

Last week I saw D, a man who (as many others) “hasn’t done it before” and the only reason he got in touch was to try one particular thing that his wife didn’t want to do.

D is in his early 50s and his sex life so far has been “all missionary”. I looked at the bigger picture (from the point of view of a woman who’s been subjected to 30 odd years of “all missionary” sex) and asked how he knew she didn’t want that little thing he was after.

– Well, I went for it and she said no.

– Really? What exactly did you do? – I asked to see if maybe he did something wrong and hurt her unintentionally which would, of course, lead to NO! and a kick, so I was shocked to hear that D started kissing his way down and when he got as far as her belly button, she just pulled him back up and from there things took the usual route and everything was done in 5 minutes.Edinburgh escorts

Sweet Jesus, you’ve been together for 30 years, this is more than I’ve been alive, don’t you two TALK? Anyone wants to know the secret of how to get your way with a woman? ASK HER! Off the top of my head, I can think of at least ten reasons why she didn’t want it exactly that time, and the second reason would be – she had no clue what he was trying to do. The other nine would be just as valid.

Gentlemen, if you want something new in your sex life, ask your lady nicely. By “nicely” I mean one of the following ways:

Persuasion: Sweetheart, here’s Spa/ M&S/ Waterstone’s/ Homebase for god’s sake vouchers for X hundred pounds. Go have a shower, I’m going down on you tonight.

Compromise: Honey, I’m willing to take the rubbish out and do all the washing up for the next two weeks, if you let me show you that my tongue’s not there for talking only. Do we have a deal?

Sincerity (done on your knees, with flowers): [name], will you ever forgive me for failing you as a husband? X years ago I promised to love and cherish you but instead I have bored you to tears with unsatisfying sex because I’m a coward and find it embarrassing to talk about things which are the essence of being together. Wil you do me a favour and let me love and pleasure you like I promised I would? You mean the world to me and I want to prove it.

And, of course, a man’s way – getting her drunk – works just as well.

If you can’t ask her nicely, then at least ask. Catching your wife unawares with a toy from Ann Summers is not always a good idea, unless getting beaten up with a dildo is the innovation you were looking for.

Asking her is there to get her permission, but it’s also a way to get her ready for the action – physically and mentally. I don’t think that after so many years of marriage your wife still has a shower every night in hope that something might happen. Also, not all people are spontaneous and your partner may need time to mentally adjust to the new way of having sex with you.

But then there is always the possibility that she really doesn’t want to do it, in which case, gentlemen, here are my contact details.