Tag Archives: sex

Porn & Prejudice


I don’t care whether you’re a wanker or a liar (because you’re either one or the other), if you’re old enough to be reading this blog, you will at some point have downed trou and flicked the bean, bashed the bishop, beaten the meat, done the five finger shuffle, bludgeoned the beef steak, jacked off, buffed the muffin, milked the cow, burped the worm, or whatever term you choose to use whilst in the throes of abusing yourself. Men and women alike do this and, as has already been proven (and as we already know, if we’re being honest with ourselves), women are as stimulated by erotica as men. So why are there so few female porn flick directors?

I get v.upset by the men in porn. So much so that I haven’t watched a straight porno in going on seven years. Straight porn movies seem to revolve around the amount of aggression that can be poured into the sexual act. The aesthetics of the men in porn don’t do it for me, for a start: lumpy with muscle, greased, hairless, clumsy, with massive cocks that they thrust into the dry, unwelcoming hole on offer. The noises emitted by the false-breasted, orange-skinned, heavily made-up women start the instant they’re penetrated, in whatever sense, and don’t stop until the man has reached his climax. And, let me tell you, if a woman’s making those noises so soon into the act and for so long, you’re either hurting her or she’s faking it.

But, that’s something else: nobody seems to care whether the woman is enjoying herself; you couldn’t even say that anyone’s convinced by the false cries, the: “Oh, yeah, oh baby, oh my gosh* yeah…” It could be that I am a particularly ineloquent lay: I may be able to break concentration enough to manage a garbled: “Gonna come,” but I generally don’t bother, because I’m too busy. I’m too busy thinking about me and what I’m getting from it all to be concerned about how I look or what I sound like. Of course, if my partner intimated that they weren’t enjoying what I was enjoying, I would change tack, because I want them to have as good a time as I. But that’s something else – the people in your average porn film couldn’t give two shits about the person they’re with. I’m not expecting love or gushing romantic declarations, for God’s sake (we’re talking about sex here), but I would like, just for once, for those people to engage with one another. I want an element of respect and enjoyment.

So, let’s say, I’ve found some lesbian porn on Red Tube and I settle myself down in front of my incognito window:-

Step One: I wait for it to load, I hit play, I hear cheesy music, which I’m going to try to ignore, there are two women on the screen… and then I hear a man’s voice. There’s my hardon gone. May as well go and have a piece of toast and watch another episode of Poirot – there’s no way I’m going to be able to get my freak on now. Even if these women were gay, which I seriously doubt, they’re having to perform to a man’s tune. Not sexy.

Step Two: I study the women. They’re sitting on a leather sofa, and they’re both a strange shade of orange with lashings of heavy make-up, dressed in tight mini-skirts, with spiked, clear heels and tube tops. I’m already losing momentum. Girls emulating Jordan, who, bless her silly little cottons, never really did it for me.

Step Three: I manage to get over the first hurdles and the girls undress. Oh dear, holy fuck! One of them has clearly had a breast enlargement that will undoubtedly cause her back problems, and they both sport totally bald frufrus with non-existent labia. I could believe it if just one of them had the mini-lips – it’s not so common in nature, but it does sometimes happen – but the fact that they’re clones of each other down there smacks of vaginal surgery and this makes me seething angry.

Step Four: they haven’t taken the ridiculous shoes off and it doesn’t look like they’re about to.

Step Five: they start kissing… or something. It looks like it’s vastly unpleasant – they flap their lipsticked mouths around each other passionlessly, often missing the mouth and smearing spit on chins and cheeks. It’s probably because they’re not paying attention to each other or connecting – they’re looking at the man behind the camera, and the look on their faces is part sham lust and part enquiry. At what appears to be a remark from the cameraman, the one with the more natural looking breasts shoots out a hand and abrasively pinches one of the silicone mounds attached to her colleague’s chest. I wince in sympathy. A similar thing happened to me once when I was thirteen and snogging behind the drama studio. It was vastly unpleasant, but at least my voluminous checked shirt and baggy black fantasy T-shirt protected me from the full impact of bony fingers.

Step Six: one of them (the one with the falseys) suddenly lies down and whips her legs akimbo to give us the full on impact of the depilated wonder at the top of her thighs. She is not aroused. You would have to be an idiot to not know that – I’m not even sure you’d have ever needed to see an aroused woman to know that. Her bajingo looks like a sad chicken wing.

Step Seven: the other woman moves towards the chicken wing with a look of grim determination; she reaches out and prods it with a long, acrylic nail… whoa whoa whoa. Now, I was starting to suspect (just a teeeeeeeeeeeny weeeeeeeeny bit) that these girls were not actually gay; just a hunch, not that I like to judge on appearance alone. But this just about makes me choke with laughter. There is a reason gay and bisexual women don’t have long nails… and if you don’t know that reason, then you are clearly not a gay or bisexual woman.

Step Eight: on prodding it, the be-taloned one realises that it’s going to be difficult to get the enormous dildo, which is lying conveniently on the coffee table, into the chicken wing because the other party is not even remotely turned on, so she gobs on it and gives it a nice, affectionate slap to boot. If I had managed to get to this point in proceedings in a real situation, which I doubt, I would be now shouting: “Oh come on! Give me a break!”

Step Nine: the gobber reaches out and rubs the chicken wing in a bizarre way that makes me wonder if she thinks a genie is about to pop out of it, at which point, the gobbed on woman starts writhing and moaning loudly. Then with a look of obvious distaste, the gobber stops rubbing and advances on the chicken wing with her shiny, fuchsia mouth. Between the two “acts,” there is no contact at all between the two women, but the woman on her back still moans away (?). There is some funky nonsense with the dildo, which is grotesquely big and, despite spit, the woman doing the work is struggling to insert it into the chicken wing. She even tries to look like she’s enjoying sucking the rubber implement (which she can’t get into her mouth) before trying again (woman on back is still groaning away) and finally manages to get it to look like it’s doing something, although I suspect it’s just balanced.

Step Ten: three forceful and graceless licks later, the woman on her back starts making even louder noises and so does the woman licking (??) before the woman on her back, who is completely unflushed and composed, stares deep into the eyes of the camera, licks her lips, roughly grabs one of her giant breasts and licks that for good measure, then gives a bizarre scream, seizes the head of the gobber, pulls her up towards her and kisses her in a similar fashion to Step.

Then they both stare at the camera licking their lips and the picture fades out.

I do not have enough time to go through what is wrong here – if you don’t know then you need some lessons in sex and the sensuality. I watched from beginning to end with gruesome fascination. This is where the next generation of young men are getting their ideas about sex, women, the human anatomy and lesbianism. And, presumably, that counts for young women too. This is one of the reasons, despite the work of many feminists, that we are still expected to have long, bleached hair and huge tits, why we’re all supposed to have washboard stomachs and small fanny lips and great, big, bleached colonically cleansed arseholes, and no hair anywhere except on our heads (and heaven forbid that a woman may have any hair whatsoever on her face). This is why some men have no concept of how long it takes a woman to actually come, and why they think that lesbians and bisexuals are just doing it for the male attention***. And it’s why women who don’t come in thirty seconds feel like there’s something wrong with them.

Suffice it to say that the above video did absolutely nothing for me, and not just because surrounding the screen were adverts depicting women being raped by men, of women being raped by CGI monsters, and a girl who, apparently, lived in my area was naked, wanted sex and kept calling me “big boy…” although these things were most definitely off-putting.

More women need to get involved with the porn industry. There is no stopping pornography – not that I’d want to – it’s huge and lucrative, and as long as the human race is alive and masturbating there will be a market for it. But it is a man’s business at the minute and that’s not on, if you ask me. Especially when to allow it to be purely a man’s world leads to lack of information, lack of choice and a growing pressure for women to conform, not just in looks but in bed – I hate that we’re all supposed to look a certain way, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let what someone else thinks of me ruin my sex life. We’ve hardly come a long way, us womenfolk, if we’re still expected to make the right noises so that a man feels good about himself in the sack to the detriment of our own pleasure.

I want to watch a video where each party is having as much fun as the other. I also want these images of women effectively being raped to be banned. There’s a difference between a rape fantasy that is a fantasy for each, and the public rape of a woman because she needs to pay the bills and feels she can’t refuse. I have seen some horrific videos – they’re not simulations; we’re talking hardcore pornography here – of women having huge cocks forced into their mouths while they sob, of men thrusting fists** into women’s bleached anuses while they scream. These videos actually make me blanch. And before anyone says it: NO! They are not enjoying it. It’s their job to pretend they’re enjoying it so that you can get off, but it is clearly not the case and you, as the consumer of such videos, know this, but try to justify it to yourself by making out that you’re doing these women a favour by giving them an outlet.

There’s an aggression that goes with the porn industry that I hate. Yes, sex is an animal act, and in being so, somewhat aggressive, but there is a sort of blind hatred towards women in porn. I can’t remember the exact title of the film I’ve mentioned above, but it was something like “Dykes in Heat Suck Dripping Twat.” Nice. And categorically inaccurate. I’ve also come across “Hot Slots,” “Bitches with Fingers in All Holes,” “Hard Clits and Soggy Twats” and “Interracial Sluts Don’t Need Dick.”

I’m sure there is some good stuff out there (occasionally, I find some and breathe a sigh of relief), but there most certainly isn’t enough. I’m not averse to Abbey Winters, and Liz Thomas seems to have done some ok stuff, although I’m not convinced it’s not a man working under a pseudonym. Some of the amateur stuff is ok, but come on people: I want the choice of watching some real sex with real people directed by real women, for God’s sake. You know – women with flaps and normal coloured skin and breasts that jiggle and fall into their armpits when they lie down because that’s what breasts do (and they’re no less beautiful for it). I want those women to direct other women with the same attributes. I want a female director to insist that all parties climax before they stop filming, and actually climax; truly climax; gurn and go pink in the face and say any stupid thing that pops into their heads at that moment in time like people actually do when they orgasm.

What I want, is real gay women who want to have sex in front of a camera and who want everyone involved to be having a good time. I want real straight sex where the women call the shots fifty percent of the time (and not in a fetishist way, which is the only time that ever happens at the minute) and actually orgasm; real orgasms; orgasms you can see as well as hear. There would be far less taboo about the smutty world of porn if women were as equally involved in its creation, and equally as expected to watch.

In addition, I have spoken to some of the men in my life on this subject, and they have all said something similar to me. I mean, they’re hardly going to admit that they regularly fantasise about rape, are they? but they all genuinely seemed to be put off by the falsity of most pornography. In fact, all of them said the same thing at some point in the conversation…

                                                                           … It’s too fake!


* This is generally your American porn star that chooses to “gosh” rather than “God.” Amusing, is it not, that the next words out of her mouth to the stranger with whom she’s engaging in sexual relations may be: “Fuck me harder,” but that to blaspheme would really not be on?

** And while we’re on the subject of fisting, most men think that it involves punching a woman in the cervix. Boys – don’t do this or it will also involve you being punched in the face.

*** “I think what a woman like you needs, is a man like me to straighten you out…” this was, I think, the most bizarre thing I’ve ever heard a man say on the subject of bisexuality. I presume he was expecting a lip pouting in response and some over the top innuendo before he received a blow job for being “clever” enough to crack the Bisexual Code.

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Love & Marriage in Modern Society ~ Part V


One of the things I constantly hear from certain of my married friends and acquaintances is that they never get “any.” Indeed, the first website to show on Google when I typed in “No sex” was divorcebusting.com. I am told that nothing kills a libido like marriage, which is enough to put me off without all the other reasons I’ve just mentioned. I don’t know exactly why this is the case… but I can have a few damn good guesses.

          Desire & Disgust…

My main suspicion is surrounded by mystery. Or lack of. The minute most couples are married, any remaining sense of modesty seems to go out of the window. Why would you bother locking the bathroom door if you’re living together as a family? Why not happily sit on the toilet when your partner is in the bath? Um… because there is no situation other than extreme food poisoning that could possibly warrant it. You are a grown person, not an incontinent child. Unless you’re both really into scat, there is no reaction other than disgust and annoyance at watching someone else do something that really should only go on behind locked doors. Yes, we all know that everyone clips their toenails and blows their nose and shaves unbelievably fiddly parts of themselves and goes to the toilet and plucks out hairs and plays with pimples and waxes their ears. But these things are not sexy. You may have to do them, but you do not have to do them in front of anyone, especially not someone with whom you wish to have sexual intercourse. There is no bigger turnoff than irritation. Sharing to this degree is not intimate. There has to be a balancing act between comfort in each other’s presence and the intimation that you still wish to be seen as desirable (and that you still find your partner desirable), otherwise you become less like a romantic match and more like two siblings cohabiting.

          Faking It…

There is also the fact that a lot of women just don’t enjoy sex as much as they make out (please see my previous post on the subject of sex for my thoughts on that particular matter https://emilydewsnap.wordpress.com/2011/02/17/women-know-your-limits-part-ii-sex-and-climax/). Supposing a woman has dreamed all her life of being married; she works for it, she groans and moans her way into a man’s heart, he marries her… what’s the point in carrying on the pretence once this dream has been realised? She’s married now, the sex was never that good and so there’s no point in continuing – he’s not going anywhere; he promised. On the flip side, all those things that men do to please their girlfriends in the sack… why continue making the effort after marriage? She’s not going anywhere; she promised.

          Wielding it…

Sex is a highly manipulative weapon that has been brandished for centuries in numerous different ways, especially in marriages. It strikes me as cutting the nose off to spite the face of the worst possible sort to deny your partner sex simply because you want something. Because you’re not just denying them, you’re denying yourself, and dangling their supposed responsibility to you in front of their face to boot. But then, if you’re not enjoying the sex as much as you used to or as much as you used to make out you did, then I guess withholding intercourse could v.much become a powerful tool.

          Sprogger Prevention…

Hormones and body clocks play a great part in a lacklustre sex life too. Women have babies – we are the ones who get pregnant, so it is our responsibility to get a hold on our pesky wombs so that sex can be enjoyed whenever. The mini pill, the injection pill (depo provera) and the hugely popular and effective implant (Nexplanon – the implant formally known as Implanon) are all progesterone/progestogen only methods of contraception and work by, essentially, tricking the body into thinking it is in the early stages of pregnancy. This sometimes instigates havoc in a woman’s body and often causes them to bleed until they’re so anaemic they can barely see straight; but, when it works, the whole reproductive system is suspended and the monthly cycles stop altogether. Aside from being rather a risk to the ovaries in the cancer stakes, this can cause a loss of libido. It can also cause a lady to start piling on weight. A woman burns a lot more calories on the days that she bleeds, which is understandable, and a woman will put weight on even in the early stages of pregnancy. In fact, the combined pill is worse than the progesterone only pills for weight gain because of the oestrogen.


Weight gain. It gets harder to keep weight off the older you get and, once married, a lot of people let it all go a little bit. Which is perfectly fine, except that the media insists on us looking a certain way and points out our “inadequacies” as it sees fit, so that, when we gain weight or wear less make-up or don’t totter around in five inch heels &c., we begin to feel bad about our appearances; we lose confidence in ourselves. Loss of confidence manifests itself in many ways – your partner will pick up on it; maybe they’ll even make a remark or two about how much thinner you used to be, or maybe they’ll make “helpful” comments about how you can lose weight and make a dig whenever you’re eating. If we don’t look how we’re told we should, we no longer feel sexy. If a person doesn’t feel sexy, they aren’t going to want to partake of the sex, are they?

          The Fear…

What happens when the woman in a straight relationship no longer feels the way she used to? Situations where women feel that they have to have sex every night to earn the right to go to sleep are absolutely disgraceful. It feels like rape, but you can hardly say anything to anyone about it when you’ve rolled your eyes and said: “Oh, ok…” can you? And, even in this day and age, it is not uncommon for a man to consider sex a service that should be performed by a wife… he married her – she got hers now he wants his. But how does it reach such a point? Wouldn’t it be better to call it a day than to bear the humiliation? Part of the reason some women stay with husbands they no longer love is through fear. They fear that they won’t be able to afford to live alone. They fear the shame of being alone. They fear being alone and vulnerable. They fear being labelled a sad, divorcee. They fear what other, still-married women will think of them and say about them. So they suffer the occasional violation of their bodies and refuse whenever possible.

               The Daily Grind & Other Animals…

And I can hardly miss off the daily grind. Life is pretty mundane and it’s hard not to let that seep into all walks of life. Clambouring wearily into bed with your partner at the end of every day, feeling that they’re just part of the furniture is just not conducive to a healthy sex life; but then, the fact of the matter is, you can’t avoid it. You’ve promised yourself to each other, you know that your other half isn’t going anywhere, so they become just another unremarkable element of your daily routine and you a similar element in theirs.

And then there’s television. Televisions do not belong in dining rooms or bedrooms. They are a constant distraction, even when on standby. They are great, big plinths of mind-numbing entertainment – designed to whisk you away from the day of work you just endured and show you how you could be living if you were one of the beautiful people. Recent research shows that if you eat in front of the TV (and we’re all guilty of it), you’re so distracted that your stomach doesn’t register that its full; if you have a screen in the bedroom, chances are you’ll fall asleep watching it or be distracted by it instead of having the sex or going to sleep. The only exception I’ll accept as a decent excuse for having a TV in a sex session is when a couple want to watch pornography together, in which case it becomes a temporary sex toy.

Arguments do not belong in the bedroom either. The mind is a funny thing and we associate particular things with memories, which affect our present frame of mind. Rows linger like herpes, ready to rage out at unexpected moments; certain objects remind us of particular things that were said and the way we felt at the time. If there’s a residual anger, it could be triggered by anything in the room in which the argument was had. This is not beneficial to your sex life. Or a sleep pattern.


Sleep! You need it in order to have the energy and frame of mind to want to have sex. Partners snore and they can’t help it, but there are other things that take place, like those midnight arguments – you know, the mysterious ones where somehow you’ve upset the other person while you were asleep and they wake you up to say things like: “How can you sleep after you said/did/implied that…?” Don’t do it! It can wait until the clear light of morning when you’ve had a proper chance to sleep on it and your partner will be rested and ready to answer questions and see your side of the argument better.

Whatever the reason, marriage seems to go hand in hand with a dwindling sex life. If there were no other reasons, this one would put me off marriage entirely all by itself.



David Cameron seems to be forever banging on about tax breaks for married couples. Well, how fucking rude! Two people live together, they share the mortgage/rent, the council tax (don’t get me started), the electricity bills, the cost of food and living. And because one day they had a big party and signed a certificate, they are deemed more important than us single folk and so are given a discount on their living costs, despite the fact that living alone is crushingly expensive. I have made a choice not to marry, some people just never have the opportunity to marry, but whatever the reason for a singleton being single, it does not make them incomplete. Nobody should be treated like a second class citizen because they are female or black or gay or Jewish or transgender or disabled or 6 foot 9. And yet, somehow, it’s ok for a politician to stand up and announce that one portion of society deserves a prize for their choice of lifestyle. Somehow, our Prime Minister thinks that it’s acceptable to denounce all people who aren’t exactly like him; and the thing that really gets me is that there wasn’t more outrage about this. Can you imagine if our “esteemed” leader turned round one day and said: “I propose that all whites can have their income tax waived…”? What’s next, I wonder? No NI contributions for Christians*? Complimentary breakfasts for people earning over £50,000 per annum?

I’m presuming (and I could be wrong – it has been known to happen) that when the PM alludes to married couples, he is not referring to civil partnerships.

The opinions of certain Tory wankers aside, nobody should ever feel that they are unfinished because they haven’t met a match. Being comfortable with and by yourself is one of the most satisfying things in the world. And building a life for yourself is just as important as building a relationship – in fact, the two things go hand in hand. Co-dependence creates an awful lot of tension; I can’t understand why the government tries to ram the concept down everyone’s throat as though it will create communities of happy, content people. Quite the opposite of having the effect of preventing divorce, reliance on another to complete your life is more likely to cause it.

Daunting as the thought may seem, you are not guaranteed to find a mate. If you do find a mate, you’re not guaranteed to get married. Just as if you are married, you are not guaranteed to be married for the duration of your short existence. This is only daunting because society made it so. It is not a lifestyle that anyone should fear, because even if you are with someone, you are only ever you and someone else, you are not made whole by them and you are not validated by being with them. You’ll find that if you can spend time alone or with your friends and not spend every waking minute feeling like you should be in your partner’s pocket, then the time you do spend together will be of a higher quality because you chose to spend that time with them and they with you.


* Would Mr Cameron be happy enough to admit that he is of Jewish-German stock? How anyone who has that background can possibly ever be a right-winger is really beyond me, but hey ho. Each to their own. Maybe David Cameron thinks it’s ok to be Jewish and marry out of the faith… but at least if you marry “out” you’re married, ey? That’s the important part.

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Women! Know Your Limits: Part III ~ Body and Image


It’s been a v.long time since I had a period. For the majority of my adult life, my menstrual cycle has been put on hold with progestogen and progesterone. Initially, this was to alleviate the severe pains I used to suffer as a teenager* and later on became necessary to avoid the droppage of unwanted sproggers. Now that I find myself uncoupled, I’m reluctant to let the crimson wave invade my life once more. There have been occasions in the past where I’ve taken breaks from internal contraception to “sort my body out,” but all I‘ve discovered is that two weeks before a period, I turn into a snarling, snapping, whining, bitching, illogical, nasty, frustrated, irritated, worn out, emotional, violent, tearful, depressed, annoying twat; followed by dreadful bouts of teenage skin and bleeding that is not only painful, but leaves me drained of all energy, bloated, in pain, anaemic and often squicked out**. Add to this the inconvenience of being unable to wear light colours in case of leakage, the expense of buying tampons*** and the dilemma of to screw or not to screw (can I be bothered washing it out of the sheets? If we do it in the bath, will that just make the water look murky? Although they are wipe-clean, is it really hygienic to liberally spatter menstrual blood on the kitchen work tops?) Oh, I can’t be bothered any more. Implanon will be replaced when I finish my first three-year round in November.

But for most women, menstruation is v.much a reality and, for most women, v.much as I’ve described above. You boys have no idea! As well as the physical discomfort and the hormonal turmoil, entertaining Auntie Flo can also be a cause of deep embarrassment. A worrying amount of men flinch when periods are mentioned. It is more surprising to find a man that will quite happily take the topic in his stride than one who immediately blanches at the first mention and says: “Too much information…” or a variable thereof. I happen to be v.lucky in this regard – the men in my life have all been v.understanding and, in the not so frequent occurrence of my being on the blob at the monumentally inconvenient moment of being in a position of intimacy, have all carried on regardless, without hesitation or squeamishness. However, I have had the following reaction from male colleagues, teachers and the like (not during sexual encounters, I might add):-

THEM: Are you ok?

ME [bent double in agony]: I’m fine

THEM: What’s wrong?

ME: Period pain

THEM: I really didn’t need to know that

The insinuation here is that I should have invented a reason for my bellyache. But what? Presumably nothing relating to arses or fannies. It’s just another layer to add the ethereal image women try to portray. Germaine Greer, to return to that particular sage, suggests that we taste our menstrual blood. Well, I’m pretty sure the stuff has ended up in my mouth at some point, but I’m happier when any fluid that comes out of my body doesn’t end up in my mouth. After all, it’s coming out of my body for a reason. I don’t think eating your own blob is a way to accept the natural occurrence of its monthly appearance; I’m toilet phobic, but I don’t think drinking my own pee (or worse) is a way to accept that I have to do it. Learning to hide so diligently this so fundamental of female bodily processes is perhaps the foundation on which we build the greater deception assumed by most females as part and parcel of being a woman.

We shave our body hair. Whilst I understand the attraction with a smooth pair of legs, I don’t understand why the attraction, or why it doesn’t extend to men. We deal with armpit hair and back hair and sack and crack hair and yet the thought of a woman with hair in similar places is rather objectionable. Even women wrinkle their noses at the thought, so deeply ingrained is the ideal of the smooth woman. In fact, the only hair I can actually understand the removal of is pubic hair: of course, hair removal is at your own prerogative, but if you choose to allow your pubes to be unruly, at some point, some poor sod is going to end up with a mouthful of curlies and that is not going to be pleasant for them. Still, despite my lack of understanding, I will continue to remove any hair that isn’t on my head because to not do so is just not on the agenda. Does it not smack of the worst kind of brainwashing that I do not understand the need to do this and yet go ahead and do it anyway? My only motivation is other people. I don’t want to wear a skirt or short-sleeved top and have people see that, on occasion, hair grows out of the places that are on show. And what a ludicrous reason to do anything!


It goes further than waxing and shaving the hair on our bodies. A friend of a friend of mine recently invested in removing something else. Something that required anaesthetic and permanent mutilation. Her flaps! It seems that I was much mistaken when I took women with no flange flaps to be the same as people with no earlobes. People actually want this! I’m not saying that if you only have little flaps there’s anything wrong with that – maybe you’re just naturally neater – but why would you change something that you only ever show to someone with whom you are comfortable being intimate? For a start, that’s going to desensitise a v.sensitive area to some extent and that’s the last thing women need. I’m really not savvy enough on the subject of bajingo surgery to understand the rationale behind it, but I wouldn’t cut part of my genitalia off if you paid me. Since hearing of this outrageous act against muffs, it’s all I’ve been able to think about****. Perhaps they could take the removed flesh and pad something else out with it, since apparently the most effective way to become more attractive is to hack parts of yourself off and shove foreign articles in.

And then there’s anal bleaching! Presumably this is to give an effect of cleanliness, but here’s the thing: a bleached anus is even less clean than a non-bleached one on account of this equally ludicrous procedure causing anal leakage! “Oh, yes, I smell like arse, but at least I paid a lot of money for the privilege.” Here’s a news flash: your anus is the colour it is because of its main purpose in life and no matter what you do to it, that will still be its purpose!

I find the thought of medical procedures in general to be a rather extreme way of enhancing looks. I’m all for make-up as a way of enhancing what’s already there, but even then there is the fact that men don’t do it. Again there is hair removal – plucking the eyebrows. For dark-haired ladies with hair on their top lips, I have been told that bleaching is the best practice for disguising. We cover blemishes and dark circles, change our skin tone†, augment our cheekbones and brow-bones with highlighters and shadows. We make our eyelashes darker and, in my fair case, the eyebrows we lovingly tweezed. If one is to go the whole hog with make-up, the face is wiped out by primers and foundations, only to be redrawn over the top in deeper shades. And men don’t have this hassle. In fact, unless you’re Eddie Izzard or Tim Minchin, male make-up is rarely seen outside the circles of rock and/or drag. Yet I am all for wearing make-up. Make-up that looks like you’re wearing make-up. My eyes have gone from doe to sixties wings to fifties flicks to rockabilly ticks. But never did it occur to me to not do it. In fact, I find it slovenly to not do it – it’s part of getting dressed for me. There always comes a point when I start a new relationship and the person I’m seeing goes: “You look different somehow…” and I have to explain that my face is actually underneath the paint and that the reason I look different is that I’ve taken the paint off. I realise that this isn’t the case for all women, but there’s no denying that there is a great deal of pressure for women to look a certain way and regardless of what anyone says, constantly being bombarded with images of women that have been airbrushed to “perfection”, pouting, dark-eyed, ruby-lipped and vacantly-expressioned really gives us ladies a run for our money.

But at least these images are false: the face has been drawn on, the hair has been backcombed, sprayed, dyed, blow-dried and that’s before the final projection is tampered with. These are realistic goals to strive for, if that’s what you really want. It is possible to go someway to achieving the look of the moment, if the word “achievement” can legitimately be applied here. Of course, some stars go a step further and have plastic surgery – we accept this since they are something of a mythical “other” anyway. The rich and famous, for those of us that aren’t, are fabulous untouchables. They almost cease to be people. They are the beautiful husks, designed for our entertainment and amusement, to which we attribute whatever personality we feel like, since we don’t know them and never will. Somehow, for them to present themselves to us as perfect packages is wholly acceptable, since we effectively pay their wages and if a proportion of the billions we spend on music, films, magazines &c. goes towards a bit of rhinoplasty, then so be it. It does, after all, make the Beautiful Untouchables better at their jobs. But plastic surgery is slowly creeping into the high street. These days it is perfectly normal to see busses rolling by advertising cosmetic “enhancement.” It is no longer beyond our means to afford this sort of luxury.

What I can’t get my head around is that people would actually pay to have someone cut into their flesh for no other reason than that their nose was a bit wonky or their breasts smaller than they would like. The v.thought actually knocks me sick. Having had surgery, and I mean minor surgery††, I can’t entertain the thought of paying thousands of pounds for someone to do that to me if there is nothing wrong with me in the first place. Going under the scalpel is scary, for a start: a person injects you with something that renders you unconscious, which can cause health complications (and in some extreme cases, death), once under you have to trust another person to wield incredibly sharp implements over your naked body and then to actually slice into you. Now, let’s just suppose that everything goes to plan and you awake unharmed – firstly, you’ll probably vomit violently. And you will be in pain. Severe pain. You can’t expect to have your tissue hacked into and wake up feeling fine and dandy, of course you can’t. You’ll feel dizzy and confused, parts of you will hurt that didn’t even have the surgery, because bodies are funny that way, and you’ll probably be full of tubes. I don’t know what the recovery time is for plastic surgery, but after I had my appendix removed and my laparoscopy, it was a good two or three months before I felt ok again and the scars still ache from time to time to this day. And, the pain aside, what happens if you don’t like the finished result? Do you go back for more to correct it or quit while you’re ahead? What happens if, say, you have a wonky nose, have it straightened and then discover that it makes the rest of your face look wonky? What happens if your new nose suits your younger face, but as you get older starts to look out of place? There’s a limit to what surgery can do. And reversing age is another limit it cannot transcend.

So, it’s painful, it’s expensive, there are health risks… but what about just plain unhealthy. Liposuction, for example, is the procedure of sucking the fat out of a person’s body. Just as it is unhealthy to be underweight, so is it to be overweight, yet we have developed a way of reducing the fat in a person’s body without exercise or dietary revision. Bit of a no-brainer, that one. And we all know this and yet about a third of the people I asked said they definitely would have plastic surgery if they could afford it (mainly women), a third said they would consider it (a few more men crept into this category) and the remaining third said they wouldn’t (mainly men).What is this need to be uniformly beautiful? And why do the majority allow the media to dictate what being beautiful entails? True, we’re visual creatures… those of us who are lucky enough to be sighted, at least. I’m not denying the fact of attraction, but surely we are able to decide what constitutes beauty for ourselves. And surely there is an appeal in the irregular features that make one person different from the next. Maybe there are similar pressures for men when it comes to image, but I don’t see that men spend an inordinate amount of time preening, plucking, dyeing, curling, straightening, buffing, filing, painting, waxing and cutting off parts of their genitalia simply for the aesthetics, dressing up like damned male peacocks or tottering around on their tippy-toes.


* I mean pains that spread up into my chest and down both legs. Pains that made me faint and vomit. Pains mainly caused by Endometriosis, it later transpired.

**  I am squeamish of all blood – my problem is not the location of the bleeding, only the fact of it.

*** Although, should I choose to return to my natural state of affairs, I shall be purchasing a mooncup. Sounds cleaner than plugging my muff with cotton wool, in which nasty germs can grow, and would work out cheaper on account of being a one off payment.

**** A colleague asked me recently why I was staring into space and all I could say was: “I’m thinking about flaps.”

† Historically women would put arsenic on their faces to bleach the skin. Unfortunately for pasties like me, in this day and age, the trend is to apply unnatural shades of orange to create a healthy glow

†† Appendectomy, laparoscopy, lapascopic womb scraping, contraceptive implant &c.

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Women! Know Your Limits: Part II ~ Sex and Climax

We have many lessons to learn, the female of the species, as we grow and change in life. As well as impressing upon us the disability of weakness, society also teaches us other valuable lessons such as “women are not sexual creatures!” Oh, naturally, we’re sexually arousing, but our bodies are functional – to provoke our men, carry their babies and then to feed the offspring. What society teaches us is that women do not have sexual fantasies. Women do not masturbate; they don’t read erotica or watch pornography; their goal in seducing a man is purely asexual. If a woman does enjoy sex, does seek it out, she is considered to be, if not a nymphomaniac, then at least a slut. In fact, the affliction that is nymphomania applies only to women. There is no technical term for male sex addiction.

As I write, I realise how archaic this way of thinking is and, whilst inhibition on this scale may come as a shock to some people, others will v.much identify with it, especially the older generations. It’s true that women are gradually beginning to open up about sex – it is no longer quite the taboo it once was and maybe Sex and the City goes some way towards helping in that regard (or maybe SATC was borne of a new openness to sex). But some women are still unable to discuss sex and everything that pertains thereto. Ann Summers has brought sex toys to the high street, which is a massive leap forward in my opinion. No more the Tupperware Party – the Ann Summers Party takes precedence (and Amen to that!)

My good friend, El Kitten, was the first person I had real conversations about sex with and this will be news to her. I remember being quite taken aback by some of the subjects she so frankly broached when we first became friends, but over time, it became perfectly normal and, might I add, a perfectly natural topic to discuss. Now I’m the one who rocks the conversational boat in other friendship groups – a little gift from the Kitty and my sincerest thanks go to her.

My guess is that women were originally brought up with this inhibition about sex in order to prevent mishaps in the form of bastard children, not that it worked particularly well, and to keep the woman in the home where she belonged, not out having affairs. Perhaps with the decay of female suppression, sex is gradually becoming as equal as most other avenues of life. But we’re not quite there yet.


In the words of Julie Andrews: let’s start at the very beginning. I’m not sure at what age the average person discovers masturbation. It is said that when babies rock in their nappies, that is what they are doing; however, in a bid to prevent child abuse, we are programmed to automatically disassociate anything sexual with children and the idea that babies masturbate is rather abhorrent. Maybe we are born sexually aware; I’m not sure anyone remembers back that far and that clearly. But, if this is the case, there is a point, after you are a baby and before you are left to your own devices, where the laws of society are imposed upon you in order to prepare you for your western future, and these rules include: “Don’t pick your nose, don’t scrape scabs, don’t scratch, don’t suck your thumb. Don’t put your fingers into any orifices at all” in short: “Do not touch your private places!”

I was nowhere near adolescence when I discovered masturbation. I didn’t even know what I was doing at the time or why it felt the way it did. I remember thinking that it must just be me and being embarrassed, but not even being sure what was embarrassing. Even when I was told, in a v.methodical way, what masturbation was, I didn’t really relate to it and thought that what I did was something different. Something weird. For a start, I was always thinking strange things when I did it and there was no mention of that in any of the books I’d read. Eddie Munster from The Munsters Today made something stir in my knickers, so I thought about kissing him (nothing more, mind – should give you some idea of the age I was). I still have a thing for men in eyeliner and vampires, so it goes… Other strange fantasies involved Leonardo from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (something about the shade of his bandana, maybe), Super Ted, Tin Tin and She-Ra. Naturally, my fantasies became more three dimensional as I grew up.

The difference here is that, whilst I spent many years carrying on thus with burning, shame-faced fervour, wondering what was wrong with me, boys were stealing and sharing porn mags right left and centre. At least, they were by the time I got to secondary school. This is something I only discovered recently. Back then, I remember feeling incredibly naughty when a friend and I discovered a VHS of The Rocky Horror Picture Show in her parents’ bedroom. And I’ll never forget stumbling into a game of Soggy Biscuit that was going on behind the drama studio at Glossopdale CC… you know who you are! For the boys, despite warnings that they’d go blind, masturbation was accepted and expected; even laughed about amongst the elders. People I know laugh about the things they’ve found on their sons’ computers. It is, however, never considered appropriate to make similar jokes about the contents of a daughter’s download folder.

Yet we know that women are just as aroused by pornographic images as men. I recently started writing a blog about the lack of pornography aimed at women and it really is lacking. Without delving too deeply, the mere fact of the male target audience tells a story. In essence, it shows us the sort of people who are interested in pornography and the sort of people who find it inaccessible. Abby Winters is the only female orientated pornographer that springs to mind, although Viv Thomas makes a pretty good job of it too. I’m sure there is more stuff for us ladies out there, but in comparison to the sheer volume of male-orientated porn, it’s a pretty feeble offering.

When we eventually got ourselves connected to the internet, back in the ‘90s when AOL took several hours and an alarming amount of screeching and pinging to load, I came across a few images and felt deliciously excited and immediately like everyone could see what I could see. But either pornography wasn’t so rife online when the internet first came to the generic household or there were parental locks on the computer.

According to various sources I discovered online, somewhere between forty and sixty percent of women do not admit to masturbating. I mentioned this to a friend whose reaction summed up my thoughts on this statistic exactly: “There are only wankers and liars.”


I had a lot of sex before I enjoyed it. I had a lot of sex after I discovered I enjoyed it, but long before I realised that there was nothing wrong with enjoying it*. I’m not sure what block I fought my way over to come to this realisation, but once on the other side, I was quite angry that nobody had told me this before. Although my mother told me honestly about where babies came from, when I asked, and what sexual intercourse involved, one’s mother is not really the person to ask about the more intimate ins and outs of the thing. I’d always had a sneaking suspicion that sex wasn’t something that I should be doing anyway, let alone enjoying. Of course, there were sex scenes in films that were utterly unconvincing and for which all family members would avert eyes or start talking. For a long time, I thought Caddy Shack was the rudest thing I’d ever seen. It could all have changed since the widespread use of the internet, but when I was growing up, I didn’t know about pornography. Or rather, I knew about it, but really didn’t have the foggiest as to what it entailed. I knew there would be naked people and probably some putting of genitalia into other genitalia, but that was pretty much all I had to go on.

Now, this may come as a shock to people who met me in more recent years, but I have been in relationships where, after quite a short while, I just was not interested in sex. I was made to believe that this was my fault – that I was v.selfishly withholding what I should offer a partner. Where the majority of married couples are concerned, there lingers the afore-mentioned asexuality – once you’ve snared the man with your feminine wiles and got the thing locked down, there really is no need for any more of that nonsense. For me (and, indeed, the cause of the “asexuality”), the lack of interest was partly down to the sense of duty that went hand in hand with the act, as well as the inhibitions above – I rarely climaxed; I felt too fat to go on top, I was self-conscious of my lady parts – the way they must look, smell, taste; I was unsure that what I was doing was right; I didn’t think that I was the reason the person I was with was turned on. And all my life I’d heard men joking that women didn’t like sex. In short, I figured it was not for girls, what with it being rather undignified and generally unsatisfactory.

Each relationship I’ve had has taught me something new in the bedroom (I don’t include flings here because they’ve been a mixed bag). And as my confidence grew, so did my ability to do, or to ask for, what I wanted; to be able to say things like: “Slow down” was a breakthrough. Before this revelation, I had often lain there thinking: “This is hurting!” and feeling that I was unable to say anything about it**. The key for me was definitely to be more demanding. To stop thinking and start acting. But it was a slow and self-conscious process to break away from everything I had previously held store by.

The point is that once you realise that you have absolutely no duty to let someone into your body – that the decision is yours – and once you get your head around the fact that during sex is not a time to worry about image, the libido will return tenfold, partly because the sex will be more enjoyable.


The average woman takes nearly twenty minutes to reach orgasm. Some women never orgasm. Some women have only had clitoral orgasms. Some women can’t orgasm during sex. Most women have never ejaculated.

Whatever the situation, if all physical parts are correct and present, all of the above concerns stem from the mind. True, I find it almost impossible to orgasm if I’m with someone who doesn’t stimulate me on a deeper level than lust (I’m not trying to suggest that I can only reach climax if I am in love, but there has to be a deeper connection). Don’t ask me why – that’s my hang-up. But once I realised that sex wasn’t something to be ashamed of or a topic to be avoided, and once I realised that orgasm requires nothing more than abandon, I was away. An ex once said of me, with no small amount of distaste: “You come like a man.” I take this to mean that I orgasm quickly, without a care as to the look on my face – not for me the sexy pout, flushed cheeks and yes yes yeses. I should imagine, although I don’t know, that I generally come across as a crazed ginger creature with a gurn of concentration on my screwed up mug. I speculate. But I don’t see why I, or any woman for that matter, should care about facial expressions at the point of no return. For a start, worrying about how you look during sex is a key factor in failure to land. And there is nothing so “special” than the look on a man’s coming face: teeth bared, eyes boggling, head thrown back… the orgasm is hard work. Which means working hard. Which means some form of abandonment must be involved in order to focus on your goal. If you want to come hard and fast, you have to forget to worry about what you think the other person is thinking of you – because whatever it is you think they’re thinking, they’re not!

I do maintain, though, that the main reason some women are unable to reach the wondrous O is because of the pressure we rest on it. It is, once again, a case of subscribing to a belief that’s imposed upon us from birth. If women are constantly told that it’s hard for them to orgasm, they’re going to find it hard to orgasm. And worry of any description doesn’t help. To make matters worse, if you’re too preoccupied to orgasm, you probably don’t believe in it at all. I know I didn’t for a long time. Then for a while after that, I didn’t believe women could orgasm during sex. Then I didn’t believe in vaginal orgasms. Lastly, I didn’t believe in female ejaculation. What I didn’t realise at each of these points is that the reason I didn’t believe is because I’d never experienced, so it didn’t occur to me to strive or expect these things. I thought that either women who talked about orgasms, vaginal orgasms and orgasms during sex were lying or that there was something wrong with me. I just could not imagine it happening. I first encountered female ejaculation whilst watching an episode of Sex and the City (one of the characters ejaculated, not me) and thought it sounded so ridiculous and far fetched. I heard of it again in The L Word and thought that added a certain weight to the concept. Still, I wasn’t sure about it. Indeed, it was late last year when I discovered that this little female delight was also v.much true…

Whatever your hang up – let it go, I beg of you. It’s so v.liberating when you discover yet another wonder achievable by the female body.


* Although, there was a lot wrong with enjoying it at my mother’s house!

** Admittedly, there were complications with me – it was eventually discovered that I’d been suffering from endometriosis for years, causing agonising periods and dyspareunia. Perhaps it was post-operation that sex became something that it was possible to really enjoy, although I had had good sex prior to that. However, I do know, now that it’s no longer an issue for me, that I was not alone in my disregard of sex. Note the term “was” – it’s now one of my favourite things in the world!


Best Sex Toy: Rabbit Three Way (0 to O in 60 seconds)

Best Foreplay: Fingers… all of them!

Best Straight Position: Reverse Cowgirl

Best Pornography: Abby Winters

Best Literature: Anaïs Nin ~ Delta of Venus

Best Photography: modfetish.com

Best Tweets: @EdenCafe

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