Holy sex


There are times I think I’m getting too old to still be a sex fiend. I’m secretly happy about it (in that macho sense – plus it’s fun), but I wonder all the same whether I should not have matured beyond it. This is the first time I’ve been this age, so I don’t really know how it’s meant to be. This is all uncharted territory for me, but there’s no lack of instruction. There’s a whole industry these days built up about questions of lifestyle, and if you’re ever in doubt ‘society’ is there to give you a nudge and it’s unfiltered feedback. That’s part of the issue. There’s a lot of feedback, both direct and indirect.

There’s a lot of me laid bare on this site, in all my magnificent complexity. I resist being pigeon-holed. I might be sexual, might occasionally be predatory, but I’m also kind, gemtle and romantic. They’re broad brushstrokes, but there’s a lot in between and around – and typical of human nature, some that is occasionally contradictory. That’s how humans are made.

Maybe that’s how we’re made, but society rarely draws such fine distinctions. Society tends to see in black and white. It generalises, and in so doing overlooks the nuances and ignores the exceptions. As I’ve often spoken of, public opinion pretty well scrapes along at the lowest common denominator. Individual opinion is often better than that, but it will generally start somewhere about the middle.

Now I’ve been into girls since I was about 11, when most of my schoolmates thought them a bit icky. It went on from there, and I’ve harboured strong desires pretty well ever since, without any noticeable decline. As I’ve been single for most of that period, travelled widely and lived socially I’ve met a lot of women and had a lot of fun – which is sex sometimes, but also flirtation, conversation, and stimulation that goes beyond the physical. I don’t know if I have one regret. I’ve had some great times.

Now generally society will cut you a bit of slack as a virile lad. Up to a point there’s a grudging admiration, and even some subtle encouragement. As you get older it becomes less acceptable and you find yourself looked upon as a bit of an outsider to the cloistered world most of your friends and colleagues have gained entry to – that of matrimonial bliss and parenthood. The girls disapprove, mostly, the boys with a wink and a nudge are happy to live vicariously through you – whilst returning to the safe embrace of ‘home’.

Dating is more complex. Guys like me are often termed players, because we date a lot, are single, and enjoy sex. It’s more complex than that, like I say, but whatever. I hear all the time how women want nothing to do with players, and I understand that. If you’re seeking a serious relationship what’s the point of going out with a serious dater who seems intent on getting into your pants, and no more?

But guess what – I want the same thing. I don’t need to be dating different women all the time. I’d rather be with the one woman I love, adore and trust. But hey, you know that aint easy. I’ve got to meet women to search for the one who I might be happy with. And if that ultimate joy is not to be found with them, then I’m happy to find some transient pleasure along the way. What’s wrong with that? Isn’t that perfectly sensible? I’m not a monk, I like sex, I like intimacy, fuck it, let’s go.

When push comes to shove I think many women who proclaim one thing are happy to acknowledge this. Desire is not sexist. Most women I meet state that they won’t have sex on a first date, but my experience tells me otherwise. Likewise, while I understand there is some caution regarding men like me considered to be more out there, I know that many women also find that element exciting.

I like sex. Muchly. I like intimacy. I like taking a girl’s clothes off and discovering her naked bits. I like the feel of her skin on my fingers, like her murmuring in my ear, the little gasps and groans, I like her body shifting and writhing and arching with the pleasure of it, like to feel her wetness, love to taste her, love her tasting me, love her nibbling and teasing, love how our eyes meet, how the smiles spontaneously come, love how instinctively – in the best sex – we know exactly what the other wants, and move in sync to gift it. Why wouldn’t I enjoy that? Why would I deny myself that?

The other week I was with a girl. She was a delight. She was of Croatian heritage, though Melbourne born, dark and dangerous looking with intense, unblinking eyes. We were to fuck each other, nothing more, but we did it with joy. Clothes were off in a jiffy, my hands sliding over her curves, over her stiff nipples, between her parted legs. She was one of those women you love having sex with because she took an absolute and unabashed pleasure in it. There’s nothing like a willing and happy partner in bed. Likewise she was generous to me, taking pleasure in mine. We talked sometimes, giggled a little here and there, just having fun. Then there was a moment when I’m lying there and she’s bent over me, her arse towards me, her head bent, her long dark hair brushing against my skin. I looked at her as if really seeing her, one of those moments when your eyes are wide open and you sense something profound at work.

She was tanned, her body athletic and toned. Her arse presented to me looked like a heart. Her pussy was wet and bristling with moist dark pubic hairs. As she shifted it gaped at me and I felt something go ping. This is what I know, I thought. This is something that means as much to me as anything else that might be holy. I had been there, lived a life, journeyed here and abroad, met women, here and there, of every country, had looked at them like this, been drawn to them, as I was now. So many moments, so many stories, so much in between, and this, always this, something that I return to, again and again.

It feels strange to write that, but it felt so strong. I’m not a religious man. I’m strong, independent, and inclined to go my own way – and perhaps that is why I’m single still. There’s nothing profound I really believe in or cling to, outside of my own principles. This connection though was an irregular constant. Here, in these moments, is a kind of union that is mostly physical – but intimate – and sometimes more. It’s true that men will often define themselves in some way by their penis – but the penis itself is defined by the vagina it seeks.

That’s enough for a Sunday afternoon, and you can take it or leave it. It’s no surprise to me that I do what I do, and what I feel about it. It won’t change. The bigger question might be why I’ve failed to meet that one person I’ve been looking for. That’s another story, but until I do find her I’m not going without.

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Erotic nostalgia


Woke up this morning feeling pretty coiled up in the best way. I walked around and discovered I was in the grip of some kind of sexual nostalgia. Sexual nostalgia may not be the best sort of nostalgia, but it’s just about the most fun. I figure most people have experienced it at some time or another. You know how it is, you recall all sorts of things connected to the sex act, from great roots to subtly erotic moments that linger a lot longer than any orgasm. Maybe that’s what it really is, erotic nostalgia rather than sexual. The erotic is much more than just the sex, it’s the mind too.

That probably explains that when these fleeting memories cross my mind they’re rarely about those rushed acts of sex that happen periodically. It’s not often you find yourself recalling a one night stand, satisfying as it might have been at the time. I’ve had sex with about half a dozen different women this year, and I struggle to recall much about most of them, and that’s been the same for years. I’ve never been one of those guys who keeps a running tally of conquests. I probably started off that way when I was about 17, but lost interest. I’m not really that kind of guy. In one way though it’s damning, because I have no idea of how many women I’ve been with, and I think likely that there are dozens I need some kind of hypnosis to recall.

There are things I do remember though, and in the best way – with a kind of tender eroticism. I remember an image from earlier this year, a girl lying naked beside me who turns and reaches for something on the bedside table. Her lovely arse is presented to me as I glance over. I see her puss slick from the sex we have just had, a tangle of dark hairs surrounding the tender pink meat of her. It’s a delicious sight that my mind snaps at that moment to preserve for posterity. I remember the same girl how she would steal into my room long after midnight, take off her clothes and lay beside me. In the dark we would fuck. By contrast to the other memory, at the time I was ‘all there’ – it’s only in hindsight do I recognise the romantic lyricism of those times.

There’s a girl, giggling, who tries to fuck me in the bath – always a difficult operation; and who later, out having a drink, guides my hand done the front of her knickers to her hungry vag – while she looks at me with a smile worthy of the Mona Lisa.

Of course, there is something intensely rousing in all of this. Strange too, there is also something touchingly tender in the recollection.

The virtues of being horny


When I was in Langkawi, about 2 weeks ago, I woke up one morning feeling more than usually horny. It happens, and regularly, though I can’t say why. If you benchmark my usual levels of sexual appetite at about 100 then sometimes, rarely, it might dip to about 80, and other times swell to around 900 (it aint pretty). On this day I felt vibrant and the world about me a place of infinite sensual possibility.

I left my room for breakfast and found myself the first guest in the dining area. I was chatting with one of the owners when the first of the other guests arrived, a neatly built, attractive Indian girl, her boyfriend still obviously sleeping in. The next guests appeared then, a Chinese couple from KL, the woman not beautiful, but very feminine. Finally the other guests arrived, a French couple, the woman lithe and fit and with an interesting look.

I continued my conversation with my temporary friend while my mind raced.

I don’t really know what is in the minds of other men, though often I presume that I do. I presume they are much like me when it comes to matters of sex, that while they might not zoom to 900 like I do they will often be pre-occupied and distracted by speculation and anticipation of matters sexual. I imagine that they experience similar flights of fantasy, and at times have that confirmed in occasional conversations with my mates. I think I’m likely randier than most, but the difference is more likely to be in extent rather in type of of desire. But I don’t really know.

Sometimes when I’m bored and feeling a bit antsy I’ll play a game. I’ll be sitting on a train or a tram and I’ll look about me. I’ll look at the women, goiung from one to the other, gradually ranking them in my mind from the first person I would want to have sex with, to the last. That done, and presumably a few more stops to cover, I’ll subtly change the rules of the game. This time I ask myself which I would want to have a relationship with most. Often, mostly, the lists are quite different from each other, those you want to fuck, those you want to marry.

I went through this exercise that morning in Langkawi. Which is it I wondered, the cute Indian, the feminine Chinese, or the sporty French girl? They were all attractive, but the decision came easily to me: the feminine Chinese.

The reasons may surprise someone who believe exercises like this are simply about objectifying women for sexual cravings. The Chinese girl didn’t come out on top because she was feminine, or because she was the ‘sexiest’, but because she captured my imagination. How?

As I glanced across to her I observed how she ate her breakfast, the way she lifted her head to talk to her boyfriend, the way she sat there. Her feet were folded beneath the chair as she leaned forward, her little sandals having slipped off and feet bare and crossed. As she wielded a fork with her right hand she held her long, dark hair with her left, sweeping it away from her face and out of her food, at the back of her head. It was obviously something she had become habituated to do over the years, and it revealed both personality and a back story. It gave some insight to the person, and as a sight was both unusual and cute. In a sense, with her her feet innocently bare, and this unique gesture, I was some way towards knowing her – and keen to know more.

It’s easy to play down sexual desire as being all about the sex, but – in my case at least – that would be false. Imagination plays a great part in the experience, and often lends a delicious edge to it. There’s no denying the great pleasure in a spontaneous fuck over the kitchen bench, or a chance and abrupt sexual encounter with a stranger. Long may they occur. But equally, and perhaps differently, the pleasures of anticipation, imagination and the slowly coalescing sexual burn are never to be discounted.

I can remember once asking a girl to help me with my cuff-links. She was a girl I knew quite well and liked, but had not yet made that connection. I watched as with her dextrous fingers she slotted the cuff-links through the button holes on my cuffs and her face all concentration, focussed on this minor and passing activity. Suddenly I felt captured by her. Until then I had been conditioned to see her only in a certain way. Suddenly I saw her differently. I sensed some deeper part of the inner person. In her eyes I saw depths I had never bothered to look for. I could see the individual hairs of her eye-lashes separately. Close as we were I inhaled her scent, a mixture of soap and perfume and skin. I need only to have leaned in a few inches and kissed her. I didn’t, but for the first time became alert to her sexual presence. I’d probably idly looked at her before, but now it was real and pressing. She was whole you see, a desirable package not just of body and the bits that make up a woman, but the pieces inside, the tenderness and intelligence, the quirks and history and the things that made her, her.

It’s an alluring package, and suddenly you want that package to be alive to you as you are to her. You want, you desire, fiercely, you anticipate that – and you want to see it in her eyes too.

I am perhaps a bit different to most men in that my imagination is more active, more vivid, and maybe just a little more out there too. I have a strong seam of sensuality running through me also that allows me to enjoy these seemingly small elements that so many will overlook. I think that is different.

Nothing happened with the Chinese girl, nor throughout the day. I went to the beach, I read, I swam in the pool, I went out for dinner, and later in the evening I returned to the hotel.

I felt just as horny then as I had earlier in the day, but resigned to the fact that it would come to nothing. Mostly that’s as it is. I sat down with a glass of wine at the bar. Soon I was joined at the bar by one of the co-owners, a Chinese Malaysian from somewhere south of KL who had gone to school in Melbourne. She was about 35, lesbian – her partner in the venture was her partner in life – and intelligent. In our early encounters she had seemed intimidated by me, or so it felt. It had seemed as if she was abnormally alert to whatever I said or wanted and ready to respond whichever direction I went in. Now she was more comfortable with me.

She was clearly the butch half of her relationship, but much more attractive to me than her partner, who I found flowery and over-done. She was not conventionally attractive, and likely had little interest in being so. Her dark hair was cut short, she dressed in masculine clothes, her body wiry, her breasts small, and her face without make-up. Still as we spoke I found myself drawn to her. In hindsight I think the way in had been her earlier hesitancy with me, which had drawn my attention and got me wondering at her. Now, as she told me about her schooldays and the challenges of running a hotel and stories about Arab guests and so on, I began to speculate. I looked in her eyes with my arousal growing. So what if she’s gay, I thought. Like so often before I undressed her in my mind bit by bit. Sure, her breasts were small, but to my surprise I found an attractive figure, imagined the perspiration I could see on her skin now spread as we had sex back in my room, imagined her naked body entwined with mine. She would be a willing and adventurous lover, I thought.

Alas, it was only fantasy. We did not rendezvous later, but it’s a story illustrative of the strong part imagination plays in desire. And how important it is – for me anyway – to get some fragment of the other to get inside them as a person. I love being horny.

The nature of attraction, circa 2001


A Waitress at Duval's Restaurant)

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I’ve written a lot of different stuff over the years, a lot of it gathering dust in the obscure nooks of my hard drive. Rather than let them moulder there quietly I’ve decided to bring them into the light. I haven’t reviewed them, and I’m sure that they will be of varying quality and quite possibly borne out of a perspective very different from today – still, they’re mine. Over the next few weeks/months I will publish them here just so they’re on the public record, good, bad, or indifferent.

The first of these is a piece I wrote one afternoon in 2001. I remember it well because I remember the scenes it describes, the the state of mind and the time in life in which I wrote this. I was in the middle of things. Earlier in the year I’d fallen in love with a woman who later took a job abroad. Soon I was to visit her, unsure of what to expect, but hopeful. This piece came from that in-between time, and is typical I think of the ruminative investigation that even now I’ll occasionally indulge in.

The Nature of Attraction

I asked her what was more decadent, the pavlova or the tart. She looked at me, a slight smile curling the corner of her mouth. I watched, expectantly, something in my eyes telling her this was no idle question, but words intended to provoke and entice. Her smile deepened, her large eyes went to the ceiling as if in deep thought, then returned to me, responding in kind to my gentle challenge. “Well, I think then that the crumble with ginger ice-cream is most decadent, messieur.”

“I don’t know if I can handle that much decadence for lunch,” I said. “Maybe later…”

“Mmm, then I think the tart with maple syrup is more decadent. Yes, I think so.”

“Then I’ll have that,” I told her. All throughout our eyes have met, and the subtext of our conversation decoded. It is delicious.

Later I think of the nature of attraction. I think it is not simply that I would like to take that French waitress to bed with me. It is not about sex though I am sure that would be fine. I am drawn to her specifically by her specific charms. She is petite but voluptuous at the same time. She is short but with a rounded rump on her that is attractive, and breasts that push firmly against the stiff fabric of her blouse. Her lips are full and sensuous, and her eyes great pools of feeling and thought. Her hair is a dark black, fashionably bobbed, so in my imagination she resembles a French shop girl of the fifties maybe, attractive and elusive and slightly mythical. But here she is, responding to me. Later she recalls to my mind the stories of Anais Nin for some reason, the mix I think of vulnerability and eroticism. That is her, why I am drawn to her.

I think beyond that, to the nature of attraction itself. I had gone into lunch with the image in my mind of the woman I have been seeing. She has been on my mind much, wondering what it is I feel for her and what I should feel. Maybe I could love her but I do not know. She is there though, in my mind, an attractive, interesting, intelligent woman that who knows could be the person I spend the rest of my life with. So we sit down for lunch and I order wine and then a meal from this mysterious and alluring French woman who calls me messieur and looks me in the eye. And I feel that attraction, and later, I ask, why?

The answer to this question lies in the relationship between these two women, and me, and in a fundamental truth. I was drawn to the French waitress by the obvious: a lovely accent, her good looks, her deep and sensitive eyes, and her responsiveness to me, her erotic edge. There were things less obvious, less tangible, which are a consequence of chemistry, things you feel only without clearly understanding. I imagined then holding the naked body of this French waitress close to me, close so she is sheltering her petite body against my broad shoulders, my strong arms around her. I imagined her then like that then with her speaking to me in that voice, with that accent, telling me of her life perhaps, or what she dreamt, in any case sharing something with me as I held her like that, not speaking myself, listening as our eyes meet. Quite possibly there was a sex scene that came before this, but that was not what I was drawn to. I was drawn to the intimacy of that moment, of the strong me holding the more fragile her as she spoke from her heart to me. I imagined perhaps an enchanting set of contradictions in her, an uncertainty resolved by a smile and a shrug of the shoulders. It was these elements that drew me to her.

I have lain with my girlfriend as I have described, and she has looked up to me with eyes that melted me. We have shared our intimate moments in a succession of beautiful moments. She is different though, tall and athletic, blonde, successful and obviously so, outwardly certain and confident, an impressive person to speak to and be with. It is only a few people like me that know she is not as confident or certain as she appears, that there is a little girl inside her, that she is silly and generous and teasing. These are the things we have shared. These are the things that I know of her.

So I know on the one hand, and imagine on the other. One is flesh and blood beside me, a hand slipped into my mine as we walk down the street, a lingering kiss on parting. The other is conjecture and vivid imagination, fantasy.

Here then is the nature of attraction. It is the difference between what is known and what is imagined. It is meeting that mysterious stranger and letting your mind run away with you. It is lingering by that door wishing to open it but ultimately declining, letting instead your imagination go that way. What lies behind that door in truth, what world is revealed, what is it that you see through that other persons eyes, the other persons words?

And so with my French waitress I imagine the kind of life I might have had with her but never will. Wistfully I think of what I miss out on, what now I will never know. What could I have learnt with her about myself? What insights could she have guided me too? What could I have felt, what could she have drawn and teased from me? How is the world different beside a petite French waitress compared to alongside a statuesque blonde lawyer? Though there are sensual pleasures it is not about sex. Sex perhaps is the window dressing, or better still the matadors cape of attraction. Attraction I believe is about discovery and the will to discovery, about learning about yourself and others and the world that they see.

I spoke of all this over dinner to friends. They paused in their eating and watched as I spoke fluently. I had considered deeply in the 24 hours since that lunch. At the conclusion they looked at each other and then back to me and one said: “that is what happens when you’re in love. Everything is deeper and means more. You look at things differently, don’t you?”

Well yes, but that is what love is about.

Amorous, or polyamorous?


The Purple Mobius symbol for Polyamory, non-mo...

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About 12 months ago I wrote about a situation I was in with a polyamorous woman. At the time I felt tentative at best, and at worst, confused, at the situation. In these pages I confessed to feeling more comfortable in getting around with a woman behind her husband’s back than with a woman whose husband happily encouraged the tryst. I felt uncomfortable in what I thought of as an odd, vaguely unseemly relationship: at least betrayal was a black and white, this was something else.  In hindsight my comments were intemperate, though honestly felt, and they prompted a storm of unexpected attention. I was contacted by people all over the world and had some post comments rebutting my simple heterosexual perspective. I was greatly surprised. I responded as I could, and at the same time quietly opted out of the relationship.

About a month ago the woman contacted me again. Nothing had changed, she was still married, still polyamorous, still interested in getting together with me. This time I allowed myself to go further than before. I saw my reaction last year as being fearful, and unworthy of the man I aspire to be – the least I could do was learn more. To that end we exchanged missives and as I didn’t last year I asked all about her polyamorous philosophy. How did this come to be? What did it mean to her?

To my quiet surprise I was unsurprised by her answers to me: it was pretty much as I thought. It seemed gentle, open, almost sweet in a way; a willingness to openly connect with others honestly and intimately. I couldn’t argue with any of that – is that not how human society should be? And yet I remain of the old school, strange as that may seem for such an old tart as myself: you’re either in or your out. You’re either in love and fully committed; or you’re not in love and without obligation. This seemed to fall somewhere in between, and while I’m not going to judge anyone for their beliefs it still feels foreign to me.

Despite that I’m meeting up with her next week. I wonder what I expect to get out of it. I like her, and I guess that’s a lot. She’s an attractive, intelligent, sexy and gentle woman. I would welcome her as a friend. More than that?

I guess that comes down to what she expects of me. She made it clear that while sex needn’t be part of the equation, quite clearly it may be. She seems attracted to me, and though I doubt she is motivated solely by the prospect of a gentle romp in the dark with me clearly, that’s a further extension of intimacy and well and truly on the cards. How would I feel about that?

It’s a funny dilemma for me to be in. It’s not often I’ve knocked back the opportunity (though it has happened). Sex is a natural part of a healthy life, whether it be purely for the transient pleasure of it, or to commit oneself to another body and soul in the act of giving as much – or more – as one receives. Love without sex is for me a kind of emotional veganism: I don’t see the point of it. Sex is some of the best bits, if only because there is a surrender in it with someone you love. It is cleansing and humbling. Celibacy has no point but it’s own virtue: that is, no point.

I don’t know if sex will become an issue between us, and I may well be jumping the gun – but if I find I genuinely like her then it would feel natural to adjourn to the nearest bed with her. That’s where it gets complicated though, and not only because her husband would be somehow complicit in the act. Ultimately our conflicting philosophies place limits on the possibilities between us. For her I may become another of several. For me, notwithstanding my general (and occasionally indiscriminate) appetites, if I grow to like her as I might then I would want her exclusively.

It’s an interesting situation, but better faced than avoided. The best solution as I see it is to be open myself with her: to speak honestly of my feelings and doubts as I have here. Who knows what surprises the world has in store?

Got the hand?


I went to the soccer the other night and was walking home a little after 10 when my phone rang. We’d had a decent meal sitting in the sunshine of the city square, as well as a few cold pints and a glass of wine before the game even begun. By the time I was walking home I was pleasantly weary and looking forward to winding for an hour or so before climbing into bed. Then my phone rang.

It was Donna. She had been to her first ever speed dating event the week before and had connected, she thought, with one guy in particular. As it turned out she was mutually agreeable with three guys, including the one she liked. Problem is that he had written to her saying he enjoyed meeting with her, but only wanted to be friends.

Donna was in a predictable tizz. She was upset and confused and searching for answers. Once more she felt rejected, and her expectations defeated. She wanted to know what this meant and what she should do from a ‘male perspective’. Her inclination she told me was to send an email demanding to know what had happened, the tone veering from hectoring to sarcastic.

By this time I was home with Rigby jumping all over me. I rolled my eyes once more at the extreme reactions of Donna and attempted to put her straight.

She feared that she had put him off when the conversation veered to the topic of her ex, a subject she’s always pretty vociferous about. That was a no-no I told her, and hardly likely to help, but the damage was done – learn from it. Absolutely no future in sending anything narky, or even asking for an explanation – it sounds weak and nothing to gain from it. Best to let it go altogether I told her, but if you have to respond then be cool with it – a single line, composed and in control.

It’s never as easy as that with her. We probably spent the next 30 minutes going backwards and forwards over the same argument. Like a lot of women she agonises over every nuance of expression and possibility. What does that mean? Why did he leave his mobile number? Why did…? He was giving her the polite brush-off, that was that. He had the hand, and if she wanted to change anything she had to get it back.

She grudgingly agreed and when finally we disconnected I was exhausted by the perpetual to and fro. I went to bed.

At about 2am my phone tinged as it registered an incoming message. I was sleeping well and so picked it up. It was Whisky from KL, exasperated he said by the complexities of women. He went on to explain that he had knocked back an offer of sex from some woman and she had exploded. They had been friends for 7 years and now she threatened to have nothing more to do with him. Why were women like that?

I sighed lying there in the dark. This was the other side of the argument from earlier in the night. Tempted to give a glib response instead I gave him my opinion. Sex is something men do. We disconnect ourself from it. If we miss out it’s generally no big deal – another bus will come along soon enough.

It’s different for women. For most women most of the time there is an emotional commitment to sex. It is, in some sense, an expression in that moment of their feelings and emotions. When we reject the sex we implicitly reject them, or so it appears to them. For men sex is mostly physical; for women it’s personal. This sense of rejection is deepened knowing that many men will fuck anything that moves – so what’s wrong with me?

This morning I got a message from Donna. She had taken my advice and sent a cool and non-committal email to the man in question. Her first response was an excited “I’ve got the hand!” He had responded asking for more. Nothing intrigues a man more than a woman in control – and nothing deters a man more than a desperate woman.

Men can learn a lot from women, and vice versa. It is in our make-up as men that we almost always have the ‘hand’ early on even in a relationship – though it can change later. It is our nature to skim the surface initially, to avoid premature commitment and generally the more intimate emotions.

We should be better than that. But so to should women abstain from getting too caught up too soon, from feeling things too personally. That can come, but in the meantime there are only positives from being in command of your own feelings and expression. It’ll draw more men that way than not, will fascinate many men and give a more equal relationship – as it should be.

Today Donna thinks I’m the oracle. Everything I said has been correct, but that’s because I’m a man, the uber man in a lot of these respects (Donna believes in the event of a nuclear holocaust the cockroaches and my confidence will both survive), I think like a man and know how other men think. And I have that ruthless, hard-nosed way of thinking most men do in certain situations, black and white, it works or doesn’t and move on if it doesn’t.

Now Donna has that to, for now – and the man comes running.