Pillow Talk


OK, OK, OK! I am finally willing to submit to the idea that Tex is one of life’s good ones. We’ve been seeing each other for a month now and not once does he appear to have lied to me, nor has he stood me up, stolen from me, hit me, hit on my friends, called me anything derogatory, ignored me, made me doubt myself or generally acted like a complete dick. This is definitely a record in the Dating Dramas of Little Miss Lola and at some point in the future I may decide to memorialise this milestone. For now though, let me just talk about the sex…

Oh come on, you’ve all been wondering, since discovering that he hadn’t stood me up and I was just being a dramatic old pessimist, whether Tex and I actually got around to ‘doing the deed’ this weekend. Well yes, we did. A lot actually.

After a lovely Friday evening of chatting and watching movies, as well as entertaining Billy, Shortstuff, Slim and Buzz for a couple of hours, Tex and I finally dragged our tired selves to bed around 4am. Sex was definitely on both of our minds but after one drink too many we doubted either of us would be able to put in our best performance and so were perfectly happy to just lie in each others arms and get some well deserved rest. Instead, we ended up snuggled together,  chatting about our ridiculous yet lovable social group, the impromptu boxing match between Slim and Buzz that had occurred in my living room around 2am and the cynical, dry humour of dear miserable Shortstuff. We also discussed how he could reclaim all the money Tasha still owed him, his disastrous dating history and why the truly insane members of the female population give the rest of us a bad name,

‘You know I’m not perfect though,’ I said in an attempt to buffer any of my own crazy that may rear its ugly head in the future, ‘we’ve talked about my depression and PTSD‘.

Tex pulled me closer into him, ‘Tasha took all my money and the one before that tried to stab me. I’m perfectly OK with your kind of crazy’.

We must have been lying there talking for an hour before I felt a shift in Tex’s energy. That is the only way I can describe it. One minute we were all snuggly and sleepy, the next his body had become tense and he was giving my arse a light slap,

‘You know,’ he said gingerly, ‘I reckon I could…if you wanted to…’

I slid my hand down and felt the hardening bulge beneath his black Calvin Kleins. I reckoned he could too.

For the next twelve hours Tex and I only left the bedroom for bathroom breaks and glasses of water. I could certainly give you all the sweaty, orgasmic details but, as I’m sure you have figured out by now, I kind of like this man and simply do not feel comfortable sharing our most intimate of experiences together. What I will say, is that my recent dalliance with phallophobia has been cured completely and I have absolutely no regrets in taking a much younger lover! He was attentive, gentle and considerate when it mattered and had no qualms about dominating me and taking control when it suited us. All my anxiety about our first time together had made it more exciting, but by the third or fourth time that Tex found himself between my thighs I was completely at ease and happily discovering all the wonders and delights of our sexual chemistry.

By late Saturday afternoon, after intermittent bouts of sex and snoozing, we were both pleasantly exhausted and wrapped up in each others nakedness. Our legs entwined, my head resting on his shoulder and my fingers slowly dancing over the soft dark hairs on his chest, Tex stroked the stray hair from my face and planted soft, tender kisses on my forehead. In this post orgasmic bliss we had found a new level of intimacy, a deeper affection,

‘Oh my god! We’re getting all gooey over each other. We’re doomed!’ I whispered in his ear. His eyes fixed on mine and he smiled,

‘Yep, I think we probably are. But I’m OK with that’.

Faith Restored

When he cancelled our plans for Thursday evening, claiming ill health, my head went to the bad place. I suspected that I was being stood up, that everything he had said to me before, everything that indicated things were going well between us, had all been a lie. He had rescheduled our plans for Friday evening, but when I still hadn’t heard from him by 8pm that night, my suspicions were confirmed.

‘Call Tex, ask him what he’s playing at,’ Star had urged me, ‘I didn’t think he was like that’.

‘Give him the benefit of the doubt until you do hear from him,’ Carboy had said in an attempt to console me.

I didn’t take their advice. I didn’t want to be the girl who nags and moans and I didn’t want to put anymore faith in a man I knew was ditching me for no apparent reason. Instead, I chose to suffer in silence with my feelings of rejection and berated myself for falling for yet another Mr. Wrong.

‘Why do I always pick the assholes?’ I said to Star, ‘You’d have thought by now that I could spot them, but they come in so many disguises!!!’

I sat looking at the bottle of vodka by my side. I knew it would take away my pain, if only temporarily, but I also knew that running from my emotions with alcohol or drugs would only make things worse in the long run. Don’t drink to make the bad times better was a motto I had followed rigorously since my breakdown and I wasn’t about to go back on that now over a man. More significantly, occupying myself with the battle of denying the vodka meant I wasn’t focusing on the rejection from Tex. It was tough, but it was the lesser of the two evils.

A little after 9pm I opened my front door to a smiling Tex. I was overwhelmed with a mixture of surprise and relief. We exchanged intial pleasantries and he apologised for not coming over earlier in the evening, citing work issues as the delay. He seemed, quite understandably, completely oblivious to the torture I had been putting myself through. So I told him.

‘I thought you had stood me up,’ I said as he sat beside me on the sofa, wrapping his arms around me. He looked genuinely surprised.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because they always do that’.

The words fell from my mouth freely, without self pity or regret. I was simply stating a fact.

Tex squeezed me a little tighter and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead, ‘I’m not them’.

For the next 24 hours this tall, dark twentysomething remained by my side, in my home, in my bed, proving every minute he was there that he is certainly nothing like any of the others…


Like A Virgin

‘I’m so pathetic’.

These are the words that repeatedly fell from my mouth during a Skype conversation with Amber last night. We were discussing Tex and, more significantly, how nervous I am about sleeping with him for the first time.

It’s not like I’m a virgin, far from it. I am proud to have had some of the filthiest and most adventurous sex known to humankind and I am certainly not a prude when it comes to sexual fun and frolics. I am open minded,  non-judgmental and, as long as it doesn’t involve animals, children or poo, I’m a firm believer in doing whatever floats your boat. Even if Tex hails from the land of vanilla sex, I’m perfectly comfortable with that. In fact, I would probably welcome it. Why? Because I am nervous. Silly, stupid, schoolgirl who doesn’t know what shes doing, kind of nervous. I am a highly educated, well travelled, responsible woman with firm political beliefs and strict social moral code and yet the only thing I’ve been able to think about for the past 24 hours is what lingerie set I’m going to wear for my first time with Tex. Which is tomorrow, by the way, should anyone want to pencil this monumental milestone into their diary.

I’m like a born again virgin. Twitchy and giddy and with my head in the clouds. I’ve cleared my entire afternoon so I can spend it waxing and moisturising, and I’ve got fresh sheets ready to put on the bed an hour or two before Tex arrives. The black, the pink and the red lingerie sets have been laid out on my chest of drawers for the last few days and I am still undecided as to which one is going to say ‘sexy and sultry’ rather than ‘old and trying too hard’. I have no idea what I’m wearing on top of the winning bra and pantie set. Considering Tex has seen me quite regularly with my hair screwed into a bun and my scrappy trackie bottoms hanging off my hips, I don’t know why my wardrobe is suddenly so damn important, but it is. My son will be with his grandmother and Star has promised to keep Weston out of the house for the evening. Tex will be coming over straight after work which means he’ll be all suited and booted which is not normally a turn on for me but when he’s wearing it, it suddenly becomes smooth and Bond-like as opposed to dull corporate drone. Of course, now I’m panicking about undoing ties and shirt buttons and making a total hash of everything with my clumsy, nervous fingers. I need to paint my nails. There is wine in the fridge, condoms in the bedside cabinet and a trillion butterflies in my stomach.

‘I’m doomed’ is another phrase that seemed to be repeated a lot during my Skype conversation with Amber, ‘I’m fucking doomed’. Why? Because I think this man may have me hooked.

Chelsea, Netflix & Chill


I am my own worst critic. I am fully aware that my low self esteem comes primarily from repeatedly beating myself up about past failures and although I am intelligent enough to recognise that most of my insecurities and paranoias can be easily dismissed with a little common sense, I just don’t seem to be able to appease my lack of self worth. This weekend, however, has proven to me that I don’t always need to be the one who pulls me up and puts me back together after a bout of the blues. This weekend has shown I have some amazing men in my life who can do it for me.

Saturday saw Billy and I heading to our own personal mecca, Stamford Bridge. I used to attend Chelsea FC games most weekends, but with work commitments, parenting and the ever increasing expense of being a football fan, I haven’t been able to attend a game in years. Billy found himself with a spare ticket and before I knew it, he was picking me up at my front doorstep with an entire itinerary of fun planned for us.

I was a little apprehensive about going to the game with him, if I’m to be honest. Hes a twentysomething lad who attends most games. He has his football associates and I was worried that dragging this old and knackered thirtysomething woman along to the match would in some way embarrass him. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The drive to London saw us chatting easily about his new girlfriend and my developing relationship with Tex, about family and work, finances and mental health. When we finally arrived at the Bridge, car parked and with an hour to spare, we made our way into the nearest Chelsea pub for a few pre-match drinks. There, Billy proceeded to introduce me to everyone as ‘a legend’, ‘a true Chelsea girl’ and ‘one of his closest friends’. I was greeted warmly and immediately included into the laughter and banter of this close knit, truly loyal True Blue group.

A one nil win against Norwich isn’t something Chelsea fans would usually be singing about, but our recent score sheet has been less than dire and any kind of win was going to be met with cheers and relief. Content that our team were on their way back up, Billy and I jumped back into the car and headed home. He was eager for me to meet his new girlfriend, finally, and I was looking forward to seeing Tex.

Tex. I still cannot believe that he and I are working out so smoothly. I’m waiting for some big revelation that knocks me on my arse, to discover that hes not really that into me at all and this has just been some kind of twisted game. I guess I can blame Captain C**t for that little insecurity, because absolutely nothing about Tex says he is anything less that genuine. Upon arriving back in our hometown and heading into a local bar, Billy walked straight into the arms of his beautiful Little Lady, and I was met by a smiley Tex holding out a vodka and lemonade for me. What can I say, the man is well trained!

I like Billy’s new girlfriend. Little Lady is exactly as her nickname suggests…a petite brunette full of smiles and friendly chatter. Confident and sweet, she has a great sense of humour and, quite clearly, is totally smitten with our Billy. I was so relieved she didn’t do that jealous girlfriend thing that some women do when faced with the close female friends of their boyfriends. Instead, Little Lady gave me a huge hug, gushed about how pleased she was to finally meet me and how highly Billy had talked about me, then proceeded to drag me to the toilets for the traditional bathroom gossip that us women are so darn good at.

The drinks flowed and the laughter became more rambunctious. I was loving the bubbly, bouncy atmosphere created by close friends and like minded people, but spending all day on a drink and football bender was beginning to take its toll on my old lady bones and…OK, that’s a lie. I wasn’t exhausted from spending the day with Billy and I was more than happy to wile away many more hours with Little Lady and her friends, but more than that, I wanted 5 minutes alone with Tex. I was apprehensive about too many public displays of affection because we ‘re not technically a couple and I didn’t want to embarrass him, but I was also desperate to feel his arms around me and his lips on mine. When he asked if we could go back to my place, ahead of the others, I didn’t need much convincing.

Back at my place, Tex and I put a movie on Netflix and curled up on the sofa together, a quilt thrown over our legs to keep out the winter chill. Then, we talked. I mean, really, really talked. We went through all the gory details of his past relationship and its inevitable break down, my recent dramas with a rebellious teenage son and our tentative relationships with our parents. We discussed my mental health issues, my breakdown and my suicide attempts, and I warned him that getting involved with me would not always be easy and if he wanted to back out now I would completely understand.

‘The emotional pain gets so bad I try to claw my heart out through my chest with my own fingernails,’ I confided, apprehensively, ‘Its not pretty and there is rarely anything I can do to stop it. Medication takes the edge off and limits my down days, but I still have them’.

Tex squeezed me a little tighter, ‘well I can just be here to help you get through that,’ he said confidently and with compassion.

A wave of comfort and security swept through me as he lent down to plant a kiss on my forehead. I’d never known a man not recoil at the thought of a crazy, over emotional woman with a load of baggage, let alone one who was prepared to stay around and witness it at its worse. Of course, he hasn’t actually seen me going through one of my meltdowns yet, but the fact that he is prepared to try spoke volumes.

With my arms and legs entwined around him like ivy, Tex and I were in a snuggly bliss when we were rudely interrupted by the arrival of Billy, Little Lady, her friends and brother, Weston and Star. The rest of our evening, or rather the early hours of Sunday morning, were spent drinking, dancing and chatting absolute nonsense together. We took turns choosing the music, a democratic endeavor that saw the most eclectic playlist ever to emerge from a group of drunkards, and made sure the joints were always rolled and the glasses never empty. By 7am Little Lady was beginning to lag and Billy, the doting boyfriend, wrapped her up in his jacket and escorted her and her pals to a waiting taxi. Weston and Star headed up to bed, leaving Tex and I alone once again.

We barely moved from the sofa all Sunday. We kissed, we snuggled, we binge watched movies on Netflix. We cursed the fact that we had to work in the week and couldn’t stay like that for a few more days. I made us a huge bowl of pasta and occasionally forced myself to leave the blanket fort we had created for ourselves in order to make steaming hot mugs of tea. We discussed our plans for his birthday, Christmas and Boxing day. It became very clear that this man wasn’t planning on running out on me anytime soon.

‘I’m sending my son to his grandmother next weekend,’ I told him, a slight smile on my lips.

Tex knew what this meant. Despite being incredibly affectionate and tactile, and despite both being incredibly turned on by one another, we haven’t actually got around to sleeping together yet. I haven’t felt rushed into sleeping with him, nor has he made me feel obligated in any way. In fact, he’s been completely respectful of the fact that I don’t want our first time together to be some quick, rushed fumble thats under pressure from the risk of being caught by my son! A weekend with the house to myself means a weekend with Tex to myself.

‘You know you’re not leaving the house next weekend for a full 48 hours, right?’ I grinned.

‘Absolutely!’ Tex laughed.

‘And we have to spend 90% of the time completely naked?’

Tex wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me, ‘I like the way you think!’

Sssh, Don’t Jinx It!


I always speak too soon. Its as if I jinx myself by pushing my optimism too far; the weight of it squashing my hopes and dreams and leaving me looking like a fool.

I don’t want to jinx this. I don’t want to speak too soon. All I will say, is that at the moment, I’m all ooey-gooey over a man and I have never known it to feel this good.

I don’t worry about whether he’ll call or text, because I know he will when he can. I don’t worry about being stood up or let down at the last minute, because I know he won’t. I don’t waste countless hours over analysing every conversation to figure out if he likes me or not, because I know he does. There are no games, no bullshit, no drama. It’s just so easy.



Phallophobia. This is the official term for a fear of penis’. Penises? Or is it peni? I’m not sure of the correct word to use when discussing the penis in plural form. I doubt it really matters. What matters, is that phallophobia is characterised by a fear of male genitalia. Sufferers of this condition, both male and female, experience a lack in sexual desire, anxiety about sexual interactions and, most significantly, extreme terror at the thought of a penis and/or their exposure.

I’m pretty sure I haven’t developed phallophobia. The idea of cock doesn’t frighten me and looking at one probably won’t bring me out in hives, but I have certainly developed a level of anxiety with regards to sexual intercourse and the exposure of new and as yet unconquered cock. I cannot tell you what has triggered this clearly irrational fear, but it is slowly becoming a very consuming thought inside my mind if left idle.

When contemplating sex with a new partner, my mind usually imagines the shape of their torso, the strength of their hands, the softness of their lips. More recently, I have found myself plagued with images of excessively knobbly cocks, pale and pasty members and dicks adorned with red bumps and unexplainable blotches. My subconscious has taken on the role of a mental contraceptive, frightening me into abstinence with the idea of mutant genitalia.

I am not afraid of sex. I am not afraid of being physically intimate with a man. In fact, I am full of hope for my future sex life and wait with barely contained excitement for the day when a man runs his hands over my warm and exposed skin, yet I am haunted by the concept that Mr. Right may come with a Mr. Wrong lurking in his pants.

Our irrational fears, I believe, are often an expression of our silent inner turmoil. Maybe those who fear clowns actually fear looking silly, being made a fool of. Maybe those who fear heights struggle with the confidence or ambition required to climb onwards and upwards in life. Maybe the excessive fear of germs and dirt is someone’s way of dealing with the fear of sickness or vomitting, or the idea that when taken ill there will be nobody there to look after them. I am no scientist, no psychologist, I do not know why we fear the things we fear, but to be afraid of anything without due reason must have its roots deeply buried within our psyches.

My mild case of phallophobia could be a form of self punishment for all the lovers I have taken in the past, although I highly doubt it. I regret nothing. It may be a case of transferred anger; after all, my own reproductive system has given me more than my fair share of troubles over the years and it is a genuine surprise to me that the frustration of an ectopic pregnancy, cervical cancer and now endometriosis hasn’t seen me scooping my own uterus out with nearby kitchen utensils. However, I expect the likely explanation for this recent cock-unfriendly attitude comes from an even greater fear. As a new man enters my life and makes me re-evaluate all that I have ever known about men and relationships, I am faced with the harsh truth that I am afraid to get too close to another person. I am out of practice when it comes to long term dating and, of most significance to my dalliances with phallophobia, I have recently acknowledged that I do not understand relationships or how they are meant to work. It is with great apprehension that I must admit, creating a reason to fear penis may stem from my anxiety about the way I feel towards the man upon whom the next penis is attached.


Phallophobia – Fear/Phobia of a Penis

What Its Like To Have Phallophobia – A Fear of Penises

Phallophobia – Do You Have A Fear Of A Penis?

Friday 13th November 2015

It had been the end of a horrible week. My emotions were out of control. One minute I was sobbing uncontrollably, overwhelmed with feelings of rejection, hopelessness and inadequacy. The next, anxiety paralysed me into montionless silence, afraid to even answer the telephone or glance at another human face. I had no explanation for these feelings and I was quickly losing my battle against them. I was exhausted.

My low mood had not gone unnoticed by those closest to me and, to my complete surprise, Tex had arranged for some of the lads to come over on Friday evening to cheer me up. They bought beer and drugs as usual, but I politely refused their offerings, explaining that I didn’t want to risk anything that may worsen my current mental health crisis. They understood and were supportive, even going so far as to praise me for my resolve. Slim kept hugging me and telling me what a wonderful person I was. Jiminy threw around random compliments about my intelligence and wisdom at regular intervals and Handsome amused me with his dry humour and ever failing attempts to get me into bed. All the while, Tex sat beside me, a hand gently resting on my knee or stroking the small of my back. It was set to be a calm and relaxed evening among the men I feel safest with.

Just after 9pm, I received a news alert informing me that a bar in Paris had been attacked by gunmen. The report gave limited information; gunmen, grenades, Paris, ongoing. My first thoughts went to Amber, who had moved to Paris at the end of the summer for work and study. I text her all the information I had received, still not fully aware of the atrocities that would unfold.

‘I’m in the cinema,’ she replied, ‘whats going on?’

I continued to update her on the situation as and when new alerts came through, but I didn’t receive any further replies. I began to worry. Slim’s hugs got a little tighter, Jiminy’s words turned from praise to positive reinforcement, Handsome’s jokes were silenced. Tex continued to sit by my side, his hands offering affection and his eyes offering solidarity.

I had met Amber for the first time nearly a year to the day. I had heard people say that sometimes you meet someone and it is as if you have known them your entire life, that maybe these people were friends in a past life or even soulmates. I’d never really known what they were taking about until that Friday evening when I tried to imagine my life without Amber in it. When we first met we had talked non-stop for three hours, only to be mutually silenced upon the appearance on James Franco. Since then, many conversations had been had, all providing support, laughter and understanding. I realised how easily and quickly Amber and I had fallen into the behaviour of women who had been friends for decades. No topic was out of bounds, no secret left unrevealed, no opinion withheld. My fear for her safety was rising with every minute and I could feel the panic rising in my chest.

15 dead rose to 18 dead.

One attack.

Two attacks.

Three attacks.

A restaurant, a theatre, the Stade de France.

Gunfire, explosions, a hostage situation.

Bloodshed, bodies on the pavements, emergency services.

20 hostages, 80 hostages, 100 hostages. A metal band in concert.

France vs Germany, a friendly match, Stade de France evacuated. Suicide bombers.

France in a state of emergency. Military en route. Borders closed.

It was nearly 2am by the time I received notice that Amber was alive and safe. She messaged me to express how sorry she was for worrying me and that she had managed to get home safely. The cinema had been evacuated and she was thrown into the mayhem of shouting, sirens and panic. There was a collective sigh of relief from everyone in the room, my son and Weston present for the good news as well. I knew this would only be the beginning for Amber, the memories of that night replaying in her head over the coming weeks, the morose and anxious atmosphere of Paris acting as a constant reminder of their loss and suffering. Although the lads lifted the spirits in my house with their revived banter and general silliness, Amber was never out of my thoughts for more than a minute. I resolved to tell that girl how special she is on a more regular basis.


I know you’re reading this.  You are an inspiration to me. So strong, so brave. Not just for how you are coping with the horror of that night, but for all the other things you have shared with me. So smart, cultured, ambitious and independent. You’re a beautiful soul and I fucking love you.

6 mass shootings. 3 suicide bombings.

8 suspects. 7 dead. 1 still running.

Deadliest attacks in France since World War 2.

Over 400 injured. British, Swedish, Algerian, Romanian, Portuguese, Australian, Spanish, American, Chilean, Irish and French.

Current death toll 132.