I have been struggling to define the relationships I appear to have acquired over the last few months.

Back in October last year, I wrote about friends who have sex with each other. Back then, I was quite clear in my mind what those relationships were.

These days, I’m not so sure.

One of my closest friends¹ had a revelation about me: dating is the only way I can have a social life. I have neither a spouse nor family here; I do not have a circle of friends I grew up or even went to university with, and since the Great Upheaval², most of whom I had labelled ‘friend’, well, aren’t, as this is his hometown.

The ones I can call mine are all either coupled up or have young children. I can’t just call them up and ask if they want to go out tonight. Every single excursion is an intensely and carefully co-ordinated effort and not just by me.

Arranging for a meet with a single, unencumbered young person, living 30 or even 50 miles away, is surprisingly easier than a night out with my friends who live in the same town.

It’s been a year almost to the day, since I started to ‘date’ as it were. Conscious me would say that I was seeking companions to have sexy fun with. I found a glittering bevy of beautiful, intriguing young men who excited my mind as well as my body. And on a few occasions, nourished my spirit. But friends?³.

Subconscious me wanted very much to make a friend. Someone I could just shoot the breeze with, who would feel comfortable hanging out with me and my little one, who wouldn’t care if sex wasn’t on the table. Someone whom I could chat with frequently, have random, philosophical conversations with late into the night, whom I could share scary shit without fear. A friend I could keep being friends with for quite a long time I guess.

My definition of a friend has undergone some radical changes since The Great Upheaval. I made new ones about 18 months ago who showed me what friendship could be. People whom I had thought of as friends, like the ones referred to in the article above, no longer fall under that category. What happens when you have shared confidences, been emotionally vulnerable before them, but then find that, actually, you can’t carry on as you are. What are you then? Ex-friends?

Perhaps I am thinking about this wrong. I had let go of the notion of a soulmate, Mr Right, the One, of the idea that a family is a couple with children/pets, that a successful “relationship” is one that lasts for life. Why should I hold on to the belief that a friend is for life? Or that they should prove themselves to be “true”, whatever that means.

Maybe, a friend is someone who is there for me when I need them and vice versa. Once our need for each other is past, and there is nothing to keep us together, would it be so bad to then stop being friends? Would the label “acquaintance” be so terrible?

In the last couple of months, I closed the chapter on three wonderful men I had the pleasure of “dating”. My association with two had lasted about 5 months, and with the third, several years. In that time, we were indeed friends. With two, I am not entirely sure why we stopped, but that’s OK, because there is a world full of friends I haven’t met yet.

Oh, will I stop “dating”? Nah! I like having sex with delightful, relaxing, young men far too much.

A photo posted by J Iron Word (@j.ironword) on Aug 6, 2016 at 10:59pm PDT

¹ Someone I saw every day, and shared so very much with, but has now gone home like ET. Might as well be a different planet. ² 20 year marriage disintegrated. ³ Suddenly they were too busy to meet or even talk.

*Serendipitously, Maria Popova at Brainpickings posted this thoughtful essay on “Reclaiming Friendship” this week, which addresses some of the issues I was wrestling with much more eloquently and with a great deal more depth.

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Someone asked me recently if my sexual preferences were vanilla.

My immediate response was a raised eyebrow and slight panic, because for most of my life, this quote from American Beautysummed my attitude:

“I don’t think that there’s anything worse than being ordinary.”

Vanilla was boring. Vanilla was anathema.

What he was really asking was did I have any kinky preferences and that there was nothing wrong with being ordinary. Except, you know, see above.

Reflection is always revelatory: Damn it! It seems I like vanilla when it comes to sex. In fact, I love it.

I’d flirted with being a dominatrix, with slaps, degrading insults, and bondage. When it came to BDSM, flirting was exactly the level I was comfortable with.

What I found out also is that I really do not like being told what to do or how to do it. A certain amount of instruction is acceptable but apparently there is a line I have subconsciously drawn. I prefer to be very gently guided, shall we say.

So what do I like?

All the usual stuff that most straight¹ people get up to I guess: oral, a little spanking, some role-play, food play², light bondage, sensory deprivation (ooh, yes, please!), group sex, outdoors, video/virtual sex, sexting (big time) and probably a few other things I have forgotten.

The key for me is tenderness, gentleness and playfulness. I like being thrown about sometimes, much as a child loves being thrown up in the air. I like being suspended in mid-air and being in water. I do not like being taken to the edge — asphyxiation, drowning, arms tied behind my back³. Essentially, pain is a major turn off: causing and receiving. I know there is a blurring between pleasure and pain, that is, some pain can be pleasurable, but for me, the range is definitely  limited. Tragically, I appear to be horribly polite as well: I just cannot spit venom, so name-calling is definitely out (writing invective on the other hand…).

I like being stroked lightly and frequently best. Unfortunately, not something I had my decades’ long relationship; he was always just a little too heavy-handed no matter how much I tried to change that. Not surprisingly, it’s what I like doing best too.

I have a bit of knismolagnia — arousal from tickling — and I’m a tickler, rather than a ticklee. I’m remarkably unticklish and get tremendously turned on tickling someone until they’re ready to burst. Of course, they have to be turned on by that, otherwise it doesn’t work. I’d say that’s probably the only “kink” I have.

Sex to me is sweet and messy. Like candy floss or ice-cream. Both best savoured slowly with smiles and giggles. It’s child-like, and at its core, safe.

Does all that make my sexual preferences vanilla?

At a time when my home and creative career destructed, one of my oldest and dearest friends once said to me, “There is nothing wrong with normalcy, you know. God knows, you could do with some of that in your life.” Coming from a doyenne of the fashion world, I bowed to her superior wisdom, and found different ways to feed the need to be out of the ordinary. I had not, until now, even considered that I might not be anything special when it came to sex. Ah! But being creative with what is deemed ordinary, now that‘s the ticket.

The Oxford dictionary defines vanilla as

“Having no special or extra features; ordinary or standard”

If the opposite of that is pain, physical or otherwise, then I am proud to be vanilla. With sprinkles.

¹ In my life, I have gone through periods of preferring women to men. Sometimes, they overlap but I’d say right now I’m 90% straight.

² I met one person who couldn’t bear the idea of mess. So no food play. Or explosions while dressed.

³ Thought I was OK with this. Turns out not. Childhood incident. Long story.

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“How far can a ripped torso take a film?” asked one article on the new Tarzan film.  Then there was this little gem from Buzzfeed  about Italian water polo players. And that hilarious Descendants of the Sun promo.

Believe it or not, I was quite unmoved by all these displays of male physical perfection. I appreciated them, but.

Attractiveness is a funny thing. To me, beautiful doesn’t equate to sexiness but sexiness often does equate to beautiful. It’s a fine line and frequently blurs. So bear with me.

I am decidedly underwhelmed by the ripped gym-honed body that has been shaved or waxed¹ to within an inch of its life. I am well aware that many of my contemporaries love a smooth chest and a shaved packet², but me, I prefer everything intact. A trim is acceptable when it gets so long your fingers get tangled in it, otherwise I’d rather you leave your short and curlies alone please. And don’t get me started on body hair. Chest hair is sexy to me, as is belly fur, and that “snail trail” is delightful. I know, I know — I can hear some of you gagging already. But I like almost hairless bodies too – so long as they are so by nature.

Sexy to me is a natural body. Sexiest to me is one that gets a workout, gets its tone and strength from doing something it loves, be it running, climbing, swimming, dancing, cycling or walking. I don’t really care, so long as it’s activity that’s enjoyed for itself – not just to look good. It says to me that it’s a body that’s loved for itself, not for the way it looks. It tells me that this is a body that would thrill to warm fingers walking up its thigh, the light brush of lips across the shoulder blade. You see, I’m a sensual creature and being able to fully enjoy what your body can do, being able to enjoy what it feels, provides a delicious feedback loop that’s kind of hard to beat.

Colour also plays a huge part in what turns me on. One beauty had skin like dark honey, over which, a constellation of moles and freckles. He had a runner’s body, lean, with strength in his legs, and fairly hirsute. He was a delight to look at and caress³. In contrast, there was a blonde with barely any hair, who was long, with steel in his abs and arms, a lightweight boxer in training. Everything about him was light gold, and glimmered ever so slightly, it was quite something.

I used to think sexiness came from confidence in one’s own skin. But a couple of recent encounters showed me that there is a certain something about shyness too. One was just hesitant, unsure about where to put limbs (but not where to put his lips, happily) and trembled ever so slightly. It was simply enchanting.

Another flushed easily, and fumbled over his words whenever I surprised him. He was like an awkward young giraffe, all long-limbed gawkiness. It charmed the pants off me. Literally. It helped that he was pale as moonlight, blonde like a small sun, and had the most enormous, intensely blue eyes I had ever seen. And when he spoke, he had a mellifluous voice…

Which brings me to something that you just can’t get off a profile picture: the sound of someone’s voice. Cadence, tone and accent. I had spent much of my adult life assessing voices for work, so it’s something that affects me profoundly. It doesn’t matter how beautiful you are physically, but if the sound of your voice grates on me, I have to say, no thanks. A voice that is a pleasure to listen to, that raises the small hairs on my shoulders and has me smiling like a sun-struck loon is automatically sexy.

You know what knocks me over every time? The smile. Shy or confident, lopsided or five-miles wide, a suggestion in a midnight beard or a broad dimpled grin. I couldn’t tell you exactly why a particular smile makes someone sexy and why another doesn’t. It does not have anything to do with how genuine that smile is either.

Physicality aside, all that is nothing if the conversation is stilted and has my mind wandering. The reverse is also true, although less so. I have been exceedingly lucky in that, so far, most of my first meets have sparked and crackled, perfect meetings of mind and body. I have to say though, the real deal breaker for me is the voice.  That is not something  I seem to be able to get over, try as I might. It’s like hearing nails on a board at worst.

All this is my tastes, my preferences — this is something I want to emphasise.

The media, and therefore, society, seems to advocate a certain standard of beauty and sexiness. I say poo to that.  Discern for yourself what appeals to you. Don’t let anyone else dictate what you should or should not like. Love yourself and your body. Find out what turns you on, not what “experts” say should turn you on. Oh, and roll with it when that changes, because tastes do. I may like natural bodies now, but I’ve had a carefully manicured body under my hands and he was just as beautiful to me.

I, like you, am unique. I won’t appeal to all, and really, why would I want to?

¹ What are you? A dolphin? So sayeth that icon of malehood, Mr T.

² I know many men like a “clean workspace” but it desensitises me and leaves me numb. Plus: ew! It’s just a bit child-like, don’t you think?

³ To be perfectly honest, they are all a pleasure to caress.

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Valentine’s Day came and went quietly in my house. I spent it with the love of my life who gave me a handmade card of a single heart — the six year-old version of minimalist style.

As usual, Commercial Love Day was everywhere I went, and plastered all over the Internet. Everyone was urged to show their love with all the usual trappings: flowers, champagne, cards and so many hearts in a every conceivable material that it made me slightly nauseous. But it did get me thinking about romance.

It made me wonder, do men like to be romanced? A straw poll of the singletons I knew suggested that they wouldn’t. Well, until I suggested what that romancing might be. And a couple changed their minds rather quickly.

It really does boil down to what romancing entails. To some, it’s lavishing the object of one’s affection with expensive gifts or experiences. To others, it’s indulging someone else’s pleasures, or simply having quality time together. For me, it was mostly about showing how much I wanted that person. In my long marriage, Valentine’s Day was an excuse to do something out of the ordinary. It’s silly I know, after all it’s a completely arbitrary day — I could pick any day of the year to do this and did. But it felt good to be part of something global, despite the heavy commercial emphasis¹.

I get a big buzz out of planning and throwing small parties because I love seeing people have a good time, it’s a massive ego trip. So when it comes to romancing, I like to get creative, and because I am me, these tend to be nearly always sex-oriented.

Oh, I wasn’t above the beach getaway, the romantic canoe down a river, picnics under the stars. But every now and again, I get inspired. The sexiest plan I executed took weeks of research. We’re talking a dinner of aphrodisiacs, a carefully selected porno, and a seduction room of sensual pleasures. It was almost as fun planning it as it was doing it.

But the most romantic? Ah, that was one I never realised. It was a treasure hunt all over town. Each clue was a different cryptographic puzzle: so there was a blank postcard (invisible ink), a riddle hidden in a picture, a musical cipher, a code inside a sudoku puzzle, and so on. The first, middle and last locations were places we’d shared: the field in which we frequently had lunch, where we had our first kiss and a weird spot which is quite unromantic but amusing, because I had acted like a flighty teenager. The treasure was going to be a copy of my favourite erotic novel². I wasn’t an enthusiast, but the recipient was a complete crypto nut (think Cicada 3301) and I knew he would love it. I never carried it out because, well, even I though I was besotted, he was very not.

I asked my young men how they would like to be romanced, and so far, the question appears to have stumped them.

Well, this is how I would: for two in particular I’d send flowers accompanying mystery parcels to their office. The parcels will contain lacy underwear with very specific instructions and no, they would not be for me to wear. For one hot blonde, champagne would feature but not to drink. Well, at least not out of a glass. For an adventurer, I would create an erotic story mosaic. If we were actually living in the same area, these would pop up in unexpected places: a Post-It here, a card there, a snippet on the back of take-away coffee cup, a voice message, a text from a strange number, all coming together into one. For one very young spunk, it would be a school teacher fantasy.

My ideas of romance here are simply sex games, but they’re based on what I know about each of these young men, and it’s an expression of my appreciation and desire to bring about their pleasure.

Naturally, the nature of the relationship is fundamental. To romance someone I had a deep, emotional attachment to, someone with whom I had shared a gamut of experiences? Ah, well, that’s a whole different bathtub of rose petals.

¹Having said that, in some cultures, giving money is romantic.

²It was famously given to Bill Clinton by an intern called Monica

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The age of my playmates has never been before a topic of discussion, as in, “Isn’t he a bit young?”.

I bring it up now because there was a brief flurry of a discussion on social media about not dating people under 28 as they’re not “serious enough”. The eyebrow went up and the lips pressed together*. I very carefully refrained from diving in — after all, I married at 22 to someone who was about the same age.  I’d say we were pretty serious.

It really does depend on the definition of serious, I suppose. Like dating, it’s one of those words which means a multitude of things to different individuals.

Back then, serious was move in together, get married, build a life together…. forsaking all others for each other.

To me, now, serious is simply committing to someone exclusively. To put it bluntly, don’t sleep with other people. But even that simple statement requires further definition, particularly in today’s context. For instance, do we agree to delete our profiles from all dating websites? Do we stop talking to those we had connected with? What constitutes cheating?

Sadly, we are not telepaths or empaths. We only have words, and they are poor tools for communicating such complex issues. It’s further snarled up by the fact that what’s important to one person may not even be on the radar of the other. 

Like many singletons, I would like a partner in life, I also have a child, so on the face of it, someone in their early 20s would be unlikely to want to “settle down” with someone like me. It would require a certain maturity, yes?

The thing is, maturity is a funny thing. I know 40-somethings and even 50-somethings who behave like my 6 year old, have not really taken many risks in their lives and have attitudes that would not be out of place in a secondary school. That is not to say that they have not led meaningful lives. My recent dating adventures have shown me that it’s not the number of years lived, it is how they have been lived, and how you choose to live now.

I am firmly middle-aged. Many have observed that I have had a turbulent past and done a lot. But that is only compared to some. In the last six months, I have encountered a handful of under 30s who have done so much more with their relatively short spans. Of those, three have played international sport and lived in different countries. Two have had experiences with death that I would not wish on anyone. One is possibly in a war zone right now. Two of the three are under 25. Collectively, they have taught me so much. They opened my eyes to worlds and concepts that I would not have otherwise encountered. All of them had wonderful stories to tell, had so much energy and such enthusiasm for life, it was invigorating.

Maturity for me, is also about how self-aware you are. How much you can see how your words and actions impact on another person and how much you care about what that effect is. How self-aware were the 20-somethings I’d encountered? This is the trouble with blanket judgments – there will always be wrinkles to trip you up. One was, is, simply astonishing. And continues to impress me with the depth of his mind and character. I am honoured to have made his acquaintance. He is only 23. 

Were any of them looking to “settle down”? No. But before you say, “I told you so”, that doesn’t mean that they wouldn’t if the circumstances arose. I could tell that one definitely wanted to, but the voices that cried, “But you’re only 24!” were loud and troubling.

And here’s the thing that I learned painfully: I will never know if someone will be a life partner. But I may find someone to fashion a life with. And who is to say that it will be a single life? I am now living one that is wholly different to the one I had a year ago. So we may form something that lasts only a year, or it may last 20. A flower that lasts only a season, is no less beautiful. Note that to blossom, that plant needed to be nurtured and given time to grow.

I remain open to the possibilities. Age is just a number, yes, but it is also so much more.

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I find online dating one part intriguing and two parts mystifying.

Mystifying in that I’m still not sure what the protocol is when it comes to communicating electronically.

As one young man exclaimed the other night, “You actually remember a time without the internet!” Yes, young Padawan*, I most certainly do. However, I married very young and did not “date” much in the 90s. I sort of did at university, though.

My recollection of it goes a little like this: Go to club. Drink, usually snakebite in black. Lose self on dancefloor. Catch eye of cute guy. Snog. Exchange phone numbers. Maybe shag. More likely sneak out of his room before he wakes up.

How I ended up being married — I was introduced by a matchmaker (ie his mate) at a party. Oh yeah. That was the other way of meeting someone. Of course, there were the classic classmates, housemates, workmates etc. The usual thing. Meeting someone remotely would be like striking up a relationship with a pen pal.

Anyways, we didn’t even have mobile phones then. The only way you could talk was on landlines. So no texting. I recently read a blog post in a Scottish paper about how in Britain, there is immense pressure on the first date. I couldn’t agree more – I prefer to think of these things as first meetings. Dating to me is what you do AFTER you’ve decided you’re not going keep looking. First meets I can do without breaking a sweat, it’s just a meet as far as I’m concerned. If we click, we click. If we don’t, we don’t. It’s the preamble I am discomfited by.

Here’s what’s bugging me. So I join a dating website in the hopes of meeting someone who will interest both mind and body for fun times. The implicit assumption is that my target audience is doing the same.

So far, so copacetic.

I like the frame of their profile, they like mine. Tentative messaging begins. Reciprocity! Excitement ensures – we’re communicating and it’s fun. Phone numbers are exchanged. The textversation continues furiously off dating website.

Now, I have a terrible, terrible, habit of dragging the chat down to the gutter. The tiny Catholic part of me is shaking its wimple and wagging its finger. But by heaven, it is such delicious fun. And believe me, the scorching texts (and pictures) are mutual.

And then, for no reason that I can see — no response. I send a message. Still silence. How long should one wait before hitting delete?

Alright, I put my own hand up, I have been guilty of going silent myself. Why did I do it? Because I get frozen into inaction by procrastination. I want to end things, but can’t find the right words. Then life gets in the way and before you know it two weeks have gone by. More procrastination, and then it’s just too late. But, and this part is key: I have never done it right in the middle of a hot exchange.

Isn’t it curious that pre-internet days, going days without a call would be perfectly normal, but now hours without a response from a text or IM is almost unbearable?

Hmm. OK, so what would I like?

The most polite brush off I have had was “I’m sorry, you’re lovely, but I think I’d like to leave things here.” Rejection graciously accepted, thank you for your courtesy. I think I would like the polite brush off rather than silence.

On the other hand, after the initial frustration and bewilderment, I move on. I know it’s not me or something I’ve done.

Or, maybe the status quo is the best way. Perhaps, sometimes it’s better not to know and just let it go. I guess I’m a little annoyed at the moment because three in a row is a bit much.

I am, as always, of two minds.

*OK, JJ Abrams has now neatly buried Episodes I-III with The Force Awakens but that is just too good to stop using1.
1 Yes, goddammit, I am a 40-something female geek. We are a rare, exotic species, and not a myth.

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In the last few weeks, the Twittersphere was all a flutter with the story of a dating blogger who was slammed by a troll who accused our heroine of being the reason that men to expect sex on the first date.

Some women, like myself, hope to have sex on the first date if that date rings our bell*. If anyone, regardless of gender, expects sex, then they’re not worth going on a second date with until they evolve a whole lot more.

However, this issue happened to turn up on my media channels just as I started examining my dating motives.

I’d been having a marvellous time at TBW – being “courted”, as it were, by a carousel of beautiful, young men was intoxicating – how could it not? And been on a several dates all of which culminated in lovely orgasms. Only one of whom I’d seen more than once.

I’d never done the Tinder thing, so I can’t compare the experience. And the last time I went “on the pull” was well over 20 years ago. But essentially, these were hook ups. With added sparkling, intelligent, wide-ranging conversation. My particular brand of aphrodisiac.

Like my heroine of the sex on the first date storm, I enjoy sex and I don’t see why sleeping with a man on the first would automatically make me a slut and/or preclude a second. There was one whom I wanted to see again and, ugh, I developed a crush on. Luckily for me, he turned out to be a class A arsehole so I am glad I didn’t see him again. Another… well, I didn’t want to see again, but he’s persisting and I’m not resisting, mainly because I’m curious to see what happens.

But then I started feeling dissatisfied. Was it because I wasn’t seeing them again? Was it that I was really ready for a… relationship?

So I decided to give not sleeping with a hot boy a go. The result was that I wish I had fucked one witty, sensitive, gorgeous young man’s brains out instead of holding back. Because, guess what? I didn’t see him again. My hormones were practically screaming at me to go for it, but nooooo, I chose to go against my nature and denied myself for… what exactly?

Coincidentally, I discovered Dr Zhana Vrangalova, her excellent Tedx talk “Is Casual Sex Bad for You” which shed a little light on why I was feeling so discombobulated. She asked certain questions which should help to clarify if casual sex was for me but it turns out that I’m not so clear cut in my desires (her Casual Sex Project by the way is pretty awesome).

What the denial did show me though, was that I craved intimacy, which I wasn’t getting from the encounters. And I thought back to one of the things I learned earlier this year about how long-lasting happy relationships came about: friendship first, forming an emotional bond, leading to intimacy.

The problem is, I am currently in a situation where meeting new friends is not so easy. In fact, it’s a lot easier to arrange a hook up. Wham, bam, thank you, young man. Perhaps, the cause for the unhappy was that the encounters were too often and too close together? So right now, I am allowing myself to be pleasantly distracted by a hot boy who is teasing me with thoughtful intercourse on lust, need and sexual motives. I know he just wants to do me. But he also seems to like me for me, and tells me frequently how sexy he finds me. He once astutely observed that my ego loves him, which is why I’m talking to him. And he’s right. He’s young, he’s full of life, and he’s so easy on the eye, I am the envy of the 20-something women he should be dating.

Until I can figure out how I can make new friends, I’ll make do with new playmates. Don’t mistake me: I like my own company, but sometimes it’s nice to have someone else to stroke. If I can’t have a deep, meaningful friendship with the oh-my-god, I can at least have the orgasm. Not too shabby, I’d say.

*What an anti-masturbation Christian website delightfully coined “ringing the devil’s doorbell.” LOVE it. Incidentally, the one I didn’t fuck: I didn’t see him again because he lived 3 hours’ travel away. Stupid girl. Should have seen that one coming. Lesson learned.

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I’ve been pondering this since I’d started dating again: does size really matter?

Now, I’m not limiting this to just penises, but the whole package. If asked what kind of man I go for, I’d shrug and say I don’t really have a type. So long as our minds connect, I don’t care what you look like. Tall, short, wide, narrow, hairless, bear-like, I couldn’t give a monkey’s.

Well, it turns out that I’m a big, fat liar.

Online dating has revealed that, dammit! I do care. And that size is quite important as a few dates have shown. But it’s not just size, it’s substance.

I’m 5ft 4in and of fairly average build. I’ve got arms that can carry around a child weighing 4 stone. I have legs that can lug that child (plus baggage) up and down hills and stairs. I am not easily pushed over, shall we say.

So given that’s what I am physically, what am I drawn to now? Here is my unscientific comparison of four size and types.

1. Mr Big

About a head taller than me, with shoulders wider than mine and my, my, was he strong. While kissing, he would just pick me up – without breaking contact – and wrap me around him. We’d stay like that for ages, believe it or not, just… kissing. He made me feel small and light, simply because he could throw me around so easily (but with care). He was solidly built, and he didn’t just stand, he planted his feet. He wasn’t particularly wide, nor ripped, he was proportionate all round, except for one particular feature. I felt like I was being impaled the first time. But after the initial shock, I found that I really, really, liked that.

Post-breakup, the bar had, unbeknownst to me, been set.

2. Mr Tall

He was about 6ft and slim all over. Frame, muscles, fingers, sex. Everything was long, but like steel cables. It was definitely an interesting experience but I didn’t feel comfortable wrapping my legs around him. And I found out that there is such a thing as too hard.

3. Mr Wide

Only a little bit taller than me, but much wider – built like a barrel in fact. He was good to hug, and I do like being enveloped like that but… I couldn’t get my legs around him comfortably and the weight of him made me a little breathless. Substantial, yes, but a bit too much. And, god help me, the word stubby kept popping up in my head at the most inappropriate moments.

4. Mr Small

OK, this is really an amalgamation of three different guys. They were all about 5ft 6in and all were slim. The variations were that one had a beautiful V-shaped upper body, the second had arms that were a pleasure to stroke and the third… ah the third, really knew how to use what nature had provided. They were all fun but I discovered that it bothered me a little that I felt bigger than them. When it came to legs, mine were noticeably more sizable. I really enjoy wrapping myself around a partner but it’s not so fun when I need to pull back for fear of causing injury. It was a role reversal I discovered I didn’t exactly love.

5. The Long and Short of It

So I am not as catholic in my tastes as I like to think. And my body seems to be operating on specifications that it hasn’t told me about yet, the traitorous thing.

Size, as it turns out, against my better, more enlightened self, does matter quite a bit. Mr Big has a lot to answer for.

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Recently I’ve been enjoying the adult company of a couple of friends. And having interesting conversations about the definition of friendship.

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