We three kings …

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France is … well, France is fucking lonely, actually.

Coming back after Christmas is hard, even though she loves him, even though she wanted to live here. She just didn’t know it would be *so* damn hard. She makes plans with her friends for them to come and visit and she trawls the papers for a job.

Working will help.

Adam agrees – it will. He likes his colleagues, has even joined the five a side office football team – he plays on Thursday nights and then a few of them grab a beer in the cafe down the road.

‘Bring them here this week,’ she suggests. ‘We have beer. And pizza.’

‘Sure,’ he agrees. ‘But it’s the sixth on Thursday. I guess some of the guys will be heading home for la galette.’

Shit, I forgot! We could do that here though? With beer. It’ll be cool … right?’

‘It’ll be cool.’ He kisses her forehead. ‘Every party you’ve thrown has been damn cool. Right?’

He holds up a hand, and she high fives him, grinning. ‘Right.’

The three guys he ends up bringing back adore her. He’s not surprised. Everyone adores her when they get to know her – she thinks her snark is a barrier, but it just endears her to people even more.

Drinks poured, he pulls her aside. All of these men are single –  they’re the ones who don’t have girlfriends, wives or families to head home to – Epiphany is a big deal for the French. They’re hot, and charming and they have a plan.

‘You know your New Year’s Resolution?’ he asks. ‘Were you serious about it?’

‘Is this a dare?’ she asks. ‘Because I’m competitive, remember?’

‘Oh, I know,’ he says. ‘Which is why I’ve upped the stakes. You wanted to go down on a stranger. How does tonight sound?’

She’s learnt so much with him. He makes her want to try stuff she’s never tried before, makes her believe in herself. She clinks her beer glass against his. ’You’re on.’

She’s a stickler for tradition, and it works well with this plan. Tradition dictates that the youngest person gets under the table and decides who gets each slice of the cake. As luck would have it, she’s the baby of the room.

Beneath the tablecloth, she flirts. More than flirts, in fact. She takes her time calling out their names, stroking their stiffening cocks through the denim of their jeans, running her hands up their thighs, stoking the anticipation.

By the time she crawls out from under the table to claim her own dessert and see who the victor of the spoils is, every dick in the room is rock hard.

Nobody speaks, and when Xav digs his spoon into the cake, the clink of metal on porcelain is audible to them all.

She smiles; lets him finish his dessert. Then she fetches the paper crown, ceremoniously places it on his head, and tugs him in the direction of the sofa.

The other guys gather round – there’s no way they’re missing this. Xavier opens his fly and frees his cock, and she kneels, takes his hands and puts them on the back of her head. He gets the message.

‘You want it rough, huh?’ he says, and she nods, eagerly. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sure enough, she takes him deep and she’s vocal in her pleasure – she slurps and whimpers while Xavier pulls her hair and arcs upwards, forcing even more of himself into her mouth. When he comes she swallows, licks her lips and turns to face Adam and the other two guys, all of whom are wanking unabashedly.

She lifts her skirt, slides her knickers down. ‘As far as I remember,’ she says, grinning wickedly. ‘The three kings all brought different gifts. Fancy showing me the other two?’

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Dolphin

For Lent this year, I gave you up. It was Girl onthenet’s fault. She gave up her sex power tool, and I consigned you, my little AA powered clit stim, to the drawer for forty days and forty nights.

And I have to say, I didn’t really miss you, though I expected to. Staying in the guest room at a friend’s a week or two before Lent began I had a quiet, shuddering morning orgasm using my fingers only, something I hadn’t done for years and years. It made me remember that the sensations of a non-battery-driven climax are totally different – deeper, slower, more satisfying somehow.

Which is why you and I took a break. I committed not to no orgasms for that period, but to more – two a week, using only my fingers – and God, the reasons behind it were complicated. You were starting to scare me; I was worried I’d lost my ability to come in any reasonable timeframe without you, and that was why he couldn’t make me come either.

Of course, it wasn’t that simple, which was why I didn’t blog about that period right away. I didn’t miss you, because I didn’t miss coming – I was always too tired, too anxious, too indifferent. Me, the girl who used to always wank at least once a day, and often twice.

It was August that I realised something had changed. I was staying alone in a flat in the South of France and I was horny all the bloody time. I hadn’t felt like that for ages. I’d packed you and I ran down battery after battery that week. I felt triumphant, like I’d found myself again. My sex drive, which had been missing for months (presumably because of anxiety/depression) was finally back. And so, in black, airbrushed ink that smudged the first time I applied sun cream and had to be wiped straight off, I recreated something I’d last done at 20, when I was famed among uni friends for having a dolphin-shaped vibrator: I had sea creatures tattooed on my ankle.


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Sea (s)witch

The costume is a too-tight purple satin vest top she’s had since uni – she almost spills out of it these days – and two pairs of black tights stuffed with the rest of her hosiery drawer. Her hair is silver with cheap spray from the party shop, blue eyeshadow smeared from lids to eyebrows.

‘Isn’t the theme -?’

‘Disney princesses? Yes.’

‘And you are?’

‘Ursula, obviously.’

‘But she’s a …’

‘… sea witch.’

‘Not a princess?’

‘No. *Much* cooler.’

‘Doesn’t she have eight legs?’

‘Nope, six. Easier to animate. I checked Wikipedia.’

She had her first baby a year ago, and she’s not quite lost the weight. She can’t bear to try to pull off the princess look alongside a load of skinny minnies who’ll do it so much better. She’s always been strangely drawn to Ursula, recognising her anger, her jealousy, her venom in herself, and wanting, perversely, to celebrate those things.

‘Like it?’

‘I do, actually. You look weirdly hot.’

‘Charmer.’ She kisses him, leaving his mouth smeared with scarlet lipstick.

She flirts with everyone, at ease with her anti-heroine status. She watches him do the same. She trusts him.

By midnight, though, she’s ready to lure him away. On the drive home, he’s tipsily chatty, until she pulls up at the lights and places a finger on his lips. ‘Shh, now…’

He looks at her curiously, but says nothing.

Back home, he brushes his teeth, while she roots at the back of the wardrobe. The bathroom door opens and he stands in the doorway, surveying the scene: her, still in costume, draped across the bed, and next to her, a ball gag that up till now, only she has ever worn.

He gets it, she knows, but, as his eyebrows raise, she says it anyway.

‘I’m not asking much. Just a token really, a trifle. You’ll never even miss it. What I want from you is your voice.’

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Bathroom

She wants to suck his dick in the bathroom. She’s knelt too many times on the plush, cream carpet in the bedroom, fellating against a backdrop of family photos in silver frames, his wife’s perfume hanging in the air, his copy of War and Peace on the nightstand. Every time he brings her here, she surreptitiously checks his progress, but his narrow leather bookmark never seems to move. He must be the slowest reader in the world.

He’s careful not to muss her hair or clothes too much – there’s always a 3 p.m. meeting, or a client presentation, or another reason why he won’t come on her face, no matter how much she begs for it. There’s nothing dirty about this affair.

As she pees, her knickers round her ankles, her head resting against the cool, teal tiles – she’s dizzily tipsy – she imagines the ache of the stone floor under her knees, the anticipation of waiting for him to empty his bladder before he lets her suck him (as if he’d let her watch), and the moment that he’d turn, not yet finished, and piss all over her face, while a bottle of Matey looked on disapprovingly.

She could persuade him tonight, she thinks – they’re on their fifth bottle of Merlot, and his wife is too busy playing the perfect hostess to query a ten minute absence. She’ll go back to the dining room and grope him under the table, she’ll text him her plan. He never goes more than ten minutes without checking his phone. Maybe they can absent themselves when everyone moves to the living room for coffee – she’s never been bothered about after dinner mints anyway.

She slides two fingers inside her cunt, and slicks her nape with her juices. She’s read about this somewhere – apparently men can’t resist it. And even if it’s bullshit, and it probably is, it makes her horny – and that’s all that really matters.

‘Want to suck your cock. Meet me in bathroom in 10’ she texts, before returning to the table. She wants to see his face when he gets the message.

But in the dining room, he’s not the one fiddling with his phone – Steve is.

‘There you are, darling!’ he says. ‘Cab’ll be here in five. I said we’d skip coffee – I’ve an early start tomorrow. You don’t mind, do you?’

She curses under her breath, shakes her head.  ‘No, no problem.’ 

His wife holds out a box of After Eights. ‘Take a mint for the journey,’ she says. ‘I’d hate to see you miss out.’ 

As the door swings shut behind them, she sees him check his phone. Sees the missed opportunity and the disappointment register on his face. What she doesn’t see is him wanking frantically in a cold bathroom at 2am. She can imagine it though, for days afterwards, and it ruins everything.

The affair ends a month later.

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The Owl and the Lark

She submits the essay at 6, and by half past she’s prowling the corridors. These are the dead hours: the clubs chucked out hours ago and even the scientists aren’t up yet. She’s strung out on a combination of coffee and ProPlus and the weird euphoria that comes from not having slept at all. She takes a kind of pride in her ability to stay up all night – when other people talk about all-nighters, they mean the nights they turn in at 3am, but, like everything, she likes to do it properly.

There’s a peace, a focus, that comes from working last minute, when everyone else is sleeping, and it appeals to her introverted side, too. Just music, a pile of books and the words accumulating: two weeks of study coming together on three sides of A4. But by morning she craves company. Company, and, well, cock.

He wakes early, usually, but not quite *this* early. She should let him sleep. But by 7 she’s practically scratching at his door and mewling like a lost kitten. And sure enough, as she checks her watch for the thousandth time, the door swings open and he’s standing there in his boxers, sleep-mussed and tired-eyed. He crawls back into his narrow single bed, holding the duvet so she can climb in next to him. For a moment, sleep is more of a temptation than sex, but as they spoon and his cock begins to swell in the small of her back she finds an untapped reserve of energy.

In the tangle of bedlinen, she kicks off her clothes. He reaches into her bra to grope her tits, sniggering into the warmth of her neck when he finds toast crumbs in her cleavage. He loves her like this, mascara smeared from all the yawning, clothes creased and her mind still whirring at a hundred miles an hour.

‘Fuck me,’

He does, though she’s on top, bouncing like a Duracell bunny. He slaps her arse whenever her rhythm slows and it makes her giggle, the joyful sound of it setting his mood for the whole day ahead. He rests his knuckles against her clit and she comes hard, words pouring out of her that couldn’t be more different from the ones she wrote overnight.

‘Slut.’

‘You love it.’

‘I do.’  And his orgasm merges with the wake of hers.

*

She needs to stay awake. She has a tutorial at 9. A shower will help, she knows, but she wants nothing more than to stay here with him, his come sliding down her thighs and his leg entwined with hers.

‘Don’t you have an essay to finish?’ she asks, as he flings an arm around her waist and snuggles in for the long haul.

‘Nah,’ he mutters. ‘I finished it days ago.’

She envies him this discipline as much as she teases him for it. ‘Swot,’ she replies, and takes his hand, guiding it back to her wet folds. ‘Luckily, some things can be finished more than once.’

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King for the Day

I figured I’ve written enough big stuff in recent weeks, so using ‘Epiphany’ to write about more big or sudden realisations didn’t really appeal. Instead, I took the religious meaning of the word and wrote this deeply unseasonal piece about sex, and, er, cake.

*

By the time it comes round, she’s ready for cake again. In the past few years she’s reconciled herself with the fact that she hates New Year’s Eve, and she lies low, not detoxing exactly, but, well, detoxing. Socially, as well as nutritionally.

He doesn’t even need prompting. He stops at the bakery on his way home and collects what he reserved days earlier. A square flat box, tied with narrow pink ribbon. Sometimes she lets the kids invite friends, but otherwise it’s family only.

She doesn’t believe in giving things up in January. It’s cold, dark. She wants to say it’s a comedown, but that would be untrue. She loves Christmas, but she loves this too – the putting away of gifts in their rightful places, replacing the tree with bright, hothoused tulips, the end of parties and people everywhere – finding him again, in the lazy mornings between Christmas and New Year, sneaking the odd mouthful of leftover brandy cream from the fridge, post late night fuck. Roaring fires, winter walks.

This is the climax of those moments: the golden, frangipane-filled disc already staining the accompanying crown with its buttery grease. It’s sickly as hell, and she’s never sure if she actually likes the taste that much. What she likes is her family round the table – her kids, the man she loves. The man who can still make her crazily horny with just a glance.

He cuts the cake into four. The rules say that none can be left – that’s how you ensure that someone gets the little ceramic figure buried in the almond paste, that someone has to wear the cardboard crown. As he serves his own slice, there’s the clink of china on china and he makes a lunge for the headgear that is rightfully his.

‘Not fair!’ the kids protest, and she realises that this is the first year they haven’t rigged it to make sure one of the children is king. Maybe she should feel guilty, but she doesn’t. She has plans, especially when she sees him wearing the too-small crown atop his dark curls. She has the plans, but she wants him to have the control.

Of course, because they’re parents, he doesn’t actually get to be king for the day. He still helps with the washing up and makes his own cup of tea when the youngest won’t settle and she’s upstairs for hours reading stories. By the time she makes it back downstairs, he’s raising his hands to take the damn thing off.

‘No!’ she cries, rushing over. ‘Not yet!’

He smiles, and kisses her, her hands still clamping the flimsy cardboard to his head. There are all kinds of games this could lend itself to: she could play the scared princess, the slutty maid, the evil queen, even, if she wanted.

But role-play is not their thing.

She sinks to her knees on the carpet, and unbuckles his belt in the glow of the fairy lights. Distantly, she remembers that she meant to take the tree down today. It can wait. Until after his cock in her mouth, his hands in her hair, his words in her ears and his come on her face.

She doesn’t care that she didn’t get the bit with the figure in. She doesn’t care that she wasn’t king. She doesn’t care because she’d rather have what she has right now: the king in her.

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On the lasting effects of a proper crush

IMG_5483I blagged my way onto the sixth-form day trip to Calais when I was still in Year 11. The Calais trip, to be honest, was a bit of a joke. We ‘interviewed’ the mayor; every year the same questions – ‘Do you prefer the ferry or the tunnel?’ ‘Is tourism good for France?’ ‘What’s the hardest part of your job?’ – and then spent the rest of the day having lunch and hitting the hypermarkets. Not for booze. Too young for booze. 

In the full grip of an immense crush, France – even Calais – seemed magical to me. The object of my affections, Super Hot French Teacher, would load his basket full of brie, croissants and coffee, and it all seemed so grown-up, so sophisticated. I look back now and wonder what the bloody point was – good, authentic versions of those things can be bought easily in British supermarkets. But when *he* was buying them, France seemed the sexiest place in the world.

Fifteen years on, I can see that’s far from true. France is the country of dog shit everywhere, of supermarkets that close on Sundays, of endless meals of goats cheese salad if you’re a vegetarian (which fortunately I’m not). But it hasn’t lost that sparkle for me, that golden quality of having been sanctioned by someone I adored. I can find joy in the most mundane ways in which it differs from life in the UK.

Here are five random things I love about it:

1) Condom machines on every pharmacy – I’ll acknowledge that this is a weird one. After all, in the UK, many public toilets have condom machines. But there’s something about having them out there, in full view, and their often rusty, battered appearance, that I find super sexy. Sadly I’ve yet to ever have need to buy condoms from a machine, but this is definitely on my list of fantasies.

2) Wine – one of the most magical things about France is that if you order a glass of wine, a coffee and a Coke, the wine will almost always be second cheapest, sometimes even the cheapest. I associate France with daytime drinking, wine as a sign of doing things like a proper grown up and the promise that, one day, honestly, I will take wine tasting seriously. Just not this week.

3) Steak – I like steak all over the world, as far as I can tell, but there’s a particular kind, onglet, which you don’t find outside of France that often (or maybe I just don’t know what the English translation is), which is my absolute favourite. It’s a cheap cut which means it’s usually been cooked for a long time and it comes with gravy. And chips. Chips and gravy. Yum.

4) Openness about sex – underwear shops all over town, middle-aged couples kissing as they clink their glasses at lunchtime, topless women on the beach – sex, or symbols of sex feel like they’re all over the place here. Even the things that might piss me off in the UK, like billboard ads trading unashamedly on suggestions of women giving head, fail to bother me. They just make me want to give head.

5) Sea – again, there is sea in many places. I like it here though, for a few reasons. Firstly, because falling in love with the South of France has shown me that I’m in many ways free of the crush that started my love affair with the country in the first place. There are no links to him here, language aside. Secondly, because of the way the salt dries on my skin and in my hair – it reminds me of the feeling of come drying on my body – invisible to other people but undoubtedly there. And thirdly, because it’s scary sea – pebbles and jellyfish and occasional big waves – and I can handle my fear of all those things here now. By myself.

I’m not sure what the point of this piece is, exactly. Vaguely, in the back of my mind, it was about looking at the wider ramifications of crushes, which we dismiss so easily. I guess what I’m trying to say is that once upon a time, this was all filtered through my feelings for a man. And although the feelings for him have gone, my feelings for the place haven’t and they’ve been deepened by a new confidence, a new knowledge of myself and what I like. And that really does feel magical.

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Flash fiction: Testa rossa

Disclaimer: I know nothing about cars. When I saw the Wicked Wednesday prompt this week, I was tempted to skip this one. But I like a challenge, so I scoured Wikipedia until I found a single detail I could hang a story on. Probably though, the Ferrari Testarossa looks nothing like the car in Back to the Future. I’m bad at film, too.

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The Ferrari stopped and the tinted window opened to reveal a man. Just not the one she wanted. He reached out, folded the wing mirror in, and the tinted glass slid back into place.

She came here to escape. There was, she’d discovered, little difference between being at the end of a relationship and right at its heart. Everywhere she went, everything she saw, it all reminded her of him. In the supermarket, she noticed the guys who used the same brand of toothpaste. In their favourite bar, the ones who ordered the wine he preferred. Suddenly, an abnormal proportion of the men she encountered wore his aftershave.

Thank god he wasn’t a coffee drinker.

Every Saturday she wiled hours away in coffee shops. They hadn’t even been together that long and she’d forgotten what to do with weekends spent alone. She read the paper, or tried to. She emptied sugar packets onto the table and drew patterns in the snowy grains. She tried, really tried, not to think about him.

The car door opened. The man stepped out. He was good looking, without a doubt. He was wearing beige tailored shorts and a pale blue shirt. Good legs, great arse. And he had a nice car. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she feel anything?

She’d noticed the car for the wrong reason when he’d pulled up to the kerb. Some women, she knew, would be drawn in just by the sight of a 1980s style Ferrari that looked like something out of Back to the Future. Most would never even have spotted the branding above the brake light.

Testarossa.

She watched the man as he queued for his coffee. How would his thick leather belt look hanging open? How would his fingers feel inside her? Would he taste like the espresso the waitress was pushing across the counter towards him?

She willed herself to imagine his cock, to think about the way the head of it would feel spreading her open, to picture the veins running like tributaries under the skin. And amazingly, the willpower worked. She was wet; thinking of somebody new.

He downed his coffee and walked back to his car. If he noticed her sat there, by the door, he didn’t show it.

For six months, the only man she’d thought of, the only one she’d wanted, was the man who was now her ex: fiery, passionate, red-headed. Her very own testa rossa. It was those words on the back of the car that drew her to it, another sign, another reminder of her loss.

But as its driver fired the engine and pulled off into traffic, she knew something inside her had shifted.

She would fuck other men. Men who drank different wine, used different toothpaste, wore all kinds of aftershave. Her testa rossa would become one of many, loved and lost, but fondly remembered. She would be ok, more than ok, in fact. One day, not too far from now, she’d remember how it felt to be happy.

For more Wicked Wednesday, click the image below…

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Wicked Wednesday: Crumpled

She’s lying in the surf, unexpectedly. Or perhaps not so unexpectedly.

This has happened many times before. One minute, she’s negotiating her way across steeply banked rocks into the shallows, the next she’s an untidy heap in the water. Usually, it’s a particularly vicious wave that takes her down; today a small child on an inflatable has crashed into her legs and toppled her.

And the whole time, he’s standing there, watching.

It’s moved fast. They’ve only been together three months, and the holiday’s been planned for two. Summer was a bad time for it to start – she’s more vulnerable from June to September.

It sounds ridiculous when she thinks of it that way, but it’s true. On their first date, he suggested a walk. She was glad he saw that as an option, but fuck, she agonised over shoes for hours. Flat sandals make her tired, and wedges are too much of a risk. Trainers would make the most sense, but she knows they do her no favours. She’s seen people who’ve never batted an eyelid when she’s wearing sturdy boots look down curiously when she’s wearing trainers. They make her ankle lazy. She wears the wedges. She’s nothing if not stubborn.

On the beach, he helps her up; holds her hand as they move into deeper water. She wishes she could tell him some of this stuff.

Every time she falls, she tries to think of crumpled things that she loves. There are lots. Slept-in beds, still warm. The Sunday papers, read from cover to cover over a lazy breakfast, or a few days later, screwed up tighter and nestled into a pile of kindling, waiting for someone to strike a match. Sweet wrappers. A surprise £20 note in the pocket of her jeans. Crunchy, orange leaves in autumn.

The holiday ends, as does the summer. Shortly after, he moves in, and adds new crumpledness to her life. His shirts on the ironing pile. Condoms wrapped in screwed up tissue in the bathroom bin. And a receipt that she finds in the hallway one morning when she’s tidying. There’s something written on the back, and she flattens it carefully so she can make out the words. In his sloping, squished up handwriting, he has written

Will you marry me?

Marry me?

I love you.

Any of those would do.

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On language learning and sex

On Thursday nights, every other week, I teach English to foreign workers. A few weeks back, with the rest of the class absorbed in a pretty basic exercise, I found myself perched on the desk of a Spanish student whose level of English is well above that of the average student in the lower-level group.

‘I thought we talked about this a few weeks ago,’ I said. ‘You were going to try the higher group, remember?’

This particular student is a real sweetheart. We’d talked previously about whether her grammar was good enough for her to move up a level – I was adament she was, her argument to the contrary was that she occasionally makes mistakes with her tenses. Of course, she could stay in the lower group – it doesn’t make a huge difference to me – but the more I thought about it, and I did think about it a lot, on my way home, the following morning, the more I realised that what makes me sad about it is that she’s letting her fear hold her back.

As soon as I decided I wanted to be good at French, I got good, pretty much. In class, at least. On a holiday to Australia aged 16 I took a grammar workbook which I realised later was aimed at university students. There were no explanations or examples, so I worked through it to the best of my ability, only to find that more often than not I was getting the answers wrong and I had no idea why. I couldn’t recognise how far I’d come in a couple of years, only that I wasn’t yet where I wanted to be.

And I made my life, and a lot of other people’s, an absolute misery.

For two years running, my best friend won the end-of-year French prize and it seemed so bloody unfair, even though, looking back, I can see exactly why that was the case. She was a meek, obedient, disciplined student, good across all four skills, while I, despite being the one with the offer of a place at Oxbridge and the one who spent all her free periods reading French novels, applied myself only to the things I was comfortable with, namely Reading, Writing and Listening. Not speaking. God, no.

It wasn’t all my fault. I had a filthy temper, which I could now tell you was born of anxiety, but at the time I, and everyone else, just assumed meant I was a stroppy, difficult bitch. My French teacher, with whom I thought I was desperately in love, believed that speaking skills were improved by filming class discussion or debating activities and then playing them back to us, so we could identify our errors. I know a bit about language teaching now, and it’s not a terrible method, but his major failing was not recognising just how much it didn’t work for me, and mixing it up a bit.

We had an agreement: I knew that what bothered me was seeing myself move on camera; the jerky movements that to me screamed ‘disability,’ so I sat out of shot. You could hear me, but not see me. And still I hated it. It made me cry, it made me shout, it made me anxious as fuck in the run up to lessons where I knew we’d be being filmed. I know now that disability has coloured my views about every aspect of my body – I don’t like seeing myself move, hearing my voice, still photos that I can’t control … the list goes on. I wish I’d been able to tell him that calmly.

I owe the change to my Cambridge interviewer, who recognised I was too young and too lacking in confidence to be able to handle the challenge of a Cambridge degree straight after leaving school. My gap year was obligatory. Learning to speak French was not. Not for them, at least, but my mum wouldn’t let me get away with just working my summer call centre job for another year.

And, to cut a long story short, in a bakery in Switzerland I really learned to speak French. I doubt, even when I was pretty much fluent, that I was ever grammatically perfect. But I was revelling in the language, really enjoying it in a well rounded manner for the first time ever. I got a job abroad because they needed someone to speak English with the tourists: I spent most of the Winter letting the Brits struggle on in pidgin French before switching to English once they’d reached maximum fluster.

I was so immersed in the language that when things went wrong ‘Putain!” was more instinctive than ‘Fuck!’ I delighted in the fact that the French for ‘pussy’ is ‘chatte’ and that I could drive my boss crazy by answering with a slangy, drawn-out ‘Ouais,’ rather than the crisp and polite ‘Oui, Madame’ that she expected. All stuff that I picked up by just throwing myself into the language, and not overthinking it.

I’d love to say that that was the last time I feared throwing myself in at the deep end, but of course, it wasn’t. I never worked in Italy, or found an equivalent way to immerse myself in the Italian language and as a result the Italian I picked up during my degree has pretty much wilted and died. And I certainly haven’t lost that fear when it comes to sex – even when I’m doing something I love, like giving head, I still worry that my technique could be better. There’s a balance to be achieved here somewhere: if I love the act despite my worries I’m not letting it hold me back. And technique, like grammar, has a place in sex, certainly, which is why I’m always sorely tempted to go and do this.

The girl that I teach moved herself into the higher group after we had that chat. I’m pleased for her, because I think she’ll be having more fun. And fuck, just like sex, when language is fun, it’s *really* fun.

To read more Wicked Wednesday, click below.

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*I realised halfway through this, that it’s kind of an extension of/development of the thoughts behind this post. That’s ok though, right?