Calm down, I’m not going full bondage – but I am rediscovering my sexual energy

A heatwave-induced trip to Argos was the unlikely start of a journey of erotic enlightenment for Stacey Duguid

Blazing sun beating down on redhot pavements somehow works in New York City, but not in London. With no air-con units thundering through the night, it’s no wonder we Brits lost our cool in this week’s heatwave. Daytime temperatures induced a face so red it matched my hair; a sort of walking Wotsit, if you like. By nighttime, the heatwave remained so intense I couldn’t wear clothes. A strict pyjama-wearing type even in summer, I blame my Scottish upbringing for the fact I never sleep naked. This week I slept naked. Gasp!

It was just me languishing (sweating) on post-marital bedsheets this week, but my nakedness felt exposing and awkward, as if my head were attached to an alien being. When my marriage broke down and I finally moved out of the family home over a year ago, I had to buy everything from scratch. Furniture was second-hand, as were some of our beds, but not bedding – bedding had to be new like a fresh start. Starting over for me was an opportunity to buy everything in pink (which is weird, given I’ve never really liked pink). Two sets of pink bedding, pink bathroom towels, pink candles, pink hand towels in the downstairs loo, pink cushions on sofas. I stopped myself at pink loo roll. Pink loo roll, now there’s a thought, how 1980s (adds to Waitrose order).

Not that I realised it at the time, but looking back, pink bedding was clearly some kind of entry point to rediscovering my sexual energy, my femininity. Last year’s house move was emotionally disruptive, and, in the early days, I remember seeking solace in John Lewis, making up excuses to go there on the Tube to look at pink stuff (I still regret not buying a ginormous pink velvet pouf). I swear to God there is deep comfort to be found within the four walls of John Lewis. I used to do similar when pushing young babies in prams – as in, pop to John Lewis on Oxford Street for a lie down on a sofa.

Like a metaphorical head massage, I’d snuggle in until someone asked whether I was OK, or the baby’s highpitch scream would signal yet another feed was due. During the maelstrom that was having two babies in quick succession in my late 30s, the ensuing years were a confusing blend of identity loss and a slow decline in my sense of self-worth. Yes, I had two humans to nurture and grow, love and protect, but as a woman, I felt put to one side, labelled “revisit in five years when the kids are at school and you can have a cup of coffee without someone puking over your dress”.

Over the years, I’d disconnected not only from myself, but also from my body, and, more importantly, from my, what shall we call it? Over the years, I’ve disconnected from my sexuality (apologies if you’re eating breakfast).

That’s over now. All of it. I’m in a new house, the kids are at school and I’m in a new phase. The current phase, will, I’ve realised over time, involve discovering parts of me I never knew existed. An emergency run to Argos to buy a very noisy but effective fan this week, provided a taster. Round of applause for Argos; thanks to good old click-and-collect and this week’s heatwave, I’ve finally begun to notice my body again. I mean really notice it like never before. I noticed how the fan moved the air through the room and the way it gently tickled my naked skin. It’s an odd feeling, becoming suddenly aware of your body after taking an unplanned holiday from it.

For several minutes I revelled in the combination of the cool air from the fan and the devastating heat that had built up in the room throughout the day. I was in heaven, so I decided, selfconsciously, to give myself the kind of gentle caress I’ve been looking for from a partner. “Woman seeks man to administer soft, slow, languid strokes. Sex not necessary.” Not your average dating-app profile descriptor.

Reconnecting to my physical self through touch wasn’t entirely an original idea. A few weeks ago a close friend, a silken, catlike woman more in tune with her body than anyone I know, sent a screenshot of an article written by relationship therapist and author Esther Perel. I read the excerpt over and over before taking a deep dive into Perel’s website, where I went down the rabbit hole. Then I ventured to where all rabbit holes begin and end: the downstairs loo. I locked myself in and read the article “Why Eroticism Should Be Part of Your SelfCare Plan”. Self-care? Crikey, what

Lying beneath the sexy whirr of an Argos fan, who knew I’d find body parts I don’t mind

happened to oat milk and avocados?

Not just “sex”, but also “sex” – calm down at the back, we’re not about to go full bondage – eroticism is, I think, (forgive my inarticulateness) the art of noticing what pleasures you. Perel suggests we should try to notice small things, everything from how you feel when water trickles down your neck in the shower to how you sip your coffee (don’t slurp it down, sip it, sloooowly). Eroticism is about pleasure and self-pleasure and is multilayered and complex. But most importantly, whether alone or with a partner, eroticism is the polar opposite of a “quickie”. It is a slow and considered connection to mind and body. Perel says, at the end of the article, by which point my kids were banging on the loo door: “Befriending our bodies and making peace with them is the beginning of one of the best relationships we can ever have: the relationship with ourselves.”

Back to the heatwave and a long, self-caress beneath the sexy whirr of an Argos fan, who knew I’d find body parts I actually don’t mind. A hip bone, a nice ankle, a top lip that isn’t too bad; I ignored the tummy roll. Eventually I rolled off my pink sheets, threw a pink towel around my pink body and-pottered downstairs. No kids in the house I drank a cup of tea (sloooowly), while devouring an entire pot of hummus and a packet of oat cakes a bit too quickly. No one asked me a single question. No one wiped their hands on me. No one asked for a bank transfer to pay for a video game. No one to answer to but me. Well, isn’t that sexy? estherperel.com