Post-Sexual Healing

"Ah," I sighed contentedly, slumping down in a squishy armchair in Cafe Nero, as I met Best Mate last week for a late coffee after my afternoon's escapades with The Yank. "I love sex."

Best Mate looked at me.

"Aw, c'mon," I said thickly through a mouthful of chocolate cake. "You know, that blissful feeling of post-orgasmic, full-body satisfaction... Aah..."

"Nope," said Best Mate, licking her fork. "Can't say I do."

Best Mate has been recovering from her unsatisfactory encounter with The Chorister, mainly via a subtle but didactic masterclass in The Female Orgasm, conducted through the medium of the erotic text message. So far, it appears to be working: a few crucial areas aren't being entirely overlooked and The Chorister is, in the words of Best Mate, "rather... liberal." I raised an eyebrow. "Well, he has some rather diverse ideas. No, well... maybe creative is a better word." (She's only just got back from Down South - I'll grill her more thoroughly on these later: creative and diverse - always welcome.)

Sadly, my nirvana-like state of contentment was only temporary (probably just as well, or I'd never get anything done) and I, too, have had to deal with a recovery of my own. Thankfully, it's not quite as intensive and as hard work as Best Mate's has been: The Yank is perfectly capable of turning me on - in person and via any other medium one cares to mention (although his text messages tend not to be erotic so much as downright filthy, though that can be a turn on in itself...).

No, my recovery has taken on a rather more physical nature, involving less wordplay and more Arnica. Standing in the shower last Tuesday morning, I noticed a few unusual marks that, on my incredibly fair-to-the-point-of-transparent skin, showed up like beacons. A towelling off and a quick inspection in the mirror highlighted the full extent of the problem.

Er... So, um, naked I might look a little like I've been abused ran a message to Best Mate.

EH?! came the reply. What the HELL were you up to?!

And, as far as I recall, nothing out of the ordinary. But apparently, very fair skin and sex don't mix. Attendance at the boys' barbecue/football/birthday party yesterday demanded (for sake of not spending the afternoon fielding awkward questions) that I remained covered up in jeans with a cardigan over my vest top, despite the fact that Scotland is currently enjoying its annual week of blisteringly hot sunshine because, as if the bruises on my arms and torso weren't enough, there are some rather vampiric looking bite-marks along my shoulders and neck. I'm not even going to begin to describe to you the state of my nipples.

Jackie Kennedy got it entirely wrong when she said "sex is a bad thing because it rumples the clothes". Sex rumples the person. But hey, with the right clothes and an effective bruise relief, that's no bad thing...

Tags: Men, Sex