You can find his blog here and follow him on twitter here..... but for now, sit back and enjoy his fab post!
When the Brit Babes invited me to write something for their blog, saying yes was not difficult. Eight lovely ladies and me, crammed together in a cosy corner of the internet for some serious sex chat? Sign me up right away! It was only as the big day approached that a nasty little question started to worm its way into my brain: what the fuck am I actually going to write about? I don’t have a book to plug, or a product to sell. I’m not even a published author! Let’s face it, my blog is mainly dirty pictures and I’m pretty sure the discerning readers over in this particular parish wouldn’t be interested in those.
Anyway, this morning I was thinking about erotica and the brilliant people who write it, and I decided that the best thing to do would be to tell you all a story. Once I’d made that decision, it pretty much wrote itself. I hope you enjoy it...
Like all the best stories, it starts with a kiss. This one took place on the front seat of a battered old Nissan Micra in the summer of 2009. I was 28 years old, and the woman kissing me outside my apartment that night was...not.
We’d met at a BBQ a few hours earlier. There were eight of us lounging around my best friend’s garden, all in our mid-to-late 20s. His fiancée had invited along a couple of her mates to even out the gender split, and Anna and I clicked right away. She was short and curvy, with a filthy glint in her eye; I beat her at Jenga, she beat me at Singstar, and after too many beers in the evening sunshine I jumped at her offer of a lift home.
She made her move as I opened the door to get out of the car. I felt myself being yanked back by the collar, and had just enough time to turn my face to meet her mouth with mine. It was a good kiss: soft at first, as we sussed each other out, then deep and passionate, with just the occasional tooth-bump to remind us that we hadn’t done this before.
I invited Anna up to my flat that night, but she said no. Snogging on the front seat of her car was one thing. Jumping straight into bed with a man she’d been warned was trouble...well, that was quite another. We exchanged numbers though – it really was a good kiss – and half an hour after she left, I heard from her for the first time.
‘Thanks for a great night. Um, how old do you think I am?’
‘Dunno! Charlotte’s 25 – I guess you’re about the same?’
‘Ha, nice try. Flattery will get you everywhere. I’m 39...’
I learned three things that night, all of which have only got truer with time. Number one, I’m a terrible judge of age. Number two, a good skincare regime really can work wonders. And number three – the most important lesson of all – older women are AWESOME.
How awesome? Well, when Anna came to visit a few days later, I got my next set of clues. Zero inhibitions. Relentless stamina. Multiple orgasms. Squirting. A mouth so dirty that even I blushed at what came out of it. I didn’t so much walk her to the gate at the end of it all as I did stagger along beside her, a broken man: chewed up, wrung out, and aching from top to toe. I waved her off only after extracting a firm promise that she’d wait at least a week before coming back, and sat back down to rethink my entire worldview.
It’s not that I was ever consciously ageist, and I had previously dated women who were older than me – but older by three, four years, which at the time meant late 20s. A year shy of 40? That felt like a whole different generation. She was almost closer to my parents’ age than she was to mine; hell, she was a year away from having been born in the 60s!
Those were the thoughts that went through my head that afternoon, and one-by-one those were the thoughts that got replaced by the vivid mental images of what we’d just done together. Anna on her knees with her face stuffed into the pillow and my cock inside her, pushing back with perfect timing to meet each thrust. Anna wrapping her legs around my neck and ejaculating all over my fingers as I stroked her G-spot in the way she’d shown me. Anna holding my erection in one hand and slowly lowering herself down onto it, hair tossed back and a predatory, feline smirk on her face.
Over the next couple of years, more images stacked up alongside the ones of Anna. There was Anneke, the 38-year-old mother of three, who gave me the best blowjob of my life in a car park next to the river. Not long after that came Birgitte, the Danish university professor, who may have been 42 but had the energy of a woman half her age, and packed her teenage son off to his father’s for the night because “this is probably going to get loud.” At the office Christmas party it was twice-divorced Sally who dragged me into the hotel toilets and bent over with her hands braced against the cubicle door; her skirt was already hiked up as I fumbled with my belt, and we fucked in silence while our colleagues trooped in and out of the stall next to us.
These days, when I think about sex with older women, I don’t think of crow’s feet or stretch marks or cellulite, because while all three are often part of the package, they’re not what I notice at the time and they’re certainly not what I remember afterwards. Instead I think about their hunger. The older women I’ve been with haven’t just wanted to fuck me, they’ve wanted to devour every inch of my body.
Our lives get more complex as we age, and the things we worry about get more serious. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why older women often seem less sexually inhibited than their younger counterparts. Sex can function as a form of escapism: they get into the bedroom and any baggage they carry around with them – the body hang-ups, the stressful job, the mortgage, the ageing parents, the difficult ex-husband and the bratty kids – gets shoved to one side for as long it takes you to satisfy their sexual demands.
In return, you get the benefit of their experience. You get everything they’ve learned from all the other guys they’ve been with: the tips and the tricks and the flashy moves, sure, but also the insight it’s given them into their own bodies and their own sexuality. They don’t worry when things go wrong or when something’s not working. They can ask for what they want, and they can show you how they want it. There’s an ease about their manner which is not only incredibly sexy, but somehow deeply reassuring.
Why am I writing about this today? Well, erotica and erotic romance are genres dominated by female authors in their late 30s and 40s. It’s too simplistic to say that those women write great sex because they’re having great sex, but at the same time I don’t think it’s any coincidence that a lot of authors find their erotic voice after they hit 35.
Age brings with it a wealth of source material, and the maturity, confidence and wisdom to process and channel that into top-quality smut. It’s much easier to write freely about sex when your personal hang-ups about it have been gradually smoothed away by the passage of time. Happily, as art imitates life, so life imitates art: in general, the more erotica people write, the more that in turn enhances their own levels of sexual curiosity and adventure. It’s a virtuous circle (ok, not too virtuous...).
Maybe that’s why Anna and Anneke and Birgitte and Sally were all so amazing in bed: by day, they were youth workers, and university professors, and marketing managers, but perhaps by night they were all holed up in their studies, tapping away on their laptops. Either way, 32-year-old me is grateful to them for making this a story with a happy ending. They taught me a huge amount, and without them I’d have missed out on some of the best sex of my life.
It’s like I said before: older women are AWESOME.
Thank you so much for having me, Brit Babes, and keep up the good work! I really enjoyed meeting so many of you in person at Eroticon, so to be invited to blog here today was a singular honour.