Creaming Spires: 4th Week Hilary

Woe befalls the sex columnist who has no sex. My vast dry spell stretches as far as my thirsty eye can see – but I refuse to wilt. And why should I, why should anyone, when an infinitely compliant and dextrous fuck buddy lives only a few inches away from our genitals? Two of them, in fact. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this week’s Creaming Spires is a ballad to the Wank. You must forgive my failure to produce a unisex wankccount; I write only about what I know, so bean-centric this week must be.

When we can’t persuade another soul to butter our muffins for us (or, complacent and weary, cannot be bothered to even try), we can thank God, Vishnu, or Ann Summers for endowing us with the capability to traverse fleshy echelons of passion solo.

Some of us, ahem, are startled when we remember how short we were when we started giving thanks. It was all rather innocent then; a group of giggling girls delightedly pushing the buttons on their newfound consoles. The right pressure would deliver the coveted ‘nicey nicey feelgood’.

I can’t remember when this sensation first blushed an explicitly carnal red. But me and my bean have had a heck of a journey since. Puberty was me and my right hand’s honeymoon. Whenever, wherever, we couldn’t keep ourselves from touching each other. Fits of frustration led to swift stolen minutes, strangled secret meetings in darkened corners, unfamiliar bathrooms and, on one desperately tedious geography field trip, a hedge.

Honeymoons have to end and so does the pubescent libido. My hand isn’t my Romeo anymore, but we enjoy the pleasant shuffling companionship of an old marriage. Our affections might wax and wane with the cycle of my love-life (as well as the menstrual), but we draw ever so close, ever more often, during months like these lonely few past. I wonder, though, if Mr Solitude and I could use some va-va-vroom?

It’s not that we’re bored, but he does get tired. He’s got big gloves to fill, as my sexuality blooms into a more complex, fussier, beast. Some plastic veins, a titillating rabbit? Excuse me…