I know I write about this a lot, but this is what I do. It’s how my head works. It can’t let things go if there isn’t a satisfactory answer. I NEED answers in my life. If HWSNBN had ended it properly – by saying *anything*, however hurtful – I’d have just licked my wounds and moved on. But not knowing things – well, that drives me totally insane. Why? WHY? WHHHHHHYYYYYYY did you leave me? (Yes. I know. Because I’m fucking mental. Moving on…)
So I’m going to stuff this post full of the following keywords: Anal sex. Single mum. Depression. And I’ve created a new anal sex category and tagged nicely and everything.
And if you land here because you’ve used any of these keywords, you have to leave a comment and tell me why.
I’m not joking.
First, I really, really, REALLY need to know why so many of you are searching for ‘anal sex single mum’. I want you to tell me – explicitly if you like, I need to get my thrills where I can these days – exactly what you are looking for when you type ‘anal sex single mum’. Pictures? Single mothers offering their back passages for some action?
AND WHY SINGLE MUMS? What is it about anal sex and single motherhood, specifically, that you want to know? Is it because you think we’ll be more willing? Less up for it? I won’t judge you. Promise. I’ve done some kinky shit in my time, and I’m not averse to anal sex in the right situation.
It’s not a judgement thing. It’s an ‘if I don’t find out I will actually physically burst’ thing.
Similarly, anal sex and depression. Are you searching because you think anal sex causes depression? Because you think it can relieve depression – do you spunk Citalopram? Do you think it would help to give us something real to moan about – haemorrhoids, for say? What, exactly, is the relationship in your mind between depression and anal sex? Spell it out for me. Link to pictures if you like. I’m not easily offended.
Because while I was once amused by the fact that the vast bulk of my traffic comes from a combination of anal sex, single mother and depression, I am now bewildered beyond the point of comfort.
Please, put me out of my misery. Tell me what it is about anal sex, single motherhood and depression that you are looking for. Heck, if I knew, I could create the kind of content you’re looking for.
And then I could monetise my blog based on the increased traffic and followers I’d get. I could start having sidebar ads for lube and St. John’s Wort and single parent dating sites. I could totally get rich from your fascination with anal sex.
Because honestly, I could do with a break. Read my blog. It’s basically one long catalogue of woe, with one single solitary mention of anal sex that started this whole mindboggling trend. If you read my blog, surely you won’t be able to deny me an answer…
I just want an answer. Thank you.
He: “Go on…”
He: “But you’ve put Postman Pat on for Harry… We’ve got at least 20 minutes… Just relax, baby…”
She: “I said no! And quit nudging at my backside. Oh – put it away, for God’s sake.”
He: “It’s because I’m not his real Dad, isn’t it?”
He: “You’d let his Dad fuck you up the arse, wouldn’t you?”
She: “What are you on?! I’ve not seen him for years!”
He: “Then what is it then? Is it because you’ve been on your own for a bit? You feeling a bit rusty? Not had any backdoor action for a while?”
She: “It’s just not something I especially enjoy.”
He: “But it feels so good for me, baby. So tight. So dirty…”
She: “Yeah. You’re going to have to work harder to persuade me than that… Seriously. Put it away.”
He: *goes away, Googles ‘single mom anal sex persuade, ends up here*
Seriously men. SERIOUSLY. What’s with the ‘single mom’ qualifier? Don’t just read and run next time you land here from a search like that. Help me out. What specific information are you looking for about anal sex with a single mother? How exactly do you imagine it is different from a married mother, or a non-mother, or, I don’t know, another man? Please leave a comment. I’m dying of curiosity.
She: “You could try listening to me for once, and understanding. I don’t know why I feel like this. I don’t want to feel like this. And you banging on about how we don’t have sex any more really isn’t helping. Just… try and be a bit more understanding, could you?”
5 days later…
He: “I’ve done a bit of Googling, love. About the way you’ve been feeling.”
She: “Really? Wow. Thank you…”
He: “Yeah – it says that taking it up the shitter is fucking BRILLIANT for depression…”
He: *big hopeful eyes*
The conversations that I imagine happened around my new favourite search referral…
Third result on the first page of Google’s main search results! Score!
I am sitting here actually laughing out loud. I have totally got the market for long tail crude sex searches nailed. I’m going to offer my services to the sex industry. It just goes to show, fellow SEO geeks – write natural content aimed at users, not machines, and Google rewards will follow.
For the record: I am definitely a mother, but ‘like’ would be stretching it – no pun intended. It’s true I will indulge, but there are many bedroom activities that feature higher up on my fun list. Like, this weekend I hung a vintage Vogue mirror in my bedroom, with a lovely Deco peacock lady on it. That was more fun than anal sex.
But whatever. I’m totally going for the anal sex search market. I’ve got long tail searches covered, but I want total search domination: anal sex = motherinterrupted. Every time.
I like the idea of a load of hot and horny types coming here to fiddle with themselves while reading about some dirty back passage action, and finding… me. The girl sitting writing this in an ankle length dressing gown, geek glasses perched primly on her nose. Yeah baby. I’m so hot…
That is the best thing I’ve written all day. Possibly ever, in fact. And I write for a living.
There is a little more to the tale of the tampon. I’m only telling you so I can commit it to paper. I might forget, and that really would be terrible. (Zoe, if you’re reading this, you know what’s coming, and you’re excused from class…)
So I’m on my period and he clearly doesn’t care, and he’s going down on me. Which is cool. Quite sexy, actually. But I am never going to come. EVER. He’s licking the string of my tampon, for fuck’s sake. I wonder if it will fray? If it frays, will I still be able to remove it? Yes, don’t be silly. But then he really could end up with a thin string of cotton between his teeth… What if it gets caught and he jerks his head? Eek! His teeth are really tightly packed together though. I bet he couldn’t floss if he tried. I wonder if that puts him more at risk of gum disease, or less? If floss/a thread of tampon string can’t get between his teeth, neither can rotting food… Hmmm. His teeth are really good. Maybe that’s why…
See how my mind is wandering?
I am never going to come.
“Um… PB… ”
“I’m sorry… All I can think about is you licking the string of my tampon.”
This is greeted with a muffled snigger. He looks up at me, those gorgeous curls framed by my open thighs, his huge green eyes peering amusedly over my pubic hair.
“Are you going to remove the tampon so I can fuck you then, or shall I?”
In the right frame of mind, I’ll do anal. I enjoy rimming*. I don’t think I’m that much of a prude. But the thought of someone else removing my tampon… Oh. Em. Gee. And I don’t OMG lightly. (What would he do with said item once removed? It’s a really light day, period-wise – what if he has to pull really hard? What if he pulls me off the bed? Is he going to do it right now, while he’s at eye level? Good god no…)
I shoot off the bed like a scalded cat, into the bathroom. “I’ll do it!” I shriek. Totally not cool.
But seriously. There’s a question I never thought I’d have to answer.
Proper bloggers end their entries with a question, to encourage engagement. Here’s one for y’all – ever had a man remove your tampon? And if not, would you let him? I want to know, on a scale of 1 – 10, just how big a prude I am…
*Zoe, you had better have stopped reading. Seriously.
Reasons I love blogging:
1. This is my diary. It is keeping me sane.
2. The lovely people who comment on my craziness to try and make me feel less crazy are total sweethearts and keep me sane.
3. It is piss funny seeing which search terms are sending people my way…
Are you the person who Googled ‘single mothers and anal sex’ and stumbled across my blog? If so, I have questions for you…
1. Why the ‘single mother’ qualifier? Do you imagine anal sex with a single mother is any different to a regular mother? Should we be more grateful?! More desperate?!
2. Come to that, why the ‘mother’ qualifier? What do you imagine happens to a woman’s anatomy after she’s given birth? I mean, yes, things have changed a bit down there, but thank fuck for small mercies, my arsehole remains as it ever was.
3. Did you find the answers you were looking for within these pages? I suspect not – I’m afraid I can only give lessons in how NOT to do it. Though from what I’m told, my proposed ‘Lube… lube… more lube… come on don’t be stingy LUBE!’ approach to next time is pretty much all you need to know anyway.
This is all.
Addendum for the person who googled ‘Is Matlock Bath good for a first date?’ and landed here – I hope I managed to convince you that yes, it really is, accepting that the car park by the train station featured more heavily in my overview than Matlock Bath itself. It is very, very pretty, ever-so-slightly-seedy and therefore sexy for it and there are a lot of people wandering around in leather. What more could you possibly want from a first date?
One of us is bleeding quietly from her backside. The other is quietly nursing a monstrous hangover. Yes. Last night somehow turned into a big one.
I gingerly note that gin and rum and fizzy red wine and port and champagne and whisky are poor substitutes for a good handful of lubricant. He greenly notes that eating cockles on Scarborough seafront the morning after the night before might not have been a good idea.
But bleeding and biliousness aside, it’s been a good weekend. A weekend of Let’s Pretend.
Let’s Pretend we can afford this rather expensive hotel – it’s worth every penny, but that’s not the point when neither of us have any pennies.
Let’s Pretend I’m not a dedicated single mother, handsomely furnished with baggage.
Let’s Pretend he’s not a dedicated singleton – handsome, yes, but having somewhat worryingly reached the age of 38 with absolutely no baggage at all.
Let’s Pretend this whole sorry affair wasn’t doomed from the start.
We’re just past Copmanthorpe when the game ends. It’s my own fault – I’m a big ruiner. He knows the ins and outs of my sorry failed marriage in almost pornographic detail, but is persistently evasive about his own relationship history. I am, however, persistently persistent. He is stuck in a small red car with me behind a painfully slow-moving Romany caravan. There is no escape unless he opens the door and runs, runs for the hills!
“So tell me about your ex-girlfriends. I don’t want to know about them all. Just the biggies.”
His eyes dart to the door handle and up past it, gazing longingly at yonder hills, and he shakes his head. I don’t think he even knows that he’s shaking it. It’s quite an impressive flight response. Stag caught in cross hair.
“No – no No-ing! You know all about me. Spill! Who was the one that got away? The big love of your life?”
“Me,” he replies.
I laugh. Ha ha – you’re so funny! Except he isn’t joking.
“There hasn’t been a significant relationship. I guess I haven’t been lucky enough to find The One.”
He could have stopped there and the game of Let’s Pretend could have carried on for a bit longer. Do I think I’m The One for him? Not any more, no – but did I think I could have been 5 minutes before we started this conversation? Maybe, perhaps, possibly, one day. And is he The One for me? Again, with the benefit of hindsight, no – but at the time he was showing potential.
He continues: “It’s only society that dictates you should settle down with one person. I see my friends in long-term relationships and they’re desperately unhappy, desperate to escape their wives for a night out. When I had money, I was happy. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted, without answering to anyone. It was wicked, you know? I don’t think I’m even capable of being in a relationship any more. I’ve never even lived with a girl, not properly – I’ve always had my own bolthole, kept all my clothes there. I’m… what’s the word?… Institutionalised. I like being on my own too much.”
First thought: You could have mentioned this before drunkenly and enthusiastically fucking my arse last night WITHOUT LUBE.
Second thought: Well, that told me.
What can I do? I quietly say, “I think you’re right. I think you are institutionalised,” and get back to my quiet bleeding.
You’d think that would be the end of it. He knows what I want – I’ve told him enough times in the past, and it must be blindingly obvious anyway. My heart lives on my sleeve, always has and forever will.
So he knows what I want, and I know that he is unable and/or unwilling to give it me. You’d think we’d just shake hands and go our separate ways or something. Be sporting about it all. “You made my bum bleed for 4 days, I spilled red wine on your North Face hoodie and as I haven’t seen it since I assume it’s ruined – let’s quit while we’re ahead.”
Except the A64 was 8 days ago, and here I am, sitting waiting for his call – we’ve spoken most days since we met, and nothing has changed since he declared his undying love for himself.
Can someone find me my backbone? It’s gone missing. Disappeared around about the same time as my self-respect.
In my defence, he’s very handsome. This is all.