I feel uninspired at the moment, so have been advised to write this entry naked in bed on my laptop.

It was somewhat ironic that I was for a period of two years celibate (my definition of celibacy being an absence of vaginal penetration – blow jobs and anal sex were allowed) and when I finally broke the drought I immediately fell pregnant. There is little humour for me to ebb out of that particular dick but one I will examine at a more appropriate time.

That incident aside, what I can say for myself is despite skipping from partner to partner I never fell prey to any genital or sexual pitfalls the majority of women in an exclusive committed relationship (or those with an unlucky one night stand) will inevitably encounter at some point.

That is until I found myself in an exclusive committed relationship.

People think being partnered an alcoholic is all bad – it’s actually not. Don’t get me wrong it is rather horrendous, but those with an alcohol dependency are pretty much restricted to bed. So no they may not be able to hold down a job or even accompany you out for social gatherings but being bed bound means the one activity they can participate in is sex (that is those that escape the curse of brewers droop – which my guy did). Thus for the first year we were together it was a non stop sex fest, kinda normal for the honeymoon phase. For me the biggest treat was sex on tap. Okay I might have fucked 100 men over the course of ten years but given they were almost all one night stands that actually means I was only having sex once every 5 weeks – which is pretty pitiful. Thus to be able to fuck all-day everyday was heavenly to me.

Until I learnt about thrush. The irritation started and he, being all the more experienced with relationships, diagnosed it early and recommended exercising abstinence in a bid to prevent it worsening. Theoretically it all sounded good, but alcoholics are addicts and addicts are not great at exercising self control, hence their predicament. Coupling that with my own addictive personality and insatiable sexual appetite the abstinence cure lasted all of maybe 12 hours. Then his chaffed cock decided to visit my yeasty haven. As a result my vagina, clearly unhappy with my callous treatment, declared war in my knickers.

I have never known an itch like. Yes thank god for Canestan (why does that dog look so decidedly smug in the advert – is there more than just friendship going on there?) but it still takes a while to kick in. My parents generously bought us tickets to go and see The Jersey Boys. It was a brilliant show and I’d like to say my memory of that theatrical experience was the wonder and joy of the music of Frankie Valli and the Four Season, but in fact whenever I hear ‘Oh What a Night’ all I can remember is squirming in my chair in a bid for the crotch seam of my jeans to scratch my fiery cunt.

But how quickly one woman can go from a hundred dicks to one dick to no dick.

There’s nothing like a series of ongoing challenges pervading all aspects of your life to dampen one’s desire for each other’s. Endless months of constant stress, tension and pressure is the equivalent of castration for both genders. Occasionally things would subside or we’d feel we’d has some small win, some psychological advantage and we’d fuck to celebrate, remember how wonderful sex is (and it’s free!) and make sincere promises from ‘let’s make sure we have a minimum of sex three times a week’ to ‘let’s make sure we have some form of sexual contact for at least ten minutes everyday’. Then fate would deal a cruel blow, our foundation shaken, our position threatened again and the sex would be sapped clean out of us. Our entire house a vacuum free of any sexual energy.

Hence it’s been a rather hit and miss year. You would of course, not fully appreciate the degree of this unless you’d been fucking me seven months ago and fucking me today. The visible effect of the absence of sex is most demonstrable by my entrances being somewhat unwelcoming of my partners attempt to rekindle his once familiar and frequent relationship with them.

He once proudly boasted he could put eight fingers into my arse and stretch it to rival any hardcore porn stars. My arse could hungrily hoover up large 10 inch ribbed glass dildo’s that would make any woman’s eyes water. This is something of a turn on for him, I’m not sure if men generally find this an attractive feature. I have felt obliged to continue my courtship with him not just on the grounds of unconditional love but because I’m not confident another man would be happy with such a pliable ring-piece. Alas the last time we attempted anal intercourse all I could think about was Bum-cleaver’ from the Marquis de Sade’s 120 days of Sodom. Who is ‘Bum-cleaver’? – ‘The head of his prick resembled the heart of an ox, it was eight and three-eights inches around; behind it, the shaft measured only eight, but was crooked and had such a curve it neatly tore the anus when penetrating it.’ With this thought in mind my bottom was so tense and frightened he was lucky to pry one finger in, let alone his proud perfect penis (aka PPP).

It wasn’t just my rectum that was wary of the return of the PPP, but even my cunt greeted him like a small child presented with an absent father of many years who expected immediate affection and a jolly rapport despite abandonment of said child. Oh I was desperate to feel him fill me up but afterwards I felt akin to an athlete returning to competition after a season off with injury.

His first ploughing resulted in me feeling satisfied but violated. In the words of the Kings of Leon my sex was on fire. Given the lack of horizontal play I knew it wasn’t thrush but my lips were throbbing and my clit was stinging. I like to think it was out of concern for my well being but I suspect it was more in a bid to rectify any problems so as he could re-enter sooner rather than later. Hence when I raised an objection to sex on the grounds of a sore vagina he promptly had me spread eagled on the bed with a splayed vagina. After a detailed and probing inspection it transpired my cunt was so unused to the PPP he had stretched and inflamed it with one brief vanilla style session. He merely plastered it with antiseptic cream, told me it was something like nappy rash and that I’d be fine before the day was out.

And so while my gender may nod knowingly at tales of thrush, carpet burn, cystitis, stretched ham strings, pulled groin muscles, red raw knee caps and other such happy complaints from excessive sex, they must also beware of the pitfalls of the effects on the body if work takes priority over sex.

Vaginas are made for babies to pop out of, if you’ve left things so long your hymen’s regrown and you’ve become re-virginalised you need to gird your loins and commit to the fact that those orifices need regular exercise to – and getting into shape is hard work and will hurt. Ain’t no baby gonna be popping out of you if you can’t pop a prick in you. There’s no way you’ll be recapturing those heady honeymoon rewards if you don’t have the stretch or stamina for even the most basic and simple sex tasks. Take it from me sex is not just a game or pastime, it’s a passion, it’s a sport. It requires dedication, commitment, an investment of time, imagination, creativity and pure unadulterated unfathomable filth.

On that note, fully aware I am paying the physical price for thoughtlessly neglecting my minge and arse, I am now doing some jaw stretching exercises for the other orifice that will encounter severe gag reflex and relearning the useful skill of breathing and sucking at the same time a little later this evening. Time to remaster the blow job.

I’m back in the game.