Girl on the Net

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!

Menopause horn: the sex surge is real

I hear the letterbox flip. My cunt does a matching flip and throb. Because I know what is arriving is my very first sex toy. But I’m not a teenager getting experimental, exploring my body and my erotic needs in the first flush of adulthood. I’m a 50-something menopausal woman.

*record scratch*

Wait, but, that’s when you start to dry up, lose interest in shagging and take up, I dunno, good works, or find God or something to compensate, right? That was what I thought too until… I knew. I knew I’d been gifted something extra special and super horny from the hormone gods.

Apparently there’s this phenomenon called the Sex Surge that affects some people during the menopause. How it works is: because your estrogen levels decrease, the hormone balance in your body changes, and so testosterone comes more to the fore, proportionally. All of which is a pretty dull here-comes-the-science-bit way of explaining why – praise be! – I now seem to have the horniness and sexual appetite of, say, a 20-year-old. So here I am, poleaxed by desire, swimming in a sweet and sticky pool of lust. Obsessed.

Obsessed with my partner’s dick. This cock that I’ve known and loved and fucked and been fucked by for 30 years and come to take for granted is now my holy grail, my trophy. The way it looks, hard and proud. In my hands. The way it feels, on my tits or in my mouth or inside me. The way it tastes and smells, on him and on me. I want to see if , touch it, feel it, eat it. I want photos sent to my WhatsApp when I’m out of the house, at excitingly inappropriate moments (team meeting, anyone?). I want videos of it cumming. I buy toys for it. I buy outfits (crotchless, peekaboo) to entice it. Lubes to smooth and soothe it and make it glisten. Abject. Powerless. I’m utterly in its grip, even as it goes back and forth in mine.

I tear myself away from home, my bed, my man, his cock, his body, to go for post-lockdown drinks with the girls. A collection of women my age who, as the evening and the prosecco advance share tales of woe: of hot flushes, of decreased sex drive, tears, divorces. Through it I sit demure, saying nothing, an enigmatic smile on my lips and a hum on my other lower lips, checking my phone discreetly at intervals for more pics, sexting back and forth, inventing urgent reasons why I need to leave and get home right now.

The sex is better than sex I’ve ever known, anything I’ve ever known – as a teen, a single and fun-loving twenty-something, a smitten new wife… ever. Its more experimental, more adventurous, let’s be frank: more dirty than I’ve ever wanted to be before. He gives me head through slutty cheap black crotchless knickers while I look down at him, pushing him further and harder and faster than either of us have ever known it. We tease each other with vibrators, getting to the edge of orgasm and then just… staying there, until I’m flushed, groaning, literally pleading with him to keep going. He cums on my exposed nipples, as they peek, tight and hard, out of another tasteless/horny garment in which I’ve wrapped myself up like his ultimate wet-dream present. We film ourselves for the thrill of filming, we gaze at each other, slackfaced with lust, while we fuck, or at our reflections in purposely angled mirrors.

And when we aren’t fucking I’m thinking about fucking. Like literally all the time. At work. Out for a run. In the pub. At the cinema. Plotting the next scenario, what to try, what to buy. Hunting down the perfect porn for my needs (reader: it doesn’t exist, so I’m making my own). Wanking slowly and luxuriantly in the bath, fingers aided by the warm water lapping at my clit as I move my hips up and down, needs-must orgasming around my razor’s shaft (there’s a reason they make them ribbed like that, right?). Or in the middle of the night, fast and furious to simply sate my perma-burning desire and tide me over until morning.

This could get dangerous. It feels all-consuming, overwhelming, maybe slightly ridiculous. I’m dropping other commitments and responsibilities to prioritise the erotic in ways that only a year or so ago would have been alien to me. But fuck it. The kids are grown up. My career is in a good place. I know who I am, and who he is. I’m giddy, ridiculously pleased with myself, high on filth, lapping it all up both metaphorically and literally, and I’m going to ride (both metaphorically and… you get the picture) this glorious hormonal gift for as long as it lasts.

This guest blog is sponsored by the awesome people at Brand X Intimates – they give me money to keep the site running and help pay guest bloggers for their brilliant work. They also sell beautiful collections of sexy clothing and lingerie for a diverse range of body types. So if you’re embracing your hot side like this week’s guest blogger, treat yourself! Pick your favourite pieces and get 15% off with the code GOTN.