In Defence Of Cheesy Sex Moves
The Debrief: Bring out the sexual Primula!
I am not a worldly woman with a roster of erotic moves. In fact, my only ‘trick’ (and this only works with someone you know very well, and have been sleeping with for some time) is to take all your clothes off, wrap your whole body, head included, in a blanket, lie on the bed, wait for them to come in, and throw the blanket off, shouting ‘BOO!’ Twenty per cent of the time it works every time.
Once, as a variation on the theme, I attempted to surprise and arouse my then boyfriend when we were on a mini break in Prague. We were in a confusing boutique hotel (very reasonably priced mini bar, luxurious bed linen, separate room with sofa and telly, one light, in the wardrobe, and one towel between us that might have actually been a flannel.) But there were floor to ceiling windows and long, heavy velvet curtains.
Saucily, I thought I’d surprise my boyfriend while he was out of the room buying Czech M&Ms and probably having a poo in the lobby. I took off my clothes and hid behind the curtain. Then, the effects of the Eastern European all meat diet started to manifest. I farted dramatically. It was chemical warfare bad. I tried, and failed, not to giggle. The harder I laughed, the trumpier I became, until my boyfriend opened the door, reeled backwards and almost passed out in the hotel corridor.
This is why I embrace the most known, obvious sex routines. When I attempt to do anything vaguely original, it will go badly wrong.
A cliche is a cliche for a reason. We might want to throw them out with the (rose petal infused) bathwater, but if we revisit the old school moves that we’ve learned to avoid, we might fall in love with them all over again. Also, the seventies are back, so cheesy sex is bang on trend. Light some incense sticks, get down on the fur rug and work up an appetite for some black forest gateau. Here’s how to go get your fromage on.
My flatulence would have been forgotten altogether if we’d had some Diptyque on the go at the time. There’s plenty of pseudo science promoting the link between scent and arousal, and sometimes it’s a simple case of memory. If you once had a wild sandy session on the beach, a coconut candle will bring it all back in the best way. The other wonderful thing about candles is that the light is so darn flattering. Now that we’re all expected to do it with the lights on, there’s something adorably retro about having at it while your room is gently illuminated with a soft glow. It’s dead Nicholas Sparks-y. Just be careful with your naked flames otherwise your session will be terminated by a tragic house fire. Which, now I think of it, is also very Nicholas Sparks-y.
There is only one activity in the world that is more Liz Taylor than drinking champagne naked, and that’s choosing new diamond necklaces for your puppy. Usually I’m a fan of sober sex, but a flute of fizz signals the popping of literal and figurative corks and the commencement of crazy, celebratory, good time boning. Even if you’re just celebrating the fact that it’s Wednesday and champagne is currently on special offer. I’m obliged to inform you that cava, prosecco and Appletise do the job just as well (but if you’re planning on propositioning me, I prefer to drop my knickers for Veuve Cliquot. There’s a prosecco shortage, you know.)
My friend Becky has a lot to say about lingerie. She’s not a fan, because she sees it as something you wear for someone else, a lot of it is designed to look good, not to feel good, there’s an abundance of man made fabric and it goes up your bum. I don’t disagree with her - not when I think of all the nights I’ve spent in bars biting down on beer mats when a fancy bra was really digging in. So I’ve found a compromise in the M&S nightwear department. A plain black or white silky slip feels as sexy as it looks and falls just the right side of ‘Oh, Mr Postman! I wasn’t expecting you this early! Now, take my empties and fill them with your full cream Gold Top!’
Originally I wrote ‘satin sheets’. Who am I kidding?! The only satin sheet story I have ever heard involves an apocryphal tale about a famous nineties R&B artist and week-to-view calendar fan, and a friend of a friend that got picked up by him in a club in Aldershot. But crisp, cool, clean sheets that match - oh, baby. They will feel so good against your hot, sweaty skin, and you can pretend that you’re having sex in a film. Not a bongo film, either. A Merchant-Ivory. I suspect that I’m aroused by any bedlinen combo that reminds me of being in a hotel, and makes me think that I’m about to get bent over a Corby trouser press. (It’s either that or a very boring laundry fetish).
The Sex Mix
Let’s get it on! The great thing about a raunchy playlist is that it comes with all sorts of helpful sensual instructions, for when you forget what you’re supposed to be doing. It’s a workout of sorts, so you can pick the beat and bmp that you want to work to, although it’s more effective when you want to make some slo mo lurve. This is a moment for Barry White and Bolero, as it’s hard to maintain an erection when you’re within earshot of the Ministry Of Sound’s Marbella Sessions. You can moan along to the music, or turn it up just loud enough to conceal any queefing. (Or hopefully you’re just more relaxed about fanny farts than I am.) It’s all good, as long as you don’t do what my first ever boyfriend did and set the mood with ‘Fuck Her Gently’ by Tenacious D.
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