Joanna Cake is often sent items for review and, if you purchase an item via some of the links on this site, she may receive a small commission.
However, no reviews are influenced by this fact. If I don't like it, I will say so!
Joanna Cake is often asked to review products and websites. These links should not be regarded as recommendations or endorsements unless specifically stated.
Look, just because I have my bottom in my sidebar, I review a few vibrators and I write a bit of erotica, does that really make me a Sex Blog?
I mean, I view a Sex Blog as one that purely talks about sex and sexuality or has pictures and videos of cum-guzzling vixens sucking cocks left, right and centre.
I’d prefer to think of myself as more of a Life Blog, with a bit of sex thrown in. If you analyse the lives of most women of my age that’s how it is… although most of them don’t talk about some of their more nefarious activities.
I’d like to think that the majority had a vibrator tucked away somewhere… and if they haven’t, well then that’s one of my target audience!
IT’S OK TO HAVE A VIBRATOR!
It’s not a reflection on you… or even your husband.
When she reaches a certain age (normally just after 40), a woman gets the effects of a surge of testosterone due to the decreasing levels of oestrogen and progesterone as she starts to head towards Peri-Menopause. It can also happen in cycles when you’re younger if you have an implant which gives you hormone replacement therapy because of an early hysterectomy… I can remember a friend telling me that when she came back from having it replaced, she would walk through the door and throw herself at her husband because she was so horny.
These are the women for whom a vibrator is a must if they are to satisfy the strange and sudden rampancy of their desires.
But, for younger women too, why shouldn’t we masturbate if the feeling takes us? No one looks askance at a man for admitting to dealing with morning wood on a regular basis… or at any other time of the day.
It’s all part of normal life… and yet some people – probably the same ones who want to keep sex dirty and smutty and hidden away in a back room – want to make women who write about every aspect of normal life feel bad about it. As if they are abnormal.
But what is it they don’t like about it? The fact that we’re writing about it? Or just having sex at all.
I can understand that some advertisers don’t want their ‘brand’ sullied by association with a blog which is more akin to porn but is mine really obscene – as it has been described…?
Sure, there can be some nudity – but I try to keep it so that it is not overt.
Yes, there are some sex toys – but they’re just playthings for grown-ups. This is not a site for the under 18s.
OK, I do use the ‘c’ and ‘f’ words… but in their original context. This is NOT swearing and it is never gratuitous.
What I don’t understand is why certain advertisers would not want to appeal to such a large market. After all, whether this is a sex blog or not, anyone who reads it does have a life outside of their sexuality and can, therefore, be persuaded to think about those areas whilst perusing items about self-pleasuring.
Anyway, I shall continue to write as I have always done, talking about subjects that affect and impinge and enrich my daily life – be it internet marketing, parenting, health, intimacy or, heaven forfend… SEX!
And perhaps if other people weren’t quite so restricted in their thinking, they might live much happier lives.
“This bed looks like a sex shop!” declared Ruf incredulously.
It was the morning after I had driven along a large swathe of Britain’s favourite motorways, the car laden down with the latest goodies from my lovely suppliers at Ann Summers, only to have two packages from other emporia arrive by mail at his address as well.
Stockings, dressing up outfits, two varieties of dual-action vibrator, a bullet vibe, a clitoral stimulator, lube and some sex toy cleaner wipes, complete with their discarded packaging, were all strewn across the already crumpled duvet.
It’s not that Ruf minds getting to be the guinea pig when it comes to the reviews but the sex toy drawers at his flat are becoming overloaded and I can see all the signs of a ‘cull’ being initiated over the next few weeks. However, as I told him last time, it’s not as if you can ebay a reviewed vibrator – even if it has only been used once. And it seems a shame to just discard perfectly good toys, especially as you’re not supposed to just throw them in the bin. Cue visions of arriving at the local tip and enduring the probing questions from the man on the gate in his attempts to ensure that I place my refuse in the correct receptacle.
In any case, Ruf pays no heed to my framed Fantasy Fanny painting which holds pride of place on the wall overlooking the bed, so it seems strange that he is concerned about his Dad paying a visit and looking askance at him for a couple of bits of coloured silicone hanging out of a cupboard.
Anyway, prior to getting down and dirty with the serious equipment, like the latest incarnation from the rampant rabbits range – The Big O, we warmed up slowly with the new clitoral stimulator, Push My Buttons from Ann Summers Cosmosutra range.
These toys have been developed with the experts at Cosmopolitan Magazine ‘to provide the modern woman with the perfect sex toys to reflect her deepest desires’.
Nicely presented, it comes in a cute black and pink box with pink writing, proudly asserting that it is a ‘divine clitoral stimulator’ and sits inside in its own little pink lined nook. The blurb on the back claims that it is the perfect toy for a first foray into toy play – although I should stres that it is not suitable for anal use.
At 5.25 inches (13cms) from base to tip and 1.5 inches (3.5cms) across at its widest point, the Cosmosutra Push my Buttons Clit Stim is a bit like a dumpy curved black sausage, but its bulbous base is ergonomically designed to fit comfortably into the palm of your hand leaving the business end exposed.
It’s made from a really nice silky, smooth material (the website says this is ABS plastic) with a soft, ribbed silicone panel at the tip and is completely waterproof.
Powered by 2xAAA batteries (provided), it has six different vibration settings – three speeds/intensities of continuous buzz, followed by a long, hard, jabbing pulse, a short, light buzzing pulse and a fabulous va-va-vooooom throb. These are controlled by a two-button interface – the top one for on/off and the lower to select the mode.
After a few weeks apart, we had already got ourselves physically reacquainted once that morning but, following breakfast in bed and whilst Ruf looked on, I decided to get myself warmed up for his next set of attentions.
Surrounded by the debris of my new playthings, I applied a blob of lube to the tip and took the Push My Buttons through its various settings. This activity certainly put my delicate lady parts in a very good mood, whilst Ruf seemed to be enjoying the scenic and well-earned rest. The vibrations run the length of the device but are concentrated at the tip so you can run it over your body’s most erogenous parts, go straight for the clit or be more adventurous by using the device internally – it is ideally shaped to slide inside and stimulate the G Spot.
After the more frenetic coupling of earlier that morning, I had in mind a gentle awakening rather than getting straight to the point but the toy had other ideas and, whilst I was rubbing the tip over my labia for a few moments, its design meant that it naturally homed in on my little button beneath its protective hood.
And this is one of the selling points on the website, which recommends it as the ideal toy for couple play – especially where the man struggles to find his lady’s clit. The slim shape means that it only needs to be aimed in the right general area, before automatically sliding onto the right spot. If you change the angle slightly, the vibrations that extend along the body of the device can tickle the length of the inner labia.
Ruf, of course, does not need any further instruction in this department and, whilst I was just about to check out the internal properties, he rather jumped the gun. Fed up with being an onlooker, he decided to indulge in a spot of audience participation and flipped me over onto all fours.
Maintaining the pressure on my clit, I selected va-va-voom and, just as I was about to climax, he slid in from behind to join the party. As I continued to flip through the variations to alter the sensations, the proceedings came to a very satisfying conclusion
My only complaint at this juncture was the buttons. They’re just a fraction too small and flat to be easily controlled in the throes of passion when there is a lot of lube and other moisture around. I lost track of where the on/off and mode buttons were. I kept switching it off instead of achieving the next level of stimulation.
It’s not as powerful as some of the bigger wand clitoral stimulators but, because it’s so concentrated into the tip, it works very effectively. As usual, my menopausal state meant that it took a bit longer to get the party started but, once in full swing, it was all very enjoyable.
Overall, I would say that the Cosmosutra Push my Buttons Clit Stim is a good toy for beginners, either solo or as an introduction to couple play, particularly if, as was highlighted, the gentleman is having a problem with the female body design and the lady has been unable to verbally or physically guide him sufficiently.
My neighbours all keep pristine gardens. As a result, I too have become a keen gardener, forever with my hands in the dirt, talking to my babies as they unfurl their soft green shoots to the sun, watering them possessively in the full heat of summer and watching them die, shrivelled and half-eaten as the slug and snail population of my property eat their fill.
I cannot bear to suffer the indignity of a stray dandelion, poking its head between the stones of my parquet-inspired brickwork pathways and spare neither my back nor my fingernails in my quest for the perfect frontage. I am, to put it bluntly, more than a little obsessed with the appearance of my front entrance. I try so hard to keep its lavender bush lining immaculately trimmed and go to peculiar lengths to ensure that the whole area presents the most pleasing aspect to all comers.
So what is it with the fauna in my little corner of Essex? Do they think I look like an animal undertakers? Why do they always choose my garden to breathe their last gasp and spin off this mortal coil? First it was a too close encounter with a dead pigeon which, at first glance, appeared to be headless. I knew I couldn’t leave it there on the path even in the hope that a passing fox would take it away for a free supper. Those bastards never do that when you want them to!
So, donning my oldest jeans and tucking them into a long, thick pair of socks before slipping on my paint spattered deckies, a ‘has definitely seen better days’ fleece with the sleeves firmly buried inside the long armed gauntlets of my stoutest gardening gloves, I armed myself with a spade and proceeded to investigate the corpse more closely.
It wasn’t a very old pigeon, the feathers were still quite fluffy but it was big enough to take up the entire bed of the spade as I lifted it up and, wrinkling my nose pitifully whilst holding it at arm’s length, started the journey from the sideway to a patch of earth that would be soft enough for me to bury it. You can imagine my disgust as the head suddenly bounced out from underneath it, the neck well and truly broken and, squealing pathetically whilst recoiling in horror, I nearly dropped the lot. Grimacing with the indignity of the whole thing, the bile rising in my throat as I cursed in an unseemly fashion for one performing the duties of an undertaker, I continued the slow walk down the garden where I proceeded to inter the corpse with full burial rites and a prayer before firming the earth over the top and covering it with leaves and a brick to ensure that some vermin didn’t dig the damn thing up and leave even less of it lying in the middle of the garden.
You can, therefore, imagine my dismay when I try to return a parcel that I have taken in for my neighbour only to discover that my latest corpse is a fully grown fox which, having caught the son’s attention as it limped around in the garden plaintively this morning, has decided to come back and cark it on my front drive whilst I was out at Tesco!
I suppose I should have tried to look on the bright side, at least it was not stopping us from parking the cars – hurrah for the considerate foxy. But my stoic side was not encouraged when my neighbour took her parcel, looked down her nose and said ‘I see you have a corpse in your front garden!’
I return home immediately to assess the full extent of the renard problem and realise very swiftly that this is not something that I can just carry by spade and bury in the small but rapidly growing cemetery in my back garden. So I telephone the council and explain the nature of my predicament.
‘Oh,’ says the lady receptionist, ‘the one thing we don’t deal with is foxes. But I can give you the number of the RSPCA or, indeed, the Fox Welfare Association?’
‘The Fox Welfare Association? I think it may be just a little late for counselling!’
‘Well,’ she continues, purposefully ignoring my attempt at irony ‘the best thing you can do is put it in a black sack and leave it out for the dustmen who will take it.’
Now, there are several problems with this particular course of action, the first being that this is Wednesday and the dustman came for their weekly retrieve and disposal duty yesterday! OK, this summer has not been the hottest on record, but the smell is going to cause me all sorts of problems with my social standing in the locality come next Monday.
Next, I try to explain that this thing is the size of a small pony and, being a very tiny person, I’m going to be hard pushed to lift it up, let alone fit it in a black sack. It’s almost as big as me for god’s sake!!!
‘Couldn’t your husband do it?’ Terrific, poor Mr Cake gets home from work in the dark and finds himself providing a shroud!
I try arguing the toss but there is no shifting her. A black bag burial it will have to be. Until, at the end of the conversation, she adds as a parting shot: ‘Of course, because it’s on a private drive, there’s nothing I can do about it, but if it was on the public highway, then I would have to make a report’
So, listening to the hidden meaning behind her words, I don my undertaker’s outfit once more, pick the corpse up by a front and back leg (taking care to bend my knees so as not to put my back out again) and deposit it under the tree outside my property, before alerting the council to the dead body that I have spotted on the footpath in this particularly highly rateably valued residential road.
‘What sort of animal is it?’ enquires the lady who answers.
‘Not being David Attenborough, I have absolutely no idea,’ I reply. ‘But I think it is red with a bushy tail…’
When I look, less than an hour later, the corpse has gone and my front entrance is, once again, perfection.
It’s always a problem when, for whatever reason, we suddenly find ourselves financially embarrassed. My friend, Z, over at The Naked Truth finds herself in such an impecunious position. If you admire her work and feel that you can help out at all, please follow the instructions given there.
Not all of us are able to click on her special button to help alleviate her woes but, from comments over at Marianne’s, some are prepared to use other assets to come to her aid.
For a suitable financial donation to the cause, several bloggers have offered to indulge in a BoobFest and reveal parts of themselves that have not been seen by the BlogPublic before.
Obviously we can’t just pepper our blogs with said photos or where would be the incentive for those who do wish to put their hands in their pockets. So, we’re going to set a figure of $3000. When six confirms that donations reach that amount, all the bloggers, both male and female, will submit their boobshot for posting.
Boob cake pic from a selection at www.bonaviabakery.com/adult2
In the spirit of Blue Peter, we are looking at posting a progress Titometer on Marianne’s site. If any of you computer buffs can give us some guidance on how to achieve same in WordPress, please could you get in touch.
Any other blogger who wishes to participate should just post all of the relevant information, especially a link to Z and her special button.
Those who have stepped up to volunteer so far are:
Now, I could have gone with my beloved Lord of The Rings, Terminator or Total Recall but, thinking back to the dim and distant past, I recalled another film which had such an effect on my imagination that I would watch it whenever it was on television.
The original Jason and the Argonauts was full of state of the art special effects back then, although to today’s viewer, they’re pretty lame and you can easily see the joins. However, at the time, children like me were enthralled by the depiction of such monsters.
And I’m hoping that this youtube playlist will include Groundhog Day because, as fantasies go, it’s not too shoddy either :)
Every week, a whole group of us reveal our favourite movies on a theme, and now there’s a new social media site that allows you to share all your favourite things, as well as search out your friends’ faves so you can surprise them with a meal or gift that really hits the spot. FAVsmile
On 13th February 1542, Queen Kathryn Howard was beheaded in the Tower of London.
The charge was adultery and, unlike her cousin and predecessor, Anne Boleyn, she was undoubtedly guilty.
Brought up in Lambeth by her grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, Kathryn had an unruly youth during which it is documented that at least two young men made free with her body… and most certainly with her consent.
However, she was a daughter of the Catholic Howard family and there was a Protestant Queen on the throne which threatened their power. The King did not like his German Mare and the Duke of Norfolk set about putting his pretty niece into the King’s eyeline.
Henry quickly set aside Anne of Cleves and married Kathryn Howard. She was at most 20 and, in some stories, as young as 15. He was old, fat and nearly 50. He also had a suppurating sore on his leg which oozed pus and is known to have smelt disgusting.
You can’t help but empathise with the young queen’s decision to start a dalliance with reckless, handsome Thomas Culpepper. In some stories, he was known to her in childhood and there is some evidence to suggest that he had been involved in a rape which was hushed up.
The involvement of Anne Boleyn’s sister-in-law in orchestrating the proceedings is rather bizarre. The widow of George Boleyn, who was executed with his sister on a charge of incest, Lady Rochford was now chief of the new queen’s ladies in waiting and seems to have helped her mistress to meet her lover on numerous occasions.
The current series of The Tudors would have us believe that she was also a lover of Culpepper and wanted to please him by arranging these trysts and this seems plausible.
However, it is hard to imagine anyone wanting such a boy in comparison to the manly Henry portrayed by Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Not for Hollywood, the obese, aging monarch of the portraits but a buff King with barely a line on his forehead and just a little grey in his hair.
And yet, the costumes are so gorgeous and the story is just so gripping that it is easy to sweep aside such historical inaccuracies, especially when you hear a man say ‘I have held her by the cunt and would know it anywhere’ on prime time BBC2. That had me staring at the screen with an open mouth for several minutes in shock at what I had heard.
Kathryn herself is played by Tamzin Merchant, an incredible young actress who manages to portray vulnerable immaturity and abandoned sexuality with a consummate skill.
This week’s episode ended with the delivery of a letter which we know will set in place the events leading up to Kathryn’s demise. There are too many religious and familial factions in the mix for her affair to go unnoticed forever… and too many people from her past have been employed in positions close to her for questions not to be asked as a result of the letter.
The King has just given thanks to God for his Rose Without A Thorn, after the disasters of his earlier marriages.
You cannot help but feel a little sorry for both of them.
I thought I saw a man brought to life
He was warm, he came around like he was dignified
He showed me what it was to cry
Well you couldnt be that man I adored
You don’t seem to know, don’t seem to care what your heart is for
But I don’t know him anymore
There’s nothing where he used to lie
My conversation has run dry
That’s what’s going on, nothings fine Im torn
Im all out of faith, this is how I feel
Im cold and I am shamed lying naked on the floor
Illusion never changed into something real
Im wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn
Youre a little late, Im already torn
So I guess the fortune tellers right
Should have seen just what was there and not some holy light
To crawl beneath my veins and now
I don’t care, I have no luck, I don’t miss it all that much
There’s just so many things that I can’t touch, Im torn
Natalie Imbruglia, Torn
It was the car insurance that really brought it home to me because I have to change the address. My car isn’t kept there any more.
I have to start letting go.
Up until now, I have been holding on to the security blanket of my home.
It’s hard to wrest yourself away from the foundation of a quarter of a century’s familiarity and step out into the future.
But, today, the finality hit home.
Originally, I had intended to use these words and the video to accompany a piece about the loneliness that follows the realisation that the sex just aint up to it any more. Those moments where you lie there unsatisfied, listening to his breathing return to steadiness and understand that the connection has gone. That even comfort sex no longer fulfils its function.
And yet somehow, today, the rights and the wrongs, the journey itself – none of it matters because the loss feels so much more painful.
It doesn’t matter that I have Ruf and the future.
I mourn the past – all the failed hopes and dreams, the youthful enthusiasm of two young people who thought they were in love.
In the present, there is nothing that can compensate for that wreckage.
When Boxer suggested animal characters, there were just so many Disney characters! I could have gone with Shere Khan from the Jungle Book, the elegant and eloquent harbinger of doom voiced in the silkiest of drawls. Or for Donkey from Shrek, who always makes me smile.
But then my mind started to expand and lots of real life animals came crowding in – Champion the Wonder Horse! Flippa the Dolphin and Lassie, who always saved the day when the humans were making a meal of things.
But I have spent my life remembering this scene from Bambi. So, for me it has to be Thumper and his mother.
I remember my oldest schoolfriend and her teenage lover.
They sometimes had huge rows which would end with one of them walking out. But they always had their ‘safe spot’. They had agreed, right at the beginning of their relationship that, if ever it all went wrong and they fell out big time, they would meet on their anniversary under the railway bridge close to the station, the place that they first met.
It was a highly combustible partnership. He was a very good looking guy who got lots of female attention. She was attractive, although not necessarily in the fashionable way of those days. What drew him to her was her vivacious personality and the fact that she didn’t follow him around like a puppy dog waiting for him to screw her. She made him work for it… and it was something that he just wasn’t used to.
They were young and energetic. He had had lots of women but he was her first. He took her virginity and he loved that fact. I can remember her telling me some of the less vanilla (obviously I didn’t know that term then) things that they did together. I was flabbergasted and shocked to hear the tale of the empty wine bottle and had no concept of how inserting such an item into one’s vagina could possibly be anything other than dangerous!
Sadly, as time went on, he wanted sex more and more and she wanted it less and less because, whilst it was adventurous, he just didn’t seem to be able to make her come. She said she got more pleasure out of eating an apple.
Being that type of man and the recipient of so many other offers, he strayed and, of course, she found out.
So, after a particuarly spectacular bust-up, she threw him out and refused to speak to him again.
But neither of them could quite attain the same level of thrill in their subsequent couplings. The flamboyant rows, the physical arguments and the exciting passionate reunions were the lifeblood of their relationship.
And that’s why, six months’ later, they were both under that bridge at 3pm on a cold wintry January afternoon.
It couldn’t last, of course. There was too much against them. She was maturing far faster than he ever could or would. She just outgrew him.
The following January, she stayed resolutely huddled against a radiator, wrapping herself in her duvet as she sobbed for her lost innocence and the boy she had to leave behind.
Ruf and I were talking about this and where we would choose to meet. We think we may have agreed on inside the penis of the fertility giant at Cerne Abbas on the anniversary of the day we first fucked – 21 January at about 3pm.
Thing is that we don’t tend to have major rows and we really do try to communicate with each other if we are upset. So, hopefully, this won’t be necessary.
It’s nice to know that there is a Plan B tho :)
Do you have a ‘somewhere only we know’ fail-safe for if/when it all goes tits up?
She must have seen him some time before she came over to introduce herself and shake his hand because, as she withdrew hers, he was aware of the scrap of lace pressed into his own.
Crumpling the material into his palm and placing it in his pocket, he was aware of the warm dampness against his skin, evoking memories of other moments when he had been in contact with the most intimate of her lingerie. To know that his mere presence could still excite her was quite gratifying.
They had not seen each other for over a year. Circumstances had conspired to end their affair. His work, his home life, her domestic difficulties. And, suddenly, there she was at the same function.
But only for a moment because, by the time he had recovered himself, she had left his group and disappeared into the crowd of people chatting and schmoozing all around him. Normally he hated these military vs civilian ‘pressing-the-flesh’ events but this one had just become much more interesting.
He brushed his hand across his face and was instantly aware of the musky smell of her arousal that had imprinted itself from the fabric onto his fingers.
He had to find her.
Stopping only momentarily to make smalltalk with each familiar group, he made a circuit of the room, with no sign of her. So he went out into the corridor to avail himself of the facilities. She was coming out of the Ladies Room when he finally spotted her. High heels clicking against the marble floor, hips swaying as she meandered nonchalantly away from him, seemingly unaware of his presence.
Checking his surroundings to ensure there was no one else around, he marched purposefully after her. At the sound of his pursuing footsteps, she paused for a moment and looked over her shoulder. Registering his intent, he heard her audibly catch her breath and try to move away but nowhere near quick enough. Grasping her by the wrist, he dragged her through the nearest door.
The disabled toilet. Hardly the most salubrious meeting place but coherent thought was beyond him. It was a room with a door and a lock and he had to have her.
His hand moved up to her throat, forcing her back into the room and locking the door with the other. Pushing her until she jammed against the support frame around the lavatory, he grasped her hands in one of his and held them above her head before his mouth swooped down to possess hers. Dexterously, he managed to remove the damp thong from his pocket and manipulate her hands until he was able to secure them to the frame with a distinctly un-sailor-like knot.
Then he stood back to survey her. She was far too clothed for his liking and he set about unbuttoning the fastenings at the front of her shirt dress. He would have liked to just rip it open but he had a care for her reputation and was careful to allow her to retain her modesty when she came to leave at the end of the encounter.
As the dress fell open, he had no such compunction about destroying her bra. Ripping at the lace until her breasts were exposed, but allowing her to keep the supporting frame underneath. Naked, but for the wires, her black lace stockings and some impossibly high stilettos, she reclined against the bars and waited.
He watched her as he carefully removed his uniform jacket and hung it from the hook on the back of the door. Loosened his tie and hooked it on top of the jacket. Slowly unbuttoned his starched shirt, before adding it to the accumulating pile against the door. He slipped off his footwear, slid down his trousers and boxers and folded them into a neat pile before turning to face her in complete Full Monty mode.
Standing in just his skin, the tattoo on his arm confirming that the Navy was his first and only mistress, topped by his uniform hat, he dropped to his knees and buried his face between her thighs, glorying in the soft sigh of pleasure that instantly emanated from her lips.
Looking down, she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his shoulders leaving only the soft felt of his khaki hat exposed. The strong leg muscles pulling his mouth tighter against her drenched pussy; his tongue penetrating her to its fullest extent as his nose tickled her clit.
Eating her hungrily for he was starved. It had been too long. He couldn’t remember all the sane reasons that had persuaded him to stay away. He no longer cared. There was only the knowledge that he had to know that she had missed him too. There was no time to fuck her properly but he had to hear the word. His manhood demanded it.
So he attended to the job in hand, licking and sucking, tickling and tracing. Lips, tongue and fingers in, out and over until her legs clenched painfully around his head and his face was soaked with her. Her breath in frantic gasping gulps above him as her body tensed and she exhaled ‘Chiieeeefff’ in one low long moan.
He moved away, adjusted his hat and looked at her. Spent and slumped against the frame. The juice of her satisfaction dribbling down her thighs. His hand grasped his erection and began to pull at it. Within seconds, the semen spurted out in shuddering squirts onto her breasts and belly as he trembled uncontrollably with the ferocity of the explosion.
She smiled up at him as he began to rearrange her clothing. Carefully rebuttoning the frock over the sticky mess beneath and then attending to regaining his own uniform.
He kissed her then. Gently and tenderly as he reached up to release her wrists and chafe the blood back into her hands.
Replacing the thong in his pocket, he lifted his cap in salute, turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
He wondered how he could ever have imagined that this was over.
This was a fascinating and honest insight into a man’s role in the infertility treatment of his wife.
It doesn’t really matter whether the problem lies with the woman or the man, you just truly wonder why any couple would continue with this process after being unsuccessful repeatedly.
It must eat up their lives and their love for each other, that desperation to have a child.
And yet, clearly that desire overrides everything else and, if it can be achieved, it can complete a relationship, whether it is using someone else’s eggs or sperm, by adopting… or even just by fostering.
Having a child in your life can change the way you perceive things so dramatically.
Whilst not being able to have one can breed such terrible feelings of fault and blame that the lack can rip a partnership to shreds.
It was a wet and windy Saturday here and I was waiting for a friend to come over.
I had cleaned the flat and checked my emails so I was at a loose end and switched on the tv. With nothing more productive to do, I found myself flicking through the channels on Freeview.
And that’s how I came upon Spartacus. The uncut and digitally restored version.
It was made by Stanley Kubrik in 1960, the year before I was born and so, along with Ben Hur and Cleopatra became a staple of my childhood blockbuster film watching. My whole vision of the Roman Empire was based squarely upon the faultlessly photogenic snapshots presented by the Hollywood elite in that golden period of film-making over the late 1950s and early 1960s. Brave, handsome men and feisty beautiful women sold into a life of crushing slavery through no fault of their own only to rise, triumphant, to the top of the pile through their courage but this was always reinforced by a love story that left them dependent upont the whims of good and bad men.
I had forgotten just how beautiful Kirk Douglas was, with his burning eyes and that fabulous cleft chin. Jean Simmonds was totally breath-taking as his wife, Varinia, the woman who was also desired by the Roman leader, Crassus, played by another gorgeous man, Laurence Olivier.
This triangle of lust, supported by Charles Laughton and Peter Ustinov, played out over a gladiatorial contest and several amazing battles to the moment that everyone remembers where an entire army claims ‘I am Spartacus‘ in an attempt to save their beloved leader from harm.