Best-laid plans...

 He says...

Though I've never tried, I don't think I would make a very good sex-blogger and my ineptitude at describing mind-blowing sex precludes me from giving the dets on the Hotel Sex Weekend. Suffice to say, the sex was both frequent and hot. The weekend went almost exactly according to plan with the exception that the original good intentions to buy the kids their Christmas presents fell by the predictable wayside. I'm afraid that we hardly made it out of the lingerie and sex shops. Oh, and there were some er... minor complications with baby-sitting arrangements back home. So we heard anyway.

We left nothing to chance in organising the weekend... readers will know that Hotel Sex temperature is directly proportional to the distance from home . A hotel “Across Town” will just about do it. A hotel “Out of Town” is considerably better. The Rockers really went the Whole Hog and hung the Do-Not-Disturb sign on the door of a hotel room in “Another Country”. That doesn't even need inverted commas. We really did. Now that may seem a little over the top but we were quite thankful we did when it turned out that our best-laid plans were chaotically unravelling back at home. If we had been “Across Town” we would have been obliged to abandon the er... abandon. The sleepy blissful peace of the first-morning-after-the-debauched-night-before were shrilly disturbed by our 13 year-old son cheerfully checking in by cell phone to tell us that their baby-sitter for the weekend, our dear, dear friend and business partner, in her valiant attempts to keep them entertained on a Friday night with a massive sumptuous gourmet cook-out (our son absolutely loves cooking) had succumbed to a bad prawn and was hospitalised by ambulance with full allergic anaphylactic shock at 4am, having swelled up to three times her normal size and stopped breathing. First time ever. How lucky is that? You've got to admire the resilience of a 13 and 10 year olds to take that in their stride as they apparently did. They grow up so fast don't they?

Meanwhile, back in The Big Sinful City.... I've never been an ogler of women in sexy underwear. I've never been the type to deliberately flip to the lingerie shows on Fashion TV or drool over the lingerie sections in fashion mags, I've never really seen the point. It's never been important to me whether Mrs Rocker is wearing sexy underwear or not, it hasn't made a difference to how I feel about her. What I have learnt though in the last little while, is how important it is to Mrs Rocker, and how it makes her feel. And that, in turn, makes it important to me. A woman who feels sexy is the most sexy thing in the world. So practically overnight, I've become the world's foremost expert lingerie (and other even racier, lacier unmentionables) aficionado and connoisseur. I can sagely comment on, and knowledgeably appreciate lingerie in the same way that I do fine single-malt Scotch Whisky and am actively encouraging Mrs Rocker to amass a collection of sexy underwear to rival my own collection of single-malts.

My education continues and it shows that a man who has been together with his wife as a couple for 23 years and married for 15 of those can still constantly learn new things about the woman he loves.

During the weekend in the Big Sinful City there was considerable humour for me in watching Mrs Rocker's frustration turn to annoyance and then downright anger regarding the complete lack of man-eye-candy despite the fact that we were in the Place-Of-The-Beautiful-People. The poshest, richest, playground for a thousand miles around. The women were well-heeled and stunning. Plenty to look at and appreciate for me. Absolutely zip for Her. At one stage, she steadfastly refused to move from a perch until she had seen a well-groomed, good-looking man who might make it onto her A-List, walk by. I gamely supported her in her obstinance. But after a very long wait I started to get thirsty. Then hungry. When my eyes started to roll back into my head and I started to babble incoherently and the vultures were wheeling overhead we decided it would be more prudent to head for the nearest pavement cafe, order a bottle of champagne and continue the vigil from there. Eveeeeeeeeentually she was rewarded, but not too long before the bottom of the bottle.

A message we want to put out there... Guys- its OK to be straight AND well groomed. Don't be scared. It doesn't take much and I've learnt thanks to careful coaching from Mrs Rocker and forced subjection to Make-Over TV shows that you can throw away good looks with poor grooming and clueless dress-sense just as much as you can make the best of also-ran looks with attention to detail. Mrs Rocker has slowly pulled me from the abyss of style-cluelessness.

Back to the male eye-candy thing, we were at our favourite Greek Restaurant, the food was fantastic, the atmosphere, electric, the plates were flying and crashing all around us- and in the centre of the restaurant were two swarthy hunky, rippled Mediterranean young men, skilfully executing a well-practiced, very carnal Greek dance. At first look, it was the kind of swarthy Latino-like eye-candy that kept Mrs Rocker absolutely agog throughout our Argentina skiing sojourn a few years back.

“What about those guys for your A-List?” I said.

She gave me a WTF? look, irritatingly pointed back and said “look again you silly, there's TWO things wrong with that picture”.

I did look again, then I slapped my forehead and yelled “Doh!”

I sheepishly delivered a more accurate assessment-

1. too short
2. too young

Mrs Rocker didn't reply, just raised one scolding eyebrow at me which said “Wake up!”.