Friday, 26 October 2007

Rhapsody in G

My recent return to the UK after a visit to Paris has brought with it a raft of fresh anxieties which, I can only hope, my readers will not mind me sharing. One of the young ladies I was fortunate to meet (as part of my research for an article on the much-vaunted new Eurostar service from St Pancras International) was, shall we say, quite amorous in her approach to me over cocktails. I can’t pretend I wasn’t flattered. After so many decades trapped in a loveless marriage, and now free to sample whatever delights the world can offer, it’s a tempting prospect indeed when a woman of 52 throws herself at you in a mist of perfume and silk lingerie.

It was during a post-prandial examination of our respective hotel rooms (strictly to compare notes—she being a fellow journalist covering the same St Pancras launch for a magazine for ladies of a certain age) that she made her move.

Out of due discretion, and the desire to spare you the gory details, suffice it to say that my performance was not considered entirely up to scratch. Too many years of the same, routine love-making meant that the lady in question had cause to err… question my abilities in the bedroom department.

Implausible as it may sound, I discovered that I have reached my seventh decade in life without having the foggiest notion about what or where a G spot is. For the young lady this seemed to be a matter of some concern. I lost track of how many hours we spent looking for this elusive bodily part, and I was reminded of the wise words of old Freddy Marple, a fellow-hack and former drinking partner from my days at both the Stockport Echo and the Birkenhead Beagle. Freddy it was who, after chancing upon a discarded copy of Cosmopolitan magazine on the 409 bus out of Manchester, subsequently made it his life’s work to discover, and document, his wife’s own G spot.

Each week, he’d fill in the boys in the newsroom with the latest developments, eternally hopeful that, with one further search, it would turn up. Alas, despite many years of expeditions, Freddy never did discover that spot. Before he died, he passed the torch on to a young colleague of his who, alas, had a similarly striking lack of success.

I was forced to conclude, at that point, that the G spot might be little more than an urban myth, one step down from the story about the old lady who accidentally killed her pussy in an attempt to dry it in the microwave after a it was caught in a shower. For her part, my former wife was never one to bother too much about spots of any kind, so the subject was, for many years, put to bed.

Nevertheless, the whole, sorry subject of my trystess’ dissatisfaction was a great blow to my self-esteem. On my return home, I quizzed young Jasper on the subject of G spots.

“Pa!” he said, with a guffaw that wouldn’t have disgraced his Uncle Jesmond. “Surely you haven’t fallen for that old line?”

I pretended to be unsure what he meant. “The modern woman came up with the notion of the G spot so she could persuade her partner to spend lots of time looking for it. It’s just a cover for what you might have known in your day as foreplay. It's the oldest trick in the book!”

I can't pretend I wasn't taken aback by this news. Jasper went so far as to blame ‘my generation’ for the whole business. “If your lot had spent more time on foreplay in the first place, there’d have been none of this G spot nonsense for me and my pals to have to contend with."

I did rather feel I was getting it from both sides. The sins of the fathers, and all that. Nevertheless, if I ever see that little hussy from the Eurostar junket again, I'll have a thing or two to say to her, I must say.


9 comments:

70steen said...

Bill, I feel you should frequent Nurse Myras pages for some top tips & ideas.... I have certainly found a few handy hints for entertainment purposes that have proved to be a huge sucess.
But in short you know that practice makes perfect ;-)

Daddy Papersurfer said...

I have often wondered what the 'G' stands for Mr Blunt - I always assumed it was 'Gerroff'.

Frankie said...

Sir,
You so eloquently write of the attractions – wonted or otherwise – of the ‘lady of a certain age’ thusly; “ it’s a tempting prospect indeed when a woman of 52 throws herself at you in a mist of perfume and silk lingerie.” I write to inform you, if informed you need be – a somewhat unlikely situation (one would have thought) for a gentleman such as yourself to find himself – that the prospect of a woman of 52, a fine and handsome prospect indeed, throwing herself at one is indeed – indeed, I say again sir, a tempting, a mighty tempting thing. Aromatic foggy underwear included or no. I may humbly speak with a little experience in this matter, having researched, this particular subsection in the Dewey-Decimal system of the library of love, as I may include in my personal history exactly such an encounter described in the amorous archive’s lexicon of tryst-related eventualities. And I agree! I do agree sir! You have the matter exactly.
Pray continue publishing the fine Victorian romance, as perhaps scribed by such luminary authors as Charles Dickens (his novella “Great Expectations” of course verily thrusts its’ analogous self to mind, or indeed “Germinal” by the Frenchman Zola) which is your fascinating, not to say crapulous (in the very best possible sense) autobiography.
I am sir your most parenthetical servant,
Francis Book
Post Scritpum. I attach and enclose a photographic likeness of the delightful, post hemi-centurial, lady afore and above mentioned by myself in the preceding.

Frankie said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
sylvie d said...

I think I will call Nursemyra!

Crofty said...

'Getting it from both sides now'- that might always be an option if love is hard to come by!

Bill Blunt said...

Sound advice, as ever, from my readers, which I'll bear in mind for my future romantic forays.

nursemyra said...

Bill, why don't you hand the madam in question a vibrator if she's so damn fixated on her g-spot?

I'm sure you know what to do with a clitoris. tell her you don't do g-spots on a first date. like it or lump it :-)

archie FCD said...

Knowing, as one does at my age, a number of young 52yo ladies of negotiable virtue, I am convinced that your misting madam deliberately discarded that G-Spot and hid it in a corner of the boudoir.