If someone were to ask me what I bring to the table, sex-wise, I wouldn’t mention specific parts of my body. My body is fine, my hair is fine, my clothes are basically clothes. I like to think I’ve got a pretty filthy grin, but apart from that my physicality is nothing to either write home or pen a strongly-worded letter of complaint about. So if we’re having sex, what I’m bringing to the party isn’t my body, it’s my attitude. To be blunt: my enthusiasm.

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The fabulous @EuphemiseThis is back! And she almost needs no introduction, because she’s written so much hot and brilliant stuff here before – velvet fetishes, getting spanked by a couple, her first threesome… she’s packed a hell of a lot of fun into an incredibly sexy life so far. Today she’s here to talk about her changing relationship to her body as she gets older, challenging some of the bullshit about what ‘should’ be, and sharing a bit of the joy of fucking in her forties.

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We don’t talk about about the menopause and sex. And we definitely don’t talk enough about the fact that some people experience increased horn when they enter the menopause – as evidenced by the fact that as I was researching where to link to from this post, the NHS website entry for ‘menopause’ only lists ‘low libido’ as a possible symptom rather than a sex surge. Today’s fantastic guest blogger, Elena Bennett, is here to give you her story though: that of a woman with intense, delicious, powerful menopause horn. Take it away Elena!

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They call it the walk of shame but you know damn well it’s a victory march. The morning after you’ve got laid, as you drag your fuck-tired body to the bus stop, or the tube, or the café round the corner which will furnish you with a bacon butty for the long journey home, you know: this is not shame, it is glory.

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We’re in bed, getting down to it, and usually my one-track mind is laser-focused on what it will feel like when he slides his dick inside me. At the moment when I realise that’s not going to happen – he’s slowly softening and the look on his face switches from horn to confusion or embarrassment – I remind myself how lucky I am that I don’t ever have to worry about erections myself. Twenty years ago, if a guy went soft on me, my main feeling would be heartbreak: he doesn’t fancy me enough. I’m ugly. Unsexy. Incapable of teasing a boner from him. Ten years ago, I’d be annoyed: did he have a wank before we met up? Has he had too much to drink? These days, frustration and sadness have (thankfully) made way for a different feeling: relief that the pressure isn’t on me.

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