Sophie’s boys

We were kissing all the way home in a taxi.

He wasn’t the best kisser I’ve ever had that award, goes to the guy from the club last month. His name was Carl and I could have kissed him all night, he had the softest lips.

It was a shame he was on a stag do and couldn’t stay, I got his number though — honestly, if all men from Manchester kiss like that, I might just have to move up there.

Anyway, I digress

it was nice, tonight’s kissing I mean. Not earth-shattering, but definitely not the worst kisser.

So I’m thinking this could be ok, — he’s good-looking, there’s a spark (and that’s important), and let’s be real: I fancied him. I wouldn't have my tongue down his throat in the back of the taxi if I didn't. I wanted to go home with him, to his bed.

When we arrived at his flat, he awkwardly fumbled for his keys, patting every pocket like he’d never worn a jacket before — and then dropped them.

Bit of a mood killer.

I didn’t want the kissing to stop but we had to why he retrieved the keys and opened the door.

Still — once we were inside, we were back on track. His grip, which had been firmly around my waist, slid down to my bum, pulling me in close — and yep, he was rock hard against me.

I gave a little soft, encouraging mmm, just so he knew I noticed… and that we could move things along and Move them along, we did — as he led me straight through to his bedroom.

Still kissing, we tumbled onto the bed, stripping clothes off in a frantic mess. So, he’s got a hairy chest. Just a little — which is fine. Hairy’s good. I don’t mind smooth either.

But then I see it. And once I see it, I cannot unsee it. its staring right at me… A tattoo of bloody Mickey Mouse!

who actually tattoos Mickey Mouse on their upper chest?. I try to ignore it — really, I do. But I can’t ignore Mickey now.

so I carry on telling myself i’ll get used to Mickey grinning at me while I’m trying to get off. So he goes down on me — and look, I know most women love that. I do try.

It feels nice enough, so I lay back and let his tongue fumble its way around down there.

At least now Mickey’s not staring at me anymore.

I actually start feeling a bit sorry for him — he’s working really hard — so I moan a little, just to give him something.

At this point It’s not like I’m not turned on — I am wet — it’s just… I’m not there. Not even close. And frankly I was a little bored.

Still, he’s proud as punch, a job well done and after a while he climbs on top. He didn’t last long.

And honestly? Watching Mickey Mouse bounce up and down in my face like the smug little fucker knew exactly how disappointed I was — well, I was just relieved when it was over.

He rolled over and passed out.

“And did you orgasm?” asked Lilly.

That was the question, It was always the question.

Tonight it was Lilly asking, but it might as well have been any of them. it was the question on all their minds,

Did I Sophie orgasm?

The answer — as usual — was no. It was always no.

I just couldn’t Maybe some women just can’t climax. Maybe… I was one of them.

“I wish I did,” I say, staring down into my rum like it’s going to tell me why I keep doing this to myself. “He actually moaned ‘Oh boy’ at one point. I thought I was hallucinating. Not a single orgasm in sight. Just a Disney soundbite and an overwhelming sense of regret.”

Lilly claps a hand over her mouth, wide-eyed and gleeful. “Sophie, no.”

“Yes.” I point my finger like I’m testifying. “That man came with more Disney merch than stamina.”

“Oh, honey,” Rose mutters, already halfway through her wine. “You need to start shagging men with tattoos that say things like kill or revenge instead.”

“Or just men who don’t climax in under a minute,” Jenna adds without looking up from her drink.

“Or men who don’t climax alone,” I say, and all five of us burst out laughing like we’re sixteen again and sneaking vodka into soda cans.

Behind the bar, Damien clears his throat. Loudly. I glance up just in time to catch him smirking while stacking glasses. Prick.

“You alright back there?” I ask, sweet as sugar.

“Peachy,” he says, not even bothering to look at me. “Just enjoying the bedtime stories.”

“Didn’t know you were into disappointing sex,” I fire back.

“Oh, I’m not,” he says, looking straight at me now, all slow and deliberate. “Can’t relate.”

There it is. That thing he does—where every word lands like a challenge. Where every glance dares me to react. I don’t give him the satisfaction. I go back to my girls.

Dee’s lounging like she owns the place, legs crossed, earrings catching the light. She looks like she just came from seducing someone’s husband—and knowing her, she probably did. Marcus. Her boss. Still married. Still “working late.” She tells the story like it’s a romcom. I try not to judge.

Lilly’s tucked next to her, all soft blonde curls and big blue eyes, the kind of face men write love songs about and then cheat on anyway. She runs that high-end salon in town and always smells like something French. Her perfume hits before she even speaks. Classic.

Jenna’s across from me, legs for days, Dark brown hair tied up in some perfect knot that looks like an accident. She’s quieter tonight. Her girlfriend’s away again. She says she doesn’t mind. She lies.

And Rose—tall, fierce, full of opinions and zero patience—is already waving at Damien to bring another round. Her grown kids are still living at home, and she’s seeing a barman named Adam who gives her discounts and orgasms, in that order.

And me? I’m here, talking about bad sex and cartoon rodents, pretending I’m not aware of every breath Damien takes behind that bar.

Wednesday night. Nearly midnight. This is what safety looks like. Five women, one booth, and all the noise we need to feel alive.

I am now thirty-seven years old and have been sexually active for over twenty years — and in all that time?

I have never had an orgasm.

(Not from sex. Not with another person. Not even with the fancy vibrating gizmo my friend Rose swore would “change my life.”)

Spoiler alert: it didn’t. It just made my hand numb.

Yes, I lost my virginity early. No, I wouldn’t recommend it… it was messy, awkward, and mostly involved apologising afterwards.

Now, don’t get me wrong — some people don’t enjoy sex at all. Some people have no desires. I am not those people.

I love sex. I love men. I’m basically a golden retriever with a high sex drive.

“Nice… Doggy style” says Damien

I flip him off without turning around. He just laughs — that deep, cocky rumble that somehow makes my thighs twitch. Honestly. Men.

Moving on..I love the lead-up, the flirting, the electric build when you know it’s about to happen.

And oh my God, the moment a man slides his hand between my legs, feels how wet I am, and looks at me like he’s just found religion?

Best part. Hands down.

(Or, you know… hands up if you’re adventurous.)

Damiens hand shoots up and shoots me a wicked grin

I get turned on. I want it. I try to climax. I really try. But then… nothing.

Just awkward panting and me lying there like a broken vending machine.

Anyway. Still. No orgasm.

Not for lack of trying — just… a stubbornly uncooperative body.

(Story of my bloody life.)