Amateur Hour

Rugby has a lot of things going for him. Chief among these is an incredibly hot body and a big penis.

Dear Boys: don't let anyone tell you the size of a penis doesn't matter. It does. They can at times be far too big and quite often they can be too small or too skinny (the worst kind), so when you come across a perfectly dimensioned penis, we girls are entitled to expect a good time. In fact, we demand it.



I held out on Rugby for quite a while before sexing, for no apparent reason other than the fact I have a perfectly functioning vibrator and I wondered how long I could tease him before he got aggressive. I was a little disappointed that he hadn't gone down on me, nor even hinted at it, however I figured with a perfect penis maybe he didn't need to. I soon discovered he hadn't gone down on me because he had no. fucking. idea. what he was doing with the vagina and little boat (aka clitoris for the scientists out there).

After a few lacklustre performances of the sex act, I decided to scare him into improving. I casually announced over dinner one evening that I was a regular sex and relationships contributor for an online magazine, with an emphasis on the sex. I raised my eyebrow at him. He visibly whitened. He knew what that meant. Nicknames, secrets spilled and confidences breached. He had to pull his socks up.

The following evening, it was as though he had read every single Penthouse forum column he could get his mitts on. He went down on me in a raging dervish, and he pumped vigorously away at me as though I was a busted basketball and there was only 30 seconds left on the clock for the neighbourhood competition. He has two-speeds: fast and faster. One speed less and he'd be a BMX. It is not an understatement to point out that I was underwhelmed. He could tell.

"You know, whatever you want me to do. I'll do it."

Code for: "Help! I have no idea what I'm doing! Please teach me!".

There are some people who believe that such a helpless little wannabe sex maniac with a perfect toolbox is the greatest opportunity in their sexual lives. I agree - to a point. This situation, however, is not a matter of refining a few of his magic tricks, this is teaching him how to shuffle cards. Frankly, I'm not sure I have the energy (although his chest is a powerful incentive).

Key phrases for dealing with a lacklustre performer:

• "Do not have sex with me as though you are masturbating - my vagina is not your hand"
• "It's not a sprint, it's a marathon"
• "Not so good"
• "Good"
• "You better be able to back that one up again, buster"

For God's sake, don't destroy their self-confidence. They are very vulnerable. They are naked.

Key tools:

• Anaesthetised condoms
• Lubricant (it could take a while - a bruised box is not much fun in the morning)
• No pornos. Pornos have a lot to answer for this whole banging away at a woman business.
• Rope. Discipline is essential.

Tequila Texting

No Friday afternoon is complete without at least 2 shots of tequila. Remember Puff, The Magic Dragon? I still think that song should be Quaff, The Magic Flagon.

Tequila is the ideal segue way not only to the weekend, but to better looking men, instant self-confidence and of course sex. If you plan on having a one-night stand, factor in some time for you, a slice of lemon, a dash of salt and some magic orgasm juice - preferably 10 minutes before flagging a cab with your adoring 8-hour boyfriend. (It's an unlucky girl who gets an asshole for her 8-hour boyfriend, and not even tequila can fix those guys up. Best to reject them as firmly and brutally as possible).

The other important thing you need to keep in mind when dabbling in tequila-juice is to not do it when you're feeling:

1. Nauseous; and/or
2. Emotionally unstable.

It will always lead to an embarrassing outcome, and worse, you may blame the tequila and swear to never drink tequila again. Don't be ridiculous! The vomiting and crying hysteria was all you. I once combined emotionally instability with a one-night stand with an ex - I think I came out a winner as the sex seemed so great (love tequila!) however I did cry hysterically before the fantastic sex (hate something other than the tequila!). Tequila still made it to the next round - unlike the ex. My next session with a shot glass and a dodgy barman made me realise how unworthy my ex was, and how reliable tequila is.

The danger inherent with tequila shots is the tequila text. Often incoherent, likely to be riddled with spelling errors, and always sent to the wrong person. You can rely on tequila to loosen your text-finger sufficiently to text old boyfriends (generally never really boyfriends in the first place) to tell them you have "unfinished business" and to tell anyone within shouting distance that one day you will be huge and they should stand in line to be your friend right now. Throw in a little bit of "I'm a really nice person", some spitting and we have ourselves a Kodak moment.

Our Little Girl Is All Grown Up

In the past, I was regularly accused of being akin almost to a paedophile, given my predilection for boyish-looking "boys".

Broom-stick legs, a chest bereft of hair and definable muscle tone for me were all signs of dating gold. If the only moustache I had to contend with was a milk moustache from their last long glass of dairy goodness, I was a happy girl. During the Age of Innocence, I thought that being a grown up involved messily drinking tequila out of a tea cup at a high tea where every other boring sod was drinking Earl Gray and commenting on the weather. Not so.

I have now progressed in life, to find myself standing amongst men. I call this the Age of the Real Man. With it comes, I can only hope, the end of my borderline criminal behaviour which as I get older becomes far more pronounced. While I may be shocked that the cute guy behind the bar only just earned the right to legally serve alcohol 2 weeks ago, no one else is.

In order to break free of the siren song that is boyish charm, I have forced myself to become involved in grown-up activities. No more attendance at drunken balls - it's all charity cocktails and art gallery openings for me now. Cricket pitches have been superseded by the fragrant mix of sweat, blood and grass found only at your local rugby union field. (I am still struggling to identify where my beloved soccer fits in all of this: I attended a match on the weekend, only to be informed I had set my sights on the only person who had to get his parents' permission to play).

Real men have chests - a la The Terminator

My entree to the Age of the Real Man has been through Rugby, a man as masculine, tall and swarthy as his nickname suggests. Not only is he a Real Man, he is a sensitive Real Man* (see Infatuation). After several weeks of dating, I still marvel at his appetite, height and jaw bone. I am thus appalled to learn he is younger than me. (Although to put things in perspective, he's been eligible to vote for 9 years).

I have since decided that future forays into the Age of the Real Man should be run with the same precision target adopted by my mother,** which involves dating men who are beyond doubt, and absolutely without question older. She married a man 15 years her senior. There was no mistaking that one.

* Note: My experience indicates the sentiment expressed by a sensitive Real Man is also the more authentic. For example:

• Rugby: "I have never been more infatuated with a woman in my life". [Uttered after long periods of silence, typical of the strong, silent type or so popular literature would have me believe].
• Boyish Boy: "You are hot". [As stares at himself in mirror for an extended period and considers consulting thesaurus at school next week to extend vocabulary]
• The Terminator (aka pin-up for Real Men everywhere): "I came across time for you". [After saving the world - also quite typical behaviour for strong, silent types]
• Boyish Boy: "What time is it? I can't read clocks yet". [Just kidding! They were never that young, I swear].

**Note: I am still a little unsure of this strategy. I am acutely aware of the fact that I need to stop staring at foetuses, but 15 years my senior seems outlandish.

Infatuation

"I've never been more infatuated with a woman in my life."

As a 28 year old single woman who has just survived a sex drought of 8 months, this should have been music to my ears. The tune should have been all the more melodic given it came out of the mouth of a big strapping lad with an incredible washboard stomach, an enormous penis and an ability to put sentences together that consisted of words that were poly-syllabic. He was also very nice. I could already feel the accusatory eyes of my mother - who wanted her grandchildren 3 weeks ago - burning into the back of my head. While she isn't so desperate for grandchildren that I procreate with a (short) deadshit like my ex-boyfriend, I could tell this guy ticked all her boxes for me. He had "fertility" and "good genetic match" written all over him.

I decided a subject change was in order, since I knew that anything that came out of my mouth in response would be weak and easily interpreted any way this guy wanted (i.e. "I'm in love with you but I'm too scared to say it"). Seeking to keep everyone happy, I grabbed his penis.