In recent interviews, one of the questions that has been put to me is: am I a sex addict? Whilst I expect this to be asked – I am, after all, a woman who writes, with gleeful abandon, almost solely about my sex life – it also is infuriating, because reducing me down to a tired label just seems lazy and narrow-minded. Plus, it couldn’t be further from the truth.

So I calmly explain that whilst I clearly enjoy sex, I’m not an addict of it: I don’t need to shag to feel better about myself; I’m not in denial about my emotional problems and need sex as a release; I don’t fuck random strangers on street corners in order to get off (well, not very often, anyway). In my mind, for a person to be a sex addict, they do, you know, need to actually be having sex, so given my current dry spell I barely qualify as being sexually active, let alone an addict.

Someone recently also asked me if I thought there was something wrong with me, because of my sex obsession.

‘Have you ever had a partner who was really up for sex?’ I asked him. ‘Have you been with a girl who was always in the mood; who jumped you at any opportunity; who really loved shagging you?’

‘Of course’, he replied.

‘Did you think something was wrong with her?’

He paused. ‘No, it was great actually; she had a very high sex drive.’

‘You’ve just answered your own question.’

Just because a woman enjoys sex, it seems that she must be seen as pathological in some way; that she must be abnormal, or bad, or – as in my case – an addict. Why can’t women just like sex? Why can’t we be seen to enjoy it, without being called ‘sluts’ or ‘whores’ or ‘addicts’? Why must something be wrong with us, just because we openly express our needs, desires and wants?

I can’t answer that, but I will say that I am bored of the stereotyping; it’s tiresome to see the same old shit dragged out, whenever we challenge the view that women are ‘naturally’ passive, or when we counter the sexist labels assigned to us through the mainstream representation of female sexuality. I know my struggle to present an alternative to these views, is but in its infancy; I expect to be attacked for my perspective, every step of the way. It’s a dull fight, but someone’s got to do it, I guess.

Anyway, it is not without some irony that I’m aware most people reading this are, most likely, having more sex than I am, and with more frequency. You lucky bastards. I would be happier, of course, to be shagging on a regular basis and I hope to be doing so again soon – hopefully with a decent man who can fuck me with his brain as well as his cock.

If I don’t meet him tomorrow, not to worry: I will, most likely, end up getting into bed with an old fuck buddy or more preferably, perhaps dabble with someone new, in order to fulfil my needs. But doing so does not make me an addict; it just makes me someone that really enjoys having sex and who is prepared to do it on a purely casual basis as well as within a relationship.

A normal woman, in my opinion. Anyhow, I might be more enthusiastic than many women with my joyful approach to sex, but that doesn’t mean that I am the only woman thinking about it, or doing it – I’m just one who’s prepared to write about it and broadcast it to the world, that's all.

Blimey. My book is already on sale - four days in advance of its official release date on 3rd August. I almost fainted earlier, when I saw this window display in the Charing Cross Road branch of Borders. It seems like someone else had a moment too, given that peculiar mark on the glass, directly in front of my book.

Anyway, if you want to get a copy of it, you can now do so: they've got the book on their '3 for 2' offers table, at the front of the store, as does Waterstones in Oxford Street. I don't know where else (including outside of London) it is currently for sale; it'll be, most likely, at all the big book shops sometime later this week.

I won't be doing any book signings, sorry. I was tempted to quickly scribble on a few copies from the pile whilst I was in there, but I figured it was too risky to do so, so I made my exit swiftly. Not before I had noticed a handsome man picking up my book to read the back cover though: damn he had a nice arse.

I have a theory. It’s based on my experience, not scientifically accurate in any way, and most likely incorrect, due to massive generalisations I make, but I think it has some validity all the same:

Men that wank too hard, can experience difficulty having penetrative sex with women.

Now, I don’t mean to say that all men who enthusiastically embrace their cocks have problems with intercourse - far from it: I’m all for men who enjoy self-love with a passion. Instead, what I am talking about here, are men who, quite literally, attack masturbation with such gusto, that anything else pales in comparison: vaginal penetration, for them, means a loss of friction and sensation. This then results in decreased pleasure, and thus difficulty climaxing inside a woman.

Why have I come up with this conclusion? Because I think that aggressive, rampant, intense wanking desensitizes men's cocks, making intercourse a disappointing experience for them (and their partners) and I think this is a tragic shame. I also want to challenge the myth of it being women who solely experience difficulty in climaxing: some men cannot obtain an orgasm through penetration either, no matter how much they thrust and grind.

I may not be a bloke, but it seems pretty obvious to me, that when a man uses his hand to grip his cock hard and fast, the sensation is going to be unlike anything a pussy can simulate; no matter how tight, how rampant, how intense vaginal penetration might be, it cannot compare to his tight fist tugging away. And it is this tugging that I think quite literally numbs these men to the sensations of penetration.

Only familiar with a firm grip producing their climax, the delicacies of intercourse pass these men by. They are not able to sense the subtlety of a vagina pulsing and clenching; they cannot focus on how wet and slick a pussy might be; they might not notice the fluctuations in heat, tightness and softness; they cannot feel the contractions of a female orgasm occur, the billowing of the internal vaginal walls softly caressing their cock head. They miss out on all this, I believe, because they have desensitized their cock’s ability to feel, by tugging it so rampantly.

I’m not going to say I have the tightest pussy in the world and that the men who have had difficulties climaxing with me, are weird somehow, for not exploding deep within me; that would just be stupid, and vain, and even I don’t think my pussy can work magic (well, not all the time, anyway). But I will vouch for my pretty decent, intramuscular vaginal ability, given 15 years of doing Kegel exercises, and I think I’ve picked up some respectable sexual skills from the lovers I have had, so when faced with a guy for whom my pussy seems to do nothing for, I will admit it has surprised me a little.

However, I’m only mildly, momentarily, insulted by their lack of appreciation for my internal cock-grip; sex is, after all, about more than just how nice my pussy feels (surprising, I know). I’m always keen to do other things; to experiment and play in order to obtain mutual pleasure. So besides dropping to my knees for a wet blow-job/hand-job/cleavage combo, I’ll also quite happily give a guy a seductive look and ask him to play with himself for me. This achieves two things:

1. It shows me what method of penis stimulation he enjoys, and how best I might help him achieve orgasm
2. It turns me on to watch him wank
   

The second point of course, goes without saying – you could call it a favourite pastime of mine – it works as foreplay for me regardless of anything else he does (which always comes in handy, should he be clumsy or inefficient with his hands or mouth). The first point though, is what I consider to be one of the most important aspects of sex: finding out what the other person enjoys – and learning how to do that for/to them.

So, watching a man wank – getting some insight into his personal, private self-loving activity – is the thing that I ask almost every lover I have had, to do. I am not a mind reader or an expert in bed: I too need guidance in order to pleasure someone. Watching a man masturbate gives a few minutes of insight into his individual sexual preferences, and, I have found, offers clues as to his enjoyment (or not) of penetrative sex.

I have noticed major differences between the men that have played with themselves in front of me. There are some men who touched their cocks so lightly, you’d be surprised at the rigidity of their erections; their penis being so sensitive, even their finger gliding along the shaft induced a strong throb and large drop of pre-come. There are men who just squeezed the tip with their fingertips and their cock pulsed in response. There are men who could climax just by holding their balls and pressing down on their cock with the palm of their hands. And then there were the men who grabbed, tugged and throttled their penis so fast and so hard that their hand motion was a blur; their cock quite literally, taking a bashing. I have watched many men masturbate in front of me and of them all, men that perform the latter action appear to also have had the most difficulty coming whilst inside me.

I don’t think this is a coincidence. I really believe that the lovers who were able to come with ease, also had the most sensitive cocks. They were, without fail, also the most sensual lovers I have had; they were able to be inside me, not moving, and yet could come just from my pussy clenching around them. The sensitivity in their cocks allowed them to climax in whatever way they chose: slow, fast, deep, shallow, soft, hard – not just having to pump in and out as fast as they could in the hope of them achieving orgasm.

The men who could only tug themselves into oblivion always seemed to be missing out when inside me; their cocks only responding to intense friction, their orgasms dependent on repeated – and firm – stimulation, which of course, my vagina could not provide. Faced with a soft, fluttering pussy, rather than a solid grip, the men who were used to hard wanking found it didn’t fulfil their needs, and so couldn’t climax – unless they pulled out and frantically tugged themselves off.

Watching – and being with these men – saddens me. It reminds me of awkward teenage sex; where no-one really knows what they’re doing, or how to have fun. I make this connection, because seeing a man who can only climax in this limited way, makes me think that he’s still somehow at that awkward teenage stage: not quite sure what to do, not experienced in various ways to feel pleasure, but knowing that the end result feels bloody nice, so he might as well do what he’s always done, because, well, that works, doesn’t it?

I don’t think it does. These men are being robbed of their sensitivity – and thus their ability to enjoy sex to the fullest. I think these men need to unlearn their rough, frantic, rampant masturbatory habits; they need to discover new ways to enjoy their desire; find out just how pleasurable a really sensitive penis can be. By slowing down, by exploring themselves, softly, gently, they’ll discover a whole new way to experience their arousal. And this will help them to really know – perhaps for the first time – just how wonderful being inside a woman can feel.

If there are any men who might relate to this, I would say open your mind, take your time touching yourself, or use a toy to increase your sensitivity, and you’ll learn a whole new way to have fun with your cock. And when you next have vaginal intercourse, your penis (and your partner) will thank you for it, I guarantee it.

“I would.”

“What?”

“I would.” She gestured with her elbow to the TV on the wall, and then pointed at the miniature on-screen Robbie Williams miming to his music video. “I definitely would.”

“Really?” I watched the screen and wondered what Robbie might look like naked. Quite fit, I imagine.

She interrupted my train of thought. “But, it’d only be for one night – the guy has far too many issues for more than that.”

“How do you know?”

“He comes across like that in interviews” she replied, assuredly. “He seems like he’s got more than a few emotional problems.”

I decided not to comment on her assumption that interviews reflect ‘truth’ of any sort, and instead wondered to myself if supposed ‘emotional problems’ were what attracts me to certain men in the first place; their dark, insecure side, a fascinating balance to their outer, confident charm.

She broke me out of my momentary self-analysis. “Well he smokes anyway; a terrible chain smoker, so that would stop me wanting to get involved.”

I peered at the screen and screwed up my nose in mock disgust. “Yuck.”

She nodded. “Well, it’d only be for that one night, so I suppose I’d put up with him smelling a bit.”

I laughed. “I guess. But if I was going to fuck him, he’d better spend some serious time licking me, to make up for it.”

She giggled back and then resumed what she was doing.

“Ouch!” I held my breath and tried to control the pain.

“Sorry.” She rubbed my calf where she had ripped off the wax and smiled at me. “Almost finished.”

I focussed back on the TV, hoping it would take my mind off the fact that a complete stranger was tearing away the top layer of skin from my legs.

“So do you like men to be in their twenties like you?” she asked, presumably attempting to distract me from the pain.

I shook my head. “I’m not in my twenties” I replied, blushing slightly. “And younger men bore me. I like a guy to be a bit more experienced and worldly – in his mid-thirties preferably.”

“Oh, I thought you were in your twenties like me?” she said, confused.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

She continued to spread the wax over me. “Oh, well, if you don’t like younger blokes, what do you think of older men then?”

“Not much” I replied. “I prefer men my own age; give me a man in his thirties any day.”

“How about an older man like Rod Stewart? He’s still got it.”

I gritted my teeth, mostly from the pain, but also at the vomit-inducing thought of seeing Rod Stewart naked. “No thanks. Not my cup of tea at all.”

“Really?” she asked. “I think he’s sexy. I would, definitely. I’ve had a crush on him for years.”

I stayed silent. She continued ripping off my skin. “Come on, there must be one older man who you’d shag…”

“Hmm. OK then, if I had to: David Lynch.”

“Who?”

“The film director.”

She shrugged.

“Lost Highway, Blue Velvet, The Elephant Man…”

She looked at me like I was talking nonsense, and in my head I imagined slapping her hard with the palm of my hand to punish her for her ignorance. “The TV series Twin Peaks...”

She stared at me, still confused. I continued. “Well, anyway, I’d do him – but only because he’s so bloody intelligent and I love his work. He’s an amazing guy actually – really interesting to talk to.” I added, “And he gave me a hug once.”

She seemed unimpressed by my bragging and I gave up, attempting to ignore the fact that she was now pulling my vulva to one side and spreading hot wax in my nether regions.

As she tugged away, I tried to focus away from the impending agony soon to be felt between my legs. Then she ripped off the wax, and on the verge of tears, I continued the conversation. “There is one other older guy I’d shag. I know he’s ancient enough to be my father, but get David Bowie in a cat-suit and I’d jump him.”

“He’s quite nice” she agreed. She pulled my vulva to the other side and spread some more wax upon it. I bit my lip waiting for the pain, and flinched hard as she tugged away the wax.

“All done!” she said a moment later, somewhat too eagerly I thought.

I smiled at her, rejoicing that it was all over and I could finally take my poor throbbing pussy home. I was also relieved that I didn’t divulge that one of my wank-fodder-favourites - the thought of Ziggy Stardust being sucked off by Iggy Pop - was currently running through my mind.

Some things you just don’t share, particularly when it’s a fantasy about the glam-rock era and the person you are talking to wasn’t even born then. Plus, I've learned it's best not to let my imagination run away with me when someone happens to have their hands in my privates: it can only lead to embarrassment. Or accidents with hot wax.

Stuck in traffic yesterday after finishing a meeting in Dulwich, I was hit with déjà vu. It wasn’t just that the surroundings looked familiar – green spaces, posh houses and wankers in 4x4s are a-plenty in this part of South London – but there was something else about the place that was sparking my memory synapses.

I sat there in the stifling heat, trying to figure out what was bubbling under the surface and bemoaned the despicable school run – why don't parents get their kids to take the fucking bus or move their fat arses by walking for chrissakes? It worked for us back in the 70s and we’re still here, er, fit.

Anyway, then it hit me. A bloke I shagged ages ago lived just a couple of streets away: that’s why I recognised the area. This got me thinking: which parts of the city am I similarly familiar with? How well do I know London? Who have I fucked here, and where? A quick memory jog produced the following:

• There was that guy in Croydon all those years ago: what a fucking shithole that place was. Unsurprisingly, he was also a complete arsehole.
• The bloke in Brixton was fun: we fucked in my office, me grabbing hold of my boss’s desk, imagining his reaction if he knew of my getting rammed from behind.
• Then there was the chap from Morden. He had a thing for cunnilingus. I didn’t object.
• Twickenham man was great in the sack, but his obsession with constantly sticking a finger up my bottom began to annoy me.
• The man from Acton was eager, but dull as fuck. Boredom and shagging don’t go well together.
• Kensington bloke probably thought I was a bit of rough, given his wealth and massive penthouse apartment. So I roughly fucked his cock till it hurt.
• The guy from Wembley likened his cock to a bicycle tyre: ‘pump it hard’, he said to me as I grabbed it, ‘and then ride me’. I did.
• Harrow man was very sensual. He had a thing for fucking me during my period. ‘You’re even hornier then’, he reassured me. He wasn’t wrong.
• The guy in Cricklewood thought that playing some R. Kelly songs would get me in the mood. How wrong he was.
• Highgate man was sweet, kind and a fantastic kisser. That made up for my never having a climax with him.
• Euston bloke first fucked my friend, and then me. When we found out shortly after, neither of us spoke to him again. Plus, he was crap in bed.
• The guy from Finsbury Park was left with a hard-on as I exited his flat. Don’t worry, I made sure I had climaxed. He wasn’t worth my returning the favour.
• The man in Tottenham loved my arse. Whilst I enjoy my bum being focussed on, sometimes it’s nice to have face-to-face penetration too.
• Woolwich bloke was too drunk to fuck. After wasting an entire box of condoms through unsuccessful attempts at penetration, we both gave up.

Funny that I can barely recall the names of some of these guys, but where they lived; what part of London we were shagging in, I can remember in detail, like some kind of mental roadmap of the city. Helpful for if I get lost, I guess. (Though I’m not going to be pinning up a map of London on the wall and sticking pins in the areas I have shagged in, that would just be silly) (And I would most likely run out of pins).

The one place in London that I have rarely had sex in? My own home. There are a few reasons for this:

First, I am a very private person and am reluctant to let a guy into my personal space unless I like him a lot, trust him, and wish for him to get to know me more. If things are just casual, then it’s going to be at his place, or a hotel, or, well, a public toilet if necessary, but we sure as hell aren’t going back to mine to shag.

Second, I am a messy bastard – not that you would know it to look at me: I take great care in my personal hygiene and try to present myself well (give or take some fly-away, frizzy hair). My home though? Messy as fuck. Constant mayhem. Absolutely fucking disorganised. So when I do show a bloke just how many knickers I have lying all over my floor, it won’t be on our first date: I wouldn’t want to put him off me from the start.

Lastly, I have come to a pragmatic decision over the last few years that if there’s going to be anyone leaving someone’s flat first thing the next morning, with a bow of the head and an embarrassed, mumbled, ‘thanks’, it damn well is going to be me.

I shan’t be one of those women who gets saddened by the bloke exiting at first light (believe me, I’ve been her in the past, and I’m not doing it again). But, conversely, I also don’t want to be the woman stuck with a guy who just won’t leave when you want him to (again, I’ve been her, and again, it’s no fun). That’s not to say that all casual sex ends in regret and a wish to immediately be alone - far from it – but I do find it’s easier to be the one who arrives and leaves on their own terms.

Admittedly, traipsing over to the bloke’s place and back, has cost me a small fortune in tube, rail and taxi fares over the years, but it has helped me discover - in the most fun way possible - another new part of this great city, so I think it’s worth the outlay. Even if, once or twice, the sex was a bit shit.

It's hot, I am bored and rather than my usual time-wasting activity, I figured my hands would be better spent typing away on another of those live-chat things instead. (Plus it would be less sticky for my laptop keyboard).

So I am now - as I write this at 5.45pm GMT - live in the comment box below.

Ask me a question, why don't you? I'll answer the best I can, give or take the fact that I am stifling hot, can barely string a sentence together, and have an almost finished double martini in my hand...

Update 8.20pm GMT: I'm off for a break. Be back later. Feel free to leave any more questions in the comment box and I'll try to answer them shortly.

Updated update: comment box closed now. Thanks for all your questions and comments.

I am beginning to think something is wrong with me. Not because of my high sex drive or because I think about shagging all the time, or even because I am obsessed with all things erotic. No. All this I can cope with and have adjusted my life accordingly, but what I am worried about is far, far worse:

I think I am the only woman in the world who the Rampant Rabbit vibrator does absolutely nothing for.

I was – like many others I imagine – impressed by the claims made about this well-known popular sex toy a few years back. ‘As seen on Sex and the City!’, the packaging shouted at me, and even given my cynicism about the completely patronising marketing of the product, and the fact that it was pink and glittery and screamed ‘girly rubbish’ all over it, there was a little part of me that was curious about it. After all, it worked for the Sex and the City prudish character Charlotte, and everyone else seemed to be raving about it, so I hoped that I too would spend all weekend locked in my bedroom gasping with delight.

I didn’t. There may have been gasps coming from my mouth, but that was the sound of incredulity, rather than of pleasure.

It’s not like I didn’t try to make it work for me. With horny gusto I attempted to rub one out using the rabbit – every base was covered in order for me to have a productive frig:

1. I surrounded myself with a variety of porn (the male performers with body hair; the females with natural breasts)
2. I ensured my mind was clear for fantasy (my lips around his erection; him fucking me from behind; her tongue between my legs)
3. I had a bottle of lube to hand
   

Well, a girl likes to come, prepared.

Throbbing like mad and with a dampness threatening to breach the Thames barrier, I was looking forward to a little pussy pounding, so I grabbed hold of the rabbit and set it to work.

Funnily enough, that is exactly what it did: hammer away like some kind of internal road-works; its noisy motor sounding like a drill inside of me. Not the sort of thing to get one in the mood. But, you know, I am persistent: when I need to have an orgasm, nothing, and nobody, is going to stand in my way. So with focus, I concentrated on the sensations the toy was providing, rather than the loud rattle it was making.

Unfortunately, these disappointed as well: having a rubber shaft speedily swivelling clock-wise (or anti-clockwise) inside my vagina not only distracted me from feeling any pleasure, but actively turned me off too. Not that I had expected the rabbit to provide the same motions as a penis, but, one would hope, that its sensations would be similar. At least, that’s what I would have liked; the reason I enjoy sex so much is because I adore the feeling of a cock inside me.

But real cocks do not swivel. Not even slightly. True, if their owner has good bedroom skills and is aware of the advantages of circling their sacrum (rather than moving in and out with their hips), then their penis will move up and down and round and round, in a rather delightful way that will hit my g-spot just so. And it’s also true that the guys who know about, and flex, their PC muscle can make their cocks bounce back and forth (and control their orgasms) - which is fun, and feels fantastic during penetration. But swivel? Cocks doing a 360 degree turn? Penis’ that can move in a circular reverse direction? No. And thank god: I don’t want a super-cock, a regular one will do just fine, thank you.

That wasn’t even the worst of it though: there was also a clitoral stimulator (otherwise known as the rabbit’s ‘ears’) to contend with. These sit either side of the clit. I shan’t go into detail here except to say two things:

1. ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!’
2. If a bloke was giving me the same stimulation I’d be pushing him off me and telling him to slow down and not rush in to rub my clit with such gusto.
   

With the ‘ears’ pulsing away with such intensity, my entire vulva went numb, and immediately I knew that there was no way I was going to be able to have an orgasm if I continued. For a woman like me – multi-orgasmic at the worst of times – this says a lot: a toy should actively turn you on, not make you feel like you don’t have a chance in hell of climaxing. If I wanted to feel like that, I’d call up an ex-boyfriend, but really, I’m not that masochistic.

Anyway, my rabbit now sits unused at the bottom of my underwear drawer. I have attempted to derive pleasure from it a couple more times, but it’s always had the same effect on me. So I’ve just resigned myself to the knowledge that I am - in terms of the supposed mass female approval of this toy - different to other women: the rabbit just doesn’t work for me.

Sod ears on my clit and a swivelling shaft in my vagina, I just want something pressing against my g-spot, thanks, so I’d swap the rabbit for my ever-trusted Rock Chick any day. Plus, given the choice of a simply designed toy, versus one with lots of external attachments and buttons, I know which one I would choose and it wouldn’t bloody resemble a stupid, cute, pink animal, that’s for sure: I don’t need my intelligence insulted just because I am wanking, thank you.

Still, if creating and marketing this toy in such a way means more women are making themselves have climaxes, who am I to complain?

It’s been said by people that know me, that I have a busy mouth. This I cannot deny: I enjoy exercising my lips, it’s true. However, even though I will, at any potential opportunity, spout off about things – politics, sex and film being the usual suspects – I’m not often one for blowing my own trumpet (I prefer to blow other, more pleasurable, things).

This may sound contradictory coming from me, a blogger who eagerly talks about her sex life, but that’s the whole thing about being anonymous: I can be as self-absorbed and ego-centric as I like (and appear, no doubt) on my blog, but in the offline world, people – my friends and family – will be none the wiser. I may come across on paper like an arrogant prat sometimes, but hopefully, face-to-face, I’m not completely narcissistic. (I like to think my neuroses balance out my ego).

What I’m trying to say, is that because none of my friends know I am doing this blog, they are also – sadly - unable to share in my joy of it; not just the pleasure I take in writing it, but also in the positive ways it has recently created opportunities for me. So whilst I would love to tell them my news, in order to protect my anonymity I can’t.

All of which brings me (somewhat neatly and hopefully not completely cynically), to a little bit of good news that I’d like to share. In an ideal world, I’d be calling my mates right now and saying ‘guess what?!’, but given all the above, you’ll have to put up with my minor moment of self-promotion instead.

My book is being serialised in the Sunday Times Style magazine this Sunday, 16th July. Since it is a family newspaper, the erotic content will have understandably been edited from the featured extracts, but I think it’ll offer a good insight into my writing.

So for those of you who‘d be interested in reading an exclusive preview of the book, you know where to find it. And for those who think I am an ego-centric, arrogant fucker for promoting this so blatantly, well, maybe you’re right, but I’ve got no-one else to tell, so cut me some slack, OK?

I want to talk about orgasms.

Granted, it’s not the first (or only) time I have talked about them, but I feel it’s an important subject. This is because I regularly get emails (from both women and men) asking me advice on how women can achieve better (or any) orgasms. When I hear that supposedly around 25% of women never climax during sex, it makes me sad, as well as angry: surely it should be a woman’s right to always come? It bloody well is mine, I can tell you.

But I’m no expert, or sexpert for that matter, so I’m not going to suggest techniques to help women get off. However, being quite partial to the odd orgasm or five of an evening (or day), I’ll put my two pence in - for what it’s worth.

I haven’t always been multi-orgasmic – far from it. In fact, the first couple of years I had sex, I never climaxed at all; the men I was seeing were far more skilled in achieving their own climaxes than helping me obtain my own. With them fucking like jack-rabbits, it was all over and done with in two minutes, and I was left there feeling horny, and unsure what to do.

At the time, I remember complaining to an older friend of mine that I didn’t know what an orgasm felt like. She replied, somewhat incredulously, that if I never explored myself with masturbation, I would have difficulty climaxing, regardless of how good in bed my partner was. ‘Mama knows best’ she said, winking, and suggested I should get to know my nether regions better, with my fingers or a vibrator.

So I did. I took her advice and attempted to master the art of self-exploration, dipping my hands between my legs at every opportunity - I was a keen student you see. I learned a lot from my constant playing:

1. That I could climax easily
2. That certain types of stimulation get me off quickly
3. That I love orgasms
   

When I discovered just how easy it was to give myself pleasure, I felt robbed: all those times I had had sex and not climaxed – not enjoyed the divine goodness of an orgasm – and yet the guy had always come, how unfair was that?

It wasn’t the bloke’s fault though. It’s too easy to lay the blame on men for women’s lack of orgasms, but sex is an interaction between two people (usually), not just one ‘giving’ another pleasure. That’s not to say that some men aren’t responsible for some lame sex (and believe me, I have shagged a few crap lovers in my time), but on the whole, the reason most women don’t climax (in my opinion) is due to the following:

1. They lack confidence in bed
2. They are insecure about their bodies
3. They feel ‘dirty’ somehow about their enjoyment of sex
4. They are uncomfortable with asserting their needs
5. They are unfamiliar with their bodies
   

It is the latter point that I am concerned with here: how can women expect to climax if they don’t even know their own bodies? Not easily, I tell you – there’s no point expecting men to know what turns us on, if we don’t even know ourselves. And the only way we’re going to know, is by self-exploration, which is why I am a huge advocate of masturbation.

I say to the women who have difficulty climaxing, go and fiddle with yourself. Immediately. Discover what your vulva feels and looks like; become familiar with your arousal and what turns you on; focus on your pleasure. Every woman is different: clitoral stimulation might work for you; g-spot pressure for another; penetration might get you off; perhaps labia rubbing is your thing. Whatever it is, you won’t know it, until you’ve tried it, so grab a toy and have a play. At the very least, you’ll have fun trying, so why not get stuck in?

By masturbating, (frequently, one hopes), women can get to know what works for them in bed and this can only help them assert themselves in having these needs fulfilled with a partner. I am sick of hearing female friends complain how they just ‘lie back’ because they ‘know’ they’re ‘not going to come’ or how they just ‘don’t feel comfortable’ to slide their own hand between their legs, whilst in bed with a partner, to ensure they climax too. Or, worse, that they fake a climax so that their partner won’t feel ‘inadequate’. It saddens me immensely to hear this from women: not only are they missing out, but their partner is too – what man doesn’t want to feel a woman come (around his cock, over his fingers, under his tongue)?

Being knowledgeable about their own bodies allows women to be more active in their pleasure, as well as increasing their confidence: a clued-up woman who frigs a lot is far more likely to grab her lover’s hand/head/cock and stick it between her legs in just the right place, than one who doesn’t masturbate and rarely (if at all) climaxes. And a woman in touch with her body – and who has developed self-assurance (and self-esteem) through frigging – will have no problem reaching between her legs with her own hand whilst in bed with a partner. Whilst she might do this because it turns both of them on, she also might do it, to ensure she will climax – which always helps if the bloke lacks these skills.

I think it’s time women took the pressure off men; removed the expectations of them being responsible for ‘giving’ us orgasms. Instead we should become more active in our own pleasure, taking charge of ensuring that we too will get off, regardless. Because not only will that mean that women will enjoy sex more, and feel more relaxed, but it also means, as a result of this, that men will too, a win/win situation.

So, ladies, get busy and get those fingers sticky. Just make sure you have enough batteries: there is nothing as aggravating as a toy going dead just as you are about to climax. (Well, maybe a cock going soft whilst inside you, but that is another matter altogether).


[With apologies, comments are now being moderated before being displayed, in order to stop the trolls on here. I’ll try to enable your comments as quickly as possible, but please be aware that there may be some delay before you see them. Your patience is appreciated]

‘I think I know what the problem is’, he said.

‘What?’

‘You don’t let anyone in.’

I watched his face for sarcasm, and saw none. He blinked at me slowly, letting me absorb what he had said, and I moved my glance to the table, reaching over to self-consciously circle my beer glass with my thumb.

‘You know I’m right: I know you’ he said firmly, his voice quieter than I remember it from all those years ago.

I felt something in the pit of my stomach: a sensation that seemed overpowering, even with its distance to my rational brain. I picked up my drink and took a long gulp, hopeful that each swallow would fill me with calm; that the alcohol would neutralise and numb whatever lay beneath.

‘It’s because you don’t let them in' he continued, 'that’s why. You’re a rock – you always have been. You’re always there for other people, you’re strong, you’re confident, you’re happy, but you don’t let anyone see the real you – the person that needs and deserves to be loved.’

Whatever was in my solar plexus surged and began to gnaw away, moving swiftly upward into my throat until it was so tight that I couldn’t hold it anymore: I felt overwhelmed with emotion, my vision becoming blurry as the first tears swelled up in my eyes.

‘Abby. Look at me.’

I looked up, slowly, knowing that as I did, the dam would burst. He gazed at me softly, as the tears began to stream down my face, and smiled.

‘It doesn’t need to be this way’ he said, gently. ‘You just need to open up, and show people who you really are, be open about your fragility – be open with your heart.’

I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘God I’m a twat, aren’t I?’ I said, ‘It’s been more than ten years since I’ve seen you and now you get me going all soppy; how pathetic.’

He shook his head. ‘No, that’s just my point. It isn’t. Crying is good – it shows you’re vulnerable, and that you have needs. That’s the real you and that’s what you have to show these guys so they get to know you, not just the fact that you’re a strong capable woman – you’re so much more than that.’

I nodded. ‘I’m trying, I really am. It’s just, you know, well, I’m so used to that wall, that front, being confident, coping, so doing anything different feels alien to me. And it’s hard for me to trust people with that.’

‘What are you scared of?’ He fixed me with direct eye contact and I felt compelled to look away; his ability to stare straight through me, leaving me feeling naked and exposed.

I played with my beer glass once more. ‘Oh, you know, the same as everyone: rejection. It’s the same old story: if you give your heart to someone, you get burned. It’s far easier just not to give your heart, in my opinion: less risky for all involved.’

‘You don’t mean that’ he said questioningly. ‘You’re not being serious?’

‘Partly’ I replied. ‘But you know, what sort of bloke is going to want an insecure, neurotic, overly analytical woman like me? It’s not like those are attractive qualities – if they were, I’d be surrounded by men, right?’

He laughed. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself: you’ve got far better qualities and they outshine all that. Anyway, I put up with you and survived.’

I grinned at him. ‘Yeah, and look where it’s got you now.’

We both laughed out loud, given his current predilection for, shall we say, the more ‘rugged’ amongst us, and took long gulps of our beers. I sat there, smiling at him, glad for the swift suppression of my tears, but more glad for the compassion and love that I felt for this man: time and life may have come between us, but our feelings for each other have never changed.

‘You do know you’re going to make some man very happy, don’t you?’ he said, looking serious.

I shrugged. ‘There’s always hoping…’

‘You never know: you could be walking down the street, drop your bag and bump into an amazing guy where you both click instantly. True love, and all that.’

‘Life is not a romance novel’ I said, flatly.

‘Yeah, and life is not about being so fucking cynical that you’re blind to opportunity when it crosses your path’ he replied.

‘Fair point.’ I said, quietly.

We were both silent for a moment. I suddenly remembered how he used to wipe the hair away from my eyes when we were in bed together; funny how so much of my past seems a blur, but moments like that seem sharp in their realism. I watched him and wondered what he was thinking about.

He took another deep swig of his beer. ‘Anyway, more importantly, are you still a nymphomaniac?’

I spat out the beer I had just begun to swallow and laughed. ‘Fuck you! Don’t call me that!’ I reached over to give him a half-hearted slap round his face and he moved away in mock fear.

‘I didn’t call you that, YOU did: that’s how you used to describe yourself when we were together.’

‘Really?’

He nodded.

‘Oh. Fuck. God, I was a right twit when I was a teenager, wasn’t I?’

He laughed and leaned over to pinch me on my thigh. ‘Yeah, a little. So, are you?’

‘What? Still a nymphomaniac?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Damn right: if anything, I get even hornier now I am in my thirties.’

He beamed. ‘Thank fuck for that. Come on, let’s get another beer, I want to drink to your wonderful sex drive – long may it continue.’

We ordered some more drinks and talked until the early hours. And as we finally said our tearful goodbyes at the train station, he made me promise him that I would open up more and let a man into my heart; that I would finally allow myself to be loved.

With his trusting eyes on me, and his steady hand on my arm, I knew I couldn’t lie to him. So I told him I would. And I meant it.

Do not, after receiving a series of anonymous text messages from an unknown mobile phone number, respond with -

'If you're going to send anonymous texts, at least ensure you use the correct grammar and capitalise your words. In sending me this childish crap, you have only highlighted your immense stupidity, and that's made me even more sure that I have no interest in meeting up for a drink - let alone the fact that I don't know who you are.'

Do not do this, even if you think you are a smart-arse intellectual snob like me. Because, inevitably, the texts will be from an old boyfriend of more than a decade ago, and who, after being insulted about his lack of Queen's English, will then phone up, and angrily demand an apology, whilst accusing you of being unsympathetic to the fact that he left school at 15 and never had a formal education.

My feet might be big at size eight and a half, but evidently I am more than able to get them both into my mouth at the same time.

When he pulled out the buttplug, I knew this wasn’t going to be just a regular shag.

Actually, I knew that a few days prior: we had after all, discussed BDSM in some detail in the couple of occasions we had met up; both of us wanting to experiment, not having had much practice in our sex lives.

Given he had assured me that he wanted to be the dominant one and in charge, I was up for a little playing. What girl doesn’t want a little light spanking and rampant shagging from behind, I ask you? So when we met, I was rather excited to hear how he wanted to handcuff me, try out a paddle he had just bought and ‘force’ me to endure multiple orgasms before ‘allowing’ me to have his cock inside me. As we sat drinking coffee in Soho, I felt myself become wet as he detailed our little S & M play, and I almost felt to fuck him then and there.

But I didn’t. This was going to be planned-out casual sex: we were covering all bases, making sure that full consent was agreed upon, in the safety of a day-time public café; the hard-core fucking in candle-light would come later.

So we discussed all aspects of sex and BDSM; likes and dislikes; interests and turn-offs. As well as telling him how much I wanted to experience being submissive, I also mentioned that I was happy to switch positions: I do, after all, enjoy being an active partner in bed; I love to induce pleasure in another, teasing them until they cannot stand it any more – nothing gets me wetter, in fact, than a half-hour blow-job which ends up with my riding their cock. (The thing about ‘spitting or swallowing’ is irrelevant to me: 99% of the time, my blow-jobs end in penetration. Win/win, I reckon).

Anyway, I only mentioned my in-bed egalitarianism so that he would understand that it might be a little difficult for me to relax into the passive position of being submissive: being on top (literally) so frequently is what I am familiar with; it would take a confident, strong man to be able to take charge, throw me on my back, and fuck me with abandon. So I was rather hoping that he would assure me that that is what he wanted too.

What I wasn’t expecting, was for his eyes to light up, as I said I also enjoy dominating a man, and then to get asked if I had ever considered using a strap-on. Now, admittedly, this is actually a fantasy of mine: it’s long been something I have wanted to explore, because the inner pathways of a man’s pleasure are somewhat foreign to me. I have little experience exploring a guy’s arse; whilst I am fully aware of prostate pleasure, it is unfamiliar to me, so I am very keen to get to know it some more.

As I saw the excitement in his eyes as he popped the question, I didn’t think to hesitate replying ‘yes’: it’s not every day you meet an open-minded man who wants a woman to fuck his arse, so given the opportunity, of course I was going to be enthusiastic about it. It didn’t dawn on me until later, that actually he wasn’t dominant himself at all and my hopes of being submissive with him were going to be truly dashed.

I suppose I should have suspected the tables would be turned when he emailed me scores of images featuring men being fucked by dominatrixes. Whilst I liked some of the pictures, I found myself thinking, ‘this is all well and good, but what about MY getting fucked up the arse too, ‘eh?’ And in those same emails, long fantasies were detailed, all of which involved my dominating him and not the other way round, so I should have accepted then, that it was very unlikely that I would have my submission fantasies fulfilled.

But, you know, I was horny and up for some BDSM fun, so when the time came for our play-date, I went to his place with an open mind: anything could happen and as long as it was all within our previously agreed limits, I was cool with it all.

It was when he licked my stilettos that I began to have some doubts.

OK, look, I was wearing stockings and I do have quite nice legs if I say so myself, so if a man wants to kiss the length of them and caress my feet, I’m more than happy to oblige him. And if he then wants to suck a toe or two, who am I to complain? But lick the entirety of my shoe? Suck the heel? Roll his tongue around the in-step? I may not be experienced in BDSM-play, but as far as I know, foot-fetishism is no practice for a dominant man, and it was at this point that it hit home that tonight it wasn’t going to be me that got fucked.

I was a bit frustrated by this: the whole reason I had answered his ad, was because I wanted to experience being submissive in bed – and that is what he was offering - so it was with some disappointment that I faced up to the reality of the situation. Though gutted about it all, I figured fuck it: I’m here now, may as well attack the situation with gusto. So I did.

Once I knew he was submissive himself, I got into a dominant role and – to his rock-hard delight – stayed there all night. It wasn’t particularly difficult to do: I am, after all, very assertive in my day-to-day life, so transferring those skills in bed isn’t a far stretch. Though I don’t sit on many men’s faces during the day, it has to be said. (Well, occasionally, but minus the suffocation factor I was doling out to him).

At some point in the evening – when I had had him on the brink of orgasm many, many times - and I could sense he really, really wanted to come, I told him that I was going to fuck him up the arse. I was planning to do this with a couple of fingers, but when he enthusiastically reached across and handed me a buttplug, I knew he had other ideas. I told him to play with himself as I lubed it up, and as he watched me, his cock leaked so much pre-come I knew he wouldn’t last very long. I began to whisper to him, telling him what I was about to do, that he was going to get fucked by me and that his arse was mine, that he had no say in the matter, that I was going to fuck him and that was that. And as his breathing intensified, I slowly nudged the tip of the plug against his arse.

I didn’t have to press it there for long: he spread his arse cheeks with his hands and pushed himself against the plug, allowing it to enter him with ease. I took my time inserting it; I didn’t want to rush (or hurt) him. As the plug filled him in its entirety, he groaned and his eyes rolled back and I knew he wasn’t far off.

‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you?’ I said, swivelling the plug inside him.

He nodded, biting his lip, groaning.

I smiled at him. ‘You like me fucking you do you? I’m fucking your arse and there is nothing you can do about it’

He moaned and I felt his body shake.

‘Come on’, I said, ‘open that arse up – take it. Your arse is mine. Take it.’ I pushed the plug into him as far as it would go and gripped his balls. And then I switched on the vibrator. As soon as he slid his own fingers around his cock, he began to spurt all over his stomach, his chest and his face; his entire body clenched up and he let out an animalistic groan.

‘Good was it?’ I asked a few minutes later, when he had calmed down somewhat.

He nodded, grinning widely. Pleased with the result, I lay next to him and we made small-talk for a while. Then I demanded he finger me, which he did, eagerly, and soon after, I made my way home.

All in all, it was an interesting evening, but overall it was disappointing. I may have had five or six orgasms, but I would have swapped all of them for one big one, induced via a good, hard rogering. This makes me sound ungrateful – and maybe I am – but when a girl needs a good dicking, tongue action doesn’t quite cut it. Even though his tongue was pretty much on tap all night, it felt unfulfilling: I had wanted to get fucked, and instead it ended up being me fucking him.

Still, I’m glad I now have some experience using a toy in a guy’s arse: this will come in handy for when I meet that special man in my life, who will (hopefully) be into such playing. I pray that he will also be into dominating me too: I can’t think of anything more boring, than my always being in control – sometimes even a feminist like me likes a man to take charge. Only in bed though – if a bloke thinks he’s going to order me around outside of it too, he’s got another thing coming - and I'm not talking about him climaxing. If anyone's going to be having an orgasm, it'd better be me - at least the first three, anyway.

I hate Saturdays.

Why? Well, because it means my local high street is always filled with couples. They are everywhere with their sickly, loved-up-ness, holding hands like pathetic teenagers, rather than the thirty-something adults they are. It’s disgusting.

There they are at my local fruit and veg stall, sniggering to each other as they push and prod the vegetables; their talk of dinner parties holding up the line. And there they are again, at the newsagents, smirking at each other as they queue up with the Guardian. And there they are once more, sitting at all the cafés, making eyes at each other as they sip their cappuccinos and read the day’s news, ignoring the sad singletons who wander forlornly past.

It’s sick I tell you, sick. OK, it’s not, but it’s annoying: everywhere I look, are happy couples in their mid-thirties, an in-my-face reminder that I am single. It forces me to confront the reality that I don’t have that same companionship; that I don’t get to walk down the street with my man; that I don’t have that happy, sunny, loving outlook – and, to be honest, it really fucks me off.

Don’t get me wrong: most of the time, I actually like being single. I rather enjoy the freedom it affords me; I like the fact I can live my life independently, with no-one to answer to; it’s nice not to have the pressures or constraints of another person to consider. It’s exciting to have an interchangeable love-life buffet: I’m really enjoying my current ‘serial dating’ – aside from the fact I get to meet lots of new and interesting men, I also get to see (some of) their cocks too. Which is always nice.

But occasionally – and especially on Saturdays – I miss that I don't have a partner. I shuffle past all the couples walking arm in arm on my high street and I find myself wishing I was one of them. I watch as they share a private joke and it makes me long to have that same connection with someone. I see one of them subtly fondle the other’s bum as they’re walking and it makes me yearn for the same intimacy: it feels like an age since I shared that with someone. All this does contribute, just a little, to making me feel lonely and wanting a special man to be part of my life once again.

I’m not going to dwell on it though: whilst I may envy those who are in love, I am not one to wallow in self-pity – love'll happen, at some point; I’m ready for it when it does (I think). So I won't be spending my time worrying about my single status, when I could be doing other, better, things. Like shagging, for example.

However, there is one thing that I really do miss, what with my being single, which is this: waking up early on a Saturday morning and reaching behind me to find my partner’s cock, sliding it between my wet thighs and then having a long, slow, deep, fuck.

I can’t think of a better way to start the day than with a half-asleep, intense mutual orgasm. Aside from the obvious intimacy and pleasure derived from this, there's also the fact that it would put me in a good mood for the rest of the weekend - which, given the fact that I can be a bit difficult sometimes, would be a definite advantage for any partner that I do eventually end up with, that's for sure.