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Wednesday, January 31, 2007
The penis
I spent most of today talking about penises - and the men that they are attached to - with this lovely man, who is filming a follow-up documentary for BBC3. We had a fascinating debate about men, and male sexuality, and how the size of men's penises might affect their self-worth and confidence - which in turn may affect their experiences in sex with a partner. We also talked about how few (straight) men talk openly about their cocks, and why both of us feel that this needs to change in order for men to feel more comfortable with their identity and masculinity.
For those interested in watching the documentary (which I think is going to be fantastic, not because I am spouting my mouth off in it, but due to the importance of the subject matter and how delicately the filmmaker Lawrence will investigate it), it's due to be broadcast in six weeks. I'll post something on here about it nearer the date.
With all this in mind, I'd like to ask my male readers to do a little poll about penises. I'm curious to know just how many men feel that their penis and its size might be an issue. The poll is anonymous, so feel free to click away - you can respond to as many points as you feel are relevant to you, thanks. And do comment below if you have any additional thoughts on the subject.
Update 1: The poll is now closed. Results are below. Thank you to everyone who contributed.
Update 2: Also, to the (lovely) pedant who pointed out my incorrect usage of Penis' in the poll, thank you. My grammar is shit because I spent a few years bunking off school (mainly because a particular teacher and I mutually loathed each other: he described a story I had written as "boring", and was basically a prick (he later got the sack for being aggressive to students - myself included)). Sadly these were the same years when grammar, punctuation etc. were being taught, so as a result I'm seriously lacking in that area and am basically self-taught. Clearly I have more learning to do...
Update 3: The Poll's questions arose from the discussion I had had with the filmmaker Lawrence during the day; he wondered whether men worry about their penis size too much and he believes that most straight men do not talk about their penises with other men. I hoped that I might be able to find out if this was the case. It was incredibly difficult to raise questions that weren't too leading, and I wanted to maintain some neutrality in them too. Also, I had great difficulty finding a quiz that a) wasn't full of adverts, and b) allowed multiple responses. I would have liked to have included a 'Yes'/'No' facility, and also a '1-5' rating on each point, for relevance to the responder, but these weren't possible either. (At least, not for a free poll). So perhaps it's not methodologically sound, but hopefully it'll allow some insight into what men really think about their penises - which both Lawrence and I feel is not publicly known.
For those interested in watching the documentary (which I think is going to be fantastic, not because I am spouting my mouth off in it, but due to the importance of the subject matter and how delicately the filmmaker Lawrence will investigate it), it's due to be broadcast in six weeks. I'll post something on here about it nearer the date.
With all this in mind, I'd like to ask my male readers to do a little poll about penises. I'm curious to know just how many men feel that their penis and its size might be an issue. The poll is anonymous, so feel free to click away - you can respond to as many points as you feel are relevant to you, thanks. And do comment below if you have any additional thoughts on the subject.
Update 1: The poll is now closed. Results are below. Thank you to everyone who contributed.
Update 2: Also, to the (lovely) pedant who pointed out my incorrect usage of Penis' in the poll, thank you. My grammar is shit because I spent a few years bunking off school (mainly because a particular teacher and I mutually loathed each other: he described a story I had written as "boring", and was basically a prick (he later got the sack for being aggressive to students - myself included)). Sadly these were the same years when grammar, punctuation etc. were being taught, so as a result I'm seriously lacking in that area and am basically self-taught. Clearly I have more learning to do...
Update 3: The Poll's questions arose from the discussion I had had with the filmmaker Lawrence during the day; he wondered whether men worry about their penis size too much and he believes that most straight men do not talk about their penises with other men. I hoped that I might be able to find out if this was the case. It was incredibly difficult to raise questions that weren't too leading, and I wanted to maintain some neutrality in them too. Also, I had great difficulty finding a quiz that a) wasn't full of adverts, and b) allowed multiple responses. I would have liked to have included a 'Yes'/'No' facility, and also a '1-5' rating on each point, for relevance to the responder, but these weren't possible either. (At least, not for a free poll). So perhaps it's not methodologically sound, but hopefully it'll allow some insight into what men really think about their penises - which both Lawrence and I feel is not publicly known.
Comments
Monday, January 29, 2007
Shopping
I used to think I was different to other women; that because I enjoyed sex with such glee, I must be unique somehow. Yes, it's true that perhaps not all women have attempted to fist themselves, or masturbate three times daily, or can climax repeatedly through penetrative sex; but after writing this blog for three years and receiving feedback from thousands of other women, I know that there are many women like me.
There is still, however, one area where I know for sure that I am different, and it is thus:
I hate shopping for clothes.
I am certain that I am the only woman who dislikes it so readily; every woman I have ever met, has stated that they love buying clothes; I think this is pretty representative of most women. Whilst to state that every female feels this way is perhaps a mass generalisation on my part, I still believe I am right in thinking that the majority of women really do enjoy the experience of buying clothes.
I, however, loathe it. Sartorial shopping is like hell-on-earth to me; I avoid it wherever possible.
"But don't you like getting something new to wear, or some nice heels or a handbag?!" my friends ask me in shock, when I admit my distaste of the experience.
"Fuck no. Shopping is a pathetic waste of time", I say despairingly, aware all too late, of the indirect attack on them I am making, by this statement. (Suffice it to say that I never, ever, go shopping with my mates.)
Why do I hate shopping with such a vengeance? Where do I begin? So many reasons...
1. I loathe consumerism. The idea that I should buy particular 'fashionable' things to look a particular way, in order to fit into society, annoys me; hence my total disgust and boredom with the inanity of the 'Fashion' industry.
1b. The 'Fashion' industry also perpetuates an unhealthy and unrealistic representation of women - of stick-insect thin physiques - so there is no fucking way that I would,
i) support a perspective that I see as anti-female (or at least anti-looking-like-a-female), or
ii) buy clothes which have been designed to only fit someone who's as skinny as a clothes hanger. I've got curves, thank you very much, and would like something to drape on my body that actually works with my shape, rather than against it, ta.
2. High street shopping leaves me in a foul mood. Eg. due to tourists, and people who walk very slowly. Also see: bendy-buses with death-wishes, polluting taxis, men with loudhailers trying to convert me to Christianity (it's never going to happen, the evil atheist that I am).
3. Shopping malls make me feel claustrophobic. I need natural light. Lots of it. And if I get within five feet of a loudspeaker playing muzak, it becomes hard to suppress my desire to stab a shop assistant.
4. I have size 8 ½ feet and an E-cup bra. Finding shoes that don't make my feet bleed, and tops that don't make my bust look ready to pop the buttons, are practically impossible.
5. Only certain colours compliment my skin tone. These include most shades of blue, brown, purple, pink, black, and grey. I can occasionally wear green or red if it has no yellow-base to it. Otherwise, all yellows, oranges, and pastels look shit on me (they make me look ill). I mention this not because I am particularly fussy, but because unless the colours that suit me are 'In Season' (whatever the fuck that means) in the shops, it makes it difficult to find anything I can wear. So 2006 was great for me (loads of turquoise and chesnut brown: perfect); 2007 is not looking good so far (mustards, creams, rusty orange).
6. I hate shop assistants.
i) Them: "May I help you madam?"
Me: "No, thank you, I am fine."
A few minutes later. Them: "That looks lovely on you, it really does."
No, it doesn't. It is the wrong cut, it doesn't fit, I can't even do up the zipper over my breasts. Any fucking person with eyes can see how shit it looks on me. You're a fucking liar and talking bollocks because you're a scummy salesperson, and all you want want me to do is get out of the changing room quickly and buy this piece of crap. Fuck you. I'd prefer to go home empty handed (and I do).
ii) Me: "Hello, do you have this in a size eight?" (Note, I said 8, which is actually smaller than my feet, but just to be on the safe (smaller) side, even if it means total agony wearing them.)
Them: "Hahahaha. Eight?! Hahahaha! No! Our shoes only go up to a seven!"
Me: (under my breath): "Fucking sanctimonious prick."
7. All changing rooms are too hot. Yes, they are. Always. This is so that you don't spend too much time in them - they want you to buy the clothes you are trying on, not take time out from your day to have a quick wank.
8. All the mirrors in changing rooms have a surface that is slightly distorted*, which makes you look slimmer/differently shaped than you actually are. This is nice in the shop:
"Ooh, don't I look fabulous in these jeans?!"
But the same image does not translate to your normal mirror at home, and therefore, 'real-life'. When you re-try on the same jeans using a regular mirror, you can finally see that the leg seams are so far up your vulva, they practically split your crotch area into two. (Not a good look.) So this means the jeans either get returned to the shop (another journey; more time-wasting) or otherwise end up in your cupboard unworn and a waste of money.
9. There is a limit to the amount of items you are allowed to take into the changing room. This is usually set at four - some unwritten rule somewhere, that somebody has deigned to be the perfect number to ensure that:
i) You are tempted to take more than one item in with you, thus making it more likely that you will actually buy something.
ii) You're not taking in more items than a shop assistant can count, thus making it less likely that you will nick anything.
I don't know about others, but I can tell you that four items is nowhere near enough for me: I need triple that. This is because if you take into account my boobs, you can immediately rule out at least 80% of clothes, seeing as they're not cut for a large bust. Added to which are the clothes that are the wrong cut, the wrong style, or just the wrong look (eg. trying to look elegant for a photo, but a posh-frock is too dressy). So, whilst I'm not particularly fussy, unless I can take in a dozen or more items to ensure I have a good selection to choose from, the probability is that I won't find something that I want to buy. And if you've tried to negotiate with the sales assistant, you'll know what I am talking about:
Me: "I'll take these four with me, and when I've finished trying them on, I'll swap them for the next four. Is that OK?"
Them: "That's fine. Just leave them here with me."
Me: "Thanks. Back shortly."
Five minutes later:
Me: "Can I swap these four for the next ones that you're holding for me?"
Them: "Which ones?"
Me: "The ones you put on the rack... up there." We both look up. The rack is empty.
Them: "Oh. Them."
Me, incredulous: "Where are they?"
Them: "Oh, my colleague must have picked them off the rack."
Me: "And?"
Them: "They'd have taken them off to hang back up in the store... What do you think of this then?" They point to a yellow and orange-striped top. "Why don't you try this on?"
At which point I walk off fuming, muttering under my breath, and walk out of the shop empty-handed. Again.
10. Clothes cost a lot of money. Sure, I am a regular Primark buyer (Conway equivalent, for those reading this from the U.S.) and love a good, cheap bargain (though admittedly, probably not the most ethical of purchases, given the forced labour in many factories), but if you want clothes that don't fall apart the third time you've worn them, you have to spend a little more.
i) I'm not rich, so cannot afford the posh, well-made stuff,
ii) There are better things to spend money on, than clothes. (Like holidays, or good food, or art: things that you won't look back on and say, "Oh god - what was I thinking?!")
So it's quite clear that I do not enjoy the experience of buying clothes. Ever.
Saying that, oddly there is one type of garment that I do enjoy purchasing, and that is underwear. I've mentioned my lingerie addiction before, and my purchasing of it hasn't abated one iota since I wrote about it two years ago.
I may leave the house needing a new coat, but I will return instead with five pairs of pants, a new bra (if, praise-be, I can find one in my size), four pairs of stockings and two lacy suspender belts. Great for how I look underneath my clothes, but it doesn't exactly keep me warm on a cold day...
I don't know what the answer is to all this: obviously I need clothes, and I do buy them (when unable to avoid the moment any longer). But I hate doing it with a passion. I'd much rather be spending my time doing something else, rather than return home empty-handed after a wasted day shopping.
Of course I do always end up with my hands full at the end of the evening (number three, for those paying attention), but I don't think that activity can be described as 'productive', pleasurable though it might be.
*Fact.
There is still, however, one area where I know for sure that I am different, and it is thus:
I hate shopping for clothes.
I am certain that I am the only woman who dislikes it so readily; every woman I have ever met, has stated that they love buying clothes; I think this is pretty representative of most women. Whilst to state that every female feels this way is perhaps a mass generalisation on my part, I still believe I am right in thinking that the majority of women really do enjoy the experience of buying clothes.
I, however, loathe it. Sartorial shopping is like hell-on-earth to me; I avoid it wherever possible.
"But don't you like getting something new to wear, or some nice heels or a handbag?!" my friends ask me in shock, when I admit my distaste of the experience.
"Fuck no. Shopping is a pathetic waste of time", I say despairingly, aware all too late, of the indirect attack on them I am making, by this statement. (Suffice it to say that I never, ever, go shopping with my mates.)
Why do I hate shopping with such a vengeance? Where do I begin? So many reasons...
1. I loathe consumerism. The idea that I should buy particular 'fashionable' things to look a particular way, in order to fit into society, annoys me; hence my total disgust and boredom with the inanity of the 'Fashion' industry.
1b. The 'Fashion' industry also perpetuates an unhealthy and unrealistic representation of women - of stick-insect thin physiques - so there is no fucking way that I would,
i) support a perspective that I see as anti-female (or at least anti-looking-like-a-female), or
ii) buy clothes which have been designed to only fit someone who's as skinny as a clothes hanger. I've got curves, thank you very much, and would like something to drape on my body that actually works with my shape, rather than against it, ta.
2. High street shopping leaves me in a foul mood. Eg. due to tourists, and people who walk very slowly. Also see: bendy-buses with death-wishes, polluting taxis, men with loudhailers trying to convert me to Christianity (it's never going to happen, the evil atheist that I am).
3. Shopping malls make me feel claustrophobic. I need natural light. Lots of it. And if I get within five feet of a loudspeaker playing muzak, it becomes hard to suppress my desire to stab a shop assistant.
4. I have size 8 ½ feet and an E-cup bra. Finding shoes that don't make my feet bleed, and tops that don't make my bust look ready to pop the buttons, are practically impossible.
5. Only certain colours compliment my skin tone. These include most shades of blue, brown, purple, pink, black, and grey. I can occasionally wear green or red if it has no yellow-base to it. Otherwise, all yellows, oranges, and pastels look shit on me (they make me look ill). I mention this not because I am particularly fussy, but because unless the colours that suit me are 'In Season' (whatever the fuck that means) in the shops, it makes it difficult to find anything I can wear. So 2006 was great for me (loads of turquoise and chesnut brown: perfect); 2007 is not looking good so far (mustards, creams, rusty orange).
6. I hate shop assistants.
i) Them: "May I help you madam?"
Me: "No, thank you, I am fine."
A few minutes later. Them: "That looks lovely on you, it really does."
No, it doesn't. It is the wrong cut, it doesn't fit, I can't even do up the zipper over my breasts. Any fucking person with eyes can see how shit it looks on me. You're a fucking liar and talking bollocks because you're a scummy salesperson, and all you want want me to do is get out of the changing room quickly and buy this piece of crap. Fuck you. I'd prefer to go home empty handed (and I do).
ii) Me: "Hello, do you have this in a size eight?" (Note, I said 8, which is actually smaller than my feet, but just to be on the safe (smaller) side, even if it means total agony wearing them.)
Them: "Hahahaha. Eight?! Hahahaha! No! Our shoes only go up to a seven!"
Me: (under my breath): "Fucking sanctimonious prick."
7. All changing rooms are too hot. Yes, they are. Always. This is so that you don't spend too much time in them - they want you to buy the clothes you are trying on, not take time out from your day to have a quick wank.
8. All the mirrors in changing rooms have a surface that is slightly distorted*, which makes you look slimmer/differently shaped than you actually are. This is nice in the shop:
"Ooh, don't I look fabulous in these jeans?!"
But the same image does not translate to your normal mirror at home, and therefore, 'real-life'. When you re-try on the same jeans using a regular mirror, you can finally see that the leg seams are so far up your vulva, they practically split your crotch area into two. (Not a good look.) So this means the jeans either get returned to the shop (another journey; more time-wasting) or otherwise end up in your cupboard unworn and a waste of money.
9. There is a limit to the amount of items you are allowed to take into the changing room. This is usually set at four - some unwritten rule somewhere, that somebody has deigned to be the perfect number to ensure that:
i) You are tempted to take more than one item in with you, thus making it more likely that you will actually buy something.
ii) You're not taking in more items than a shop assistant can count, thus making it less likely that you will nick anything.
I don't know about others, but I can tell you that four items is nowhere near enough for me: I need triple that. This is because if you take into account my boobs, you can immediately rule out at least 80% of clothes, seeing as they're not cut for a large bust. Added to which are the clothes that are the wrong cut, the wrong style, or just the wrong look (eg. trying to look elegant for a photo, but a posh-frock is too dressy). So, whilst I'm not particularly fussy, unless I can take in a dozen or more items to ensure I have a good selection to choose from, the probability is that I won't find something that I want to buy. And if you've tried to negotiate with the sales assistant, you'll know what I am talking about:
Me: "I'll take these four with me, and when I've finished trying them on, I'll swap them for the next four. Is that OK?"
Them: "That's fine. Just leave them here with me."
Me: "Thanks. Back shortly."
Five minutes later:
Me: "Can I swap these four for the next ones that you're holding for me?"
Them: "Which ones?"
Me: "The ones you put on the rack... up there." We both look up. The rack is empty.
Them: "Oh. Them."
Me, incredulous: "Where are they?"
Them: "Oh, my colleague must have picked them off the rack."
Me: "And?"
Them: "They'd have taken them off to hang back up in the store... What do you think of this then?" They point to a yellow and orange-striped top. "Why don't you try this on?"
At which point I walk off fuming, muttering under my breath, and walk out of the shop empty-handed. Again.
10. Clothes cost a lot of money. Sure, I am a regular Primark buyer (Conway equivalent, for those reading this from the U.S.) and love a good, cheap bargain (though admittedly, probably not the most ethical of purchases, given the forced labour in many factories), but if you want clothes that don't fall apart the third time you've worn them, you have to spend a little more.
i) I'm not rich, so cannot afford the posh, well-made stuff,
ii) There are better things to spend money on, than clothes. (Like holidays, or good food, or art: things that you won't look back on and say, "Oh god - what was I thinking?!")
So it's quite clear that I do not enjoy the experience of buying clothes. Ever.
Saying that, oddly there is one type of garment that I do enjoy purchasing, and that is underwear. I've mentioned my lingerie addiction before, and my purchasing of it hasn't abated one iota since I wrote about it two years ago.
I may leave the house needing a new coat, but I will return instead with five pairs of pants, a new bra (if, praise-be, I can find one in my size), four pairs of stockings and two lacy suspender belts. Great for how I look underneath my clothes, but it doesn't exactly keep me warm on a cold day...
I don't know what the answer is to all this: obviously I need clothes, and I do buy them (when unable to avoid the moment any longer). But I hate doing it with a passion. I'd much rather be spending my time doing something else, rather than return home empty-handed after a wasted day shopping.
Of course I do always end up with my hands full at the end of the evening (number three, for those paying attention), but I don't think that activity can be described as 'productive', pleasurable though it might be.
*Fact.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Bloggies
Without wanting to sound ungrateful to the kind people who nominated me, I am not happy about being shortlisted for Best British or Irish blog in this year's Bloggie Awards.
Yes, it's a nice compliment, a good ego-boost, a delicious saliva-lubricated rim-job etc., but really it doesn't sit well with me. This is partly because I won the award in 2006 and one Bloggie is more than enough for me, thank you. As well as this, however, is the fact that there are - many - other UK writers who deserve to have their blogs recognised instead.
So I'm very disappointed that quality bloggers like JonnyB, Diamond Geezer, Anna, Mike, Salvadore, LMG, PornyBoyCurtis, Petite Anglaise, Tom Reynolds, Sasha, Meg and Gordon didn't make it onto the shortlists, because their writing is superb, and if anyone deserves to win a blog award, it is them.
However, I do hope people will still vote in the Bloggies - just not for me (thank you). I'm casting my vote (and hope you will do the same) in the Best British or Irish blog for the wonderful Andre, whose A Beautiful Revolution is a perfect blend of wit, melancholy and introspective analysis, which, combined with his wonderful doodles, photographs, and real-life-observation, makes him the deserved winner in this category.
[In other news: I am very busy.]
Yes, it's a nice compliment, a good ego-boost, a delicious saliva-lubricated rim-job etc., but really it doesn't sit well with me. This is partly because I won the award in 2006 and one Bloggie is more than enough for me, thank you. As well as this, however, is the fact that there are - many - other UK writers who deserve to have their blogs recognised instead.
So I'm very disappointed that quality bloggers like JonnyB, Diamond Geezer, Anna, Mike, Salvadore, LMG, PornyBoyCurtis, Petite Anglaise, Tom Reynolds, Sasha, Meg and Gordon didn't make it onto the shortlists, because their writing is superb, and if anyone deserves to win a blog award, it is them.
However, I do hope people will still vote in the Bloggies - just not for me (thank you). I'm casting my vote (and hope you will do the same) in the Best British or Irish blog for the wonderful Andre, whose A Beautiful Revolution is a perfect blend of wit, melancholy and introspective analysis, which, combined with his wonderful doodles, photographs, and real-life-observation, makes him the deserved winner in this category.
[In other news: I am very busy.]
Monday, January 22, 2007
Generation
"So joor da notorious grand-daughter den?" remarked the nonagenarian as she greeted me at the door in her velvet-toned Hungarian (with a hint of German) voice. "Vee've heard all arbout ju here."
"Good things, I hope?" I stammered, hoping that her sight-impediment would prevent her noticing my cheeks flush with embarassment.
"Of course!" she replied, ushering me in to the flat. "Joor de sex-writer, aren't ju? Joor famousse here - everyone vants to read joor book!"
I looked over at my grandma who had a smile on her face. I was grateful that she too had poor eyesight, and thus was unable to see the expression of worry that was etched onto my features. "Oh really, it's nothing, just boring stuff about my life. Anyone for a cup of tea? I'll put the kettle on.."
My grandma's friend wasn't going to let it go so easily. "From vart I heard, it's radda racy - if it vasn't for the fact dat I am blind, I'd have read it myself. Udder people here have und I'd like to know vat I'm missing out on!"
"It's nothing you wouldn't know about already, I'm sure," I answered, hoping that would nip the conversation in the bud.
"Don't be so sure," she replied, wagging her finger at me. "Ju youngsters do und say things vee just don't understand. I'm sure ju could teach me a thing or two."
"Well," I said, hesitantly. "You know what they say: 'Young people think they invented sex and that they are the only people to have it...'"
"Joor right, of course vee also had sex, but life vas different back den: vee didn't talk about it. So I vish I could read joor book!" She cackled, and my grandma joined her in laughing.
I moved over to the couch and sat down next to my grandma's friend so I could be in her field of limited vision. "Whilst I wish you still had your sight, I'm also glad you can't read my book, because it's very personal, and I'd really prefer my family and friends not to go through it."
She reached over to me and took my hand in hers. "Darlink, you ave narding to be ashamed of. Vee are proud of ju und joor success and vee vant de best for ju, don't vee?" She smiled at me sweetly and my grandma nodded. Suddenly I was filled with warmth for them: two women in their nineties from a different generation, a different time, even a different country. I wanted to tell her how touched I was by what she said; that her - and my grandma's - acceptance of me and what I might represent to them - youth, modernity, change - was unbelievably honourable. I felt humbled in the dignity and respect they had for me; and I felt ashamed at how my generation treats its older people - as if they are worthless, and their lives, and history, meaningless. Tears quickly made their way to the edges of my eyes and I stood up abruptly to busy myself in the kitchen.
A few minutes later I heard my name being called and I wandered back into the living room, teapot, cups and saucers in hand.
"She wants to know some modern swear words," my grandma said, gesturing towards her friend. "I thought you might be able to suggest something."
Stifling my laughter and not wanting to offend either of them, I asked what they considered rude. When they stated that 'Bloody Hell' was very offensive to them, I decided not to recommend any of the terminology I make use of on a regular basis... Later, when the tea was finished, they both owned up to "using the 'F-word'" as my grandma put it, but admittedly that was only done privately, or under their breath. Given that, I thought it best not to suggest the usage of 'Prick', 'Wanker', or 'Arsehole' to my grandma's friend.
As I was leaving she pulled me to one side and made me promise I would teach her how to swear "properly". I agreed I would, if only to hear her delectable accent mouth the words, "Fark ju, ju vanker!" I won't be recommending she learn 'Cocksucker' though: some things are best left to the unsavourary mouths of the young I think.
"Good things, I hope?" I stammered, hoping that her sight-impediment would prevent her noticing my cheeks flush with embarassment.
"Of course!" she replied, ushering me in to the flat. "Joor de sex-writer, aren't ju? Joor famousse here - everyone vants to read joor book!"
I looked over at my grandma who had a smile on her face. I was grateful that she too had poor eyesight, and thus was unable to see the expression of worry that was etched onto my features. "Oh really, it's nothing, just boring stuff about my life. Anyone for a cup of tea? I'll put the kettle on.."
My grandma's friend wasn't going to let it go so easily. "From vart I heard, it's radda racy - if it vasn't for the fact dat I am blind, I'd have read it myself. Udder people here have und I'd like to know vat I'm missing out on!"
"It's nothing you wouldn't know about already, I'm sure," I answered, hoping that would nip the conversation in the bud.
"Don't be so sure," she replied, wagging her finger at me. "Ju youngsters do und say things vee just don't understand. I'm sure ju could teach me a thing or two."
"Well," I said, hesitantly. "You know what they say: 'Young people think they invented sex and that they are the only people to have it...'"
"Joor right, of course vee also had sex, but life vas different back den: vee didn't talk about it. So I vish I could read joor book!" She cackled, and my grandma joined her in laughing.
I moved over to the couch and sat down next to my grandma's friend so I could be in her field of limited vision. "Whilst I wish you still had your sight, I'm also glad you can't read my book, because it's very personal, and I'd really prefer my family and friends not to go through it."
She reached over to me and took my hand in hers. "Darlink, you ave narding to be ashamed of. Vee are proud of ju und joor success and vee vant de best for ju, don't vee?" She smiled at me sweetly and my grandma nodded. Suddenly I was filled with warmth for them: two women in their nineties from a different generation, a different time, even a different country. I wanted to tell her how touched I was by what she said; that her - and my grandma's - acceptance of me and what I might represent to them - youth, modernity, change - was unbelievably honourable. I felt humbled in the dignity and respect they had for me; and I felt ashamed at how my generation treats its older people - as if they are worthless, and their lives, and history, meaningless. Tears quickly made their way to the edges of my eyes and I stood up abruptly to busy myself in the kitchen.
A few minutes later I heard my name being called and I wandered back into the living room, teapot, cups and saucers in hand.
"She wants to know some modern swear words," my grandma said, gesturing towards her friend. "I thought you might be able to suggest something."
Stifling my laughter and not wanting to offend either of them, I asked what they considered rude. When they stated that 'Bloody Hell' was very offensive to them, I decided not to recommend any of the terminology I make use of on a regular basis... Later, when the tea was finished, they both owned up to "using the 'F-word'" as my grandma put it, but admittedly that was only done privately, or under their breath. Given that, I thought it best not to suggest the usage of 'Prick', 'Wanker', or 'Arsehole' to my grandma's friend.
As I was leaving she pulled me to one side and made me promise I would teach her how to swear "properly". I agreed I would, if only to hear her delectable accent mouth the words, "Fark ju, ju vanker!" I won't be recommending she learn 'Cocksucker' though: some things are best left to the unsavourary mouths of the young I think.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Display
Dear Men,
Yes you. All of you. We need to talk. (Before shagging preferably; you seem to talk nonsense post-orgasm).
Allow me to bring something to your attention, if I may. That being the problem of how you sit. Everywhere you are, you always seem to sit in the same way: with your legs spread widely apart; whether on the tube, in an office, or in that coffee shop in Soho last week, where you distracted me from my writing. Unless we are going to have sex, I really must ask that you keep your legs together - it would be hugely appreciated if you could. Don't get me wrong: I quite like seeing a man with his legs splayed when he is sitting down, but that, you see, is where problems arise (possibly literally, but we'll come to that later.)
I like to think I am aware of the reasons why men might recline in this manner; if I had a penis I would probably sit that way too, so as to allow my crotch some space to breathe (and protect future generations with my virile sperm). I imagine, being a bloke, it is quite comfortable spreading one's legs apart: it certainly lowers the risk of getting one's dinkle stuck in an awkward position (and we've all heard the stories about penis fractures) (I've actually met one: it had broken at a right-angle - ouch) (I am relieved to say it still worked. Very well in fact.)
It would appear that sitting like this, according to many body-language experts, serves the function of marking one's territory: spread-out legs take up space - which shows other men potential dominance of the physical surroundings. (Much like being a tom-cat, but without the bad smell.) (Hopefully.) Perhaps this highlighting of the groin area is an evolutionary trait to show potential mates what's on offer: allowing one to 'check the goods' prior to purchase (always something one should do). As if a big arrow was pointing downwards, a man sitting with his legs apart seems to be saying, "Look at me. Here I am. This is my penis. Isn't it great?!" I can certainly see the advantage in that, but herein lies the problem: with men's groins so blatantly on show, a woman like me doesn't know where to look.
Let's be honest here: I like to look at men's crotches. This is no secret; I have no embarassment in admitting it. It's not that I am interested in seeing how big or small their penis might be - far from it - rather, it's just nice to see what's there. In a sort of knowing-which-side-it-might-be-lying type of way, or even I-wonder-what-it-would-look-like-hard-underneath-his-trousers kind of thing. Normal stuff, basically. So when faced with a Cock Bulge On Display Because A Man Is Sitting There With His Legs Wide Apart, where else is a woman supposed to fix her eyes? Yes, I've tried to look at a bloke's face, or his hands, or even his feet, but with such a prominent visual display of genitalia, I find it hard to rest my gaze anywhere else but there.
My male friends tell me they have a problem with women who wear low-cut tops; that with any cleavage in view, their eyes are drawn to it - even if they don't find the woman attractive, or worse, she's a friend, they still cannot help but look. I know this isn't just a hetrosexual thing: a gay mate of mine admitted to me he was captivated by my boobs too and spent much of an evening peering down my top (with my blessing, I should add). So likewise, men's crotches: if they are going to sit like that, displaying their bulges to the world, where else do they expect us to look, I ask you?
I find this situation most unsettling, because whilst I may be checking out a guy's groin, I am not necessarily doing so because I want to shag him, and I would hate for him to think that I did, just because he spotted me cock-gazing. It's just that it's there... to be looked at. And I do; I can't help it. So in order to avoid being caught staring at your crotches, it would help me if all of you men stopped sitting like that, and instead pressed your legs together in a dignified manner, thus hiding your packages from view. It would be better for all that way I think.*
Thanking you in advance,
Yours sincerely, in dark glasses to hide her eyes,
Girl x
*Unless of course you are in my flat because I am going to shag you, in which case, please do sit there with your legs wide apart and I will try to use telekinesis (or, failing that, some dirty-talk) to give you a hard-on under your trousers which I will thus grind myself against with great delight. Thank you.
Yes you. All of you. We need to talk. (Before shagging preferably; you seem to talk nonsense post-orgasm).
Allow me to bring something to your attention, if I may. That being the problem of how you sit. Everywhere you are, you always seem to sit in the same way: with your legs spread widely apart; whether on the tube, in an office, or in that coffee shop in Soho last week, where you distracted me from my writing. Unless we are going to have sex, I really must ask that you keep your legs together - it would be hugely appreciated if you could. Don't get me wrong: I quite like seeing a man with his legs splayed when he is sitting down, but that, you see, is where problems arise (possibly literally, but we'll come to that later.)
I like to think I am aware of the reasons why men might recline in this manner; if I had a penis I would probably sit that way too, so as to allow my crotch some space to breathe (and protect future generations with my virile sperm). I imagine, being a bloke, it is quite comfortable spreading one's legs apart: it certainly lowers the risk of getting one's dinkle stuck in an awkward position (and we've all heard the stories about penis fractures) (I've actually met one: it had broken at a right-angle - ouch) (I am relieved to say it still worked. Very well in fact.)
It would appear that sitting like this, according to many body-language experts, serves the function of marking one's territory: spread-out legs take up space - which shows other men potential dominance of the physical surroundings. (Much like being a tom-cat, but without the bad smell.) (Hopefully.) Perhaps this highlighting of the groin area is an evolutionary trait to show potential mates what's on offer: allowing one to 'check the goods' prior to purchase (always something one should do). As if a big arrow was pointing downwards, a man sitting with his legs apart seems to be saying, "Look at me. Here I am. This is my penis. Isn't it great?!" I can certainly see the advantage in that, but herein lies the problem: with men's groins so blatantly on show, a woman like me doesn't know where to look.
Let's be honest here: I like to look at men's crotches. This is no secret; I have no embarassment in admitting it. It's not that I am interested in seeing how big or small their penis might be - far from it - rather, it's just nice to see what's there. In a sort of knowing-which-side-it-might-be-lying type of way, or even I-wonder-what-it-would-look-like-hard-underneath-his-trousers kind of thing. Normal stuff, basically. So when faced with a Cock Bulge On Display Because A Man Is Sitting There With His Legs Wide Apart, where else is a woman supposed to fix her eyes? Yes, I've tried to look at a bloke's face, or his hands, or even his feet, but with such a prominent visual display of genitalia, I find it hard to rest my gaze anywhere else but there.
My male friends tell me they have a problem with women who wear low-cut tops; that with any cleavage in view, their eyes are drawn to it - even if they don't find the woman attractive, or worse, she's a friend, they still cannot help but look. I know this isn't just a hetrosexual thing: a gay mate of mine admitted to me he was captivated by my boobs too and spent much of an evening peering down my top (with my blessing, I should add). So likewise, men's crotches: if they are going to sit like that, displaying their bulges to the world, where else do they expect us to look, I ask you?
I find this situation most unsettling, because whilst I may be checking out a guy's groin, I am not necessarily doing so because I want to shag him, and I would hate for him to think that I did, just because he spotted me cock-gazing. It's just that it's there... to be looked at. And I do; I can't help it. So in order to avoid being caught staring at your crotches, it would help me if all of you men stopped sitting like that, and instead pressed your legs together in a dignified manner, thus hiding your packages from view. It would be better for all that way I think.*
Thanking you in advance,
Yours sincerely, in dark glasses to hide her eyes,
Girl x
*Unless of course you are in my flat because I am going to shag you, in which case, please do sit there with your legs wide apart and I will try to use telekinesis (or, failing that, some dirty-talk) to give you a hard-on under your trousers which I will thus grind myself against with great delight. Thank you.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Smell
We had met through work and ended up at my place where we began snogging furiously; it didn’t take long for our clothing to be removed. I was horny as hell and dying to fuck him. As I made my way down his body, slipping my finger under the waistband of his underwear with the intention of pulling them off with my teeth, I caught a whiff of something. Of him, to be exact. It wasn’t a fresh male aroma – it didn’t smell of clean sweat or delicious sexual arousal – it was pungent, acrid, dirt: calling it rancid would have been an understatement. He reeked; and I almost gagged.
Now, at this point my fingers were actually around his cock, and I found myself in a difficult position. Do I continue what I was doing and – risking projectile vomiting – slide his smelly cock into my mouth? Perhaps it would it be best to just politely toss him off inside his pants in the hope of avoiding the dreadful stench coming from his groin? Or, should I show my disgust, stop groping his penis, and tell him to go and wash it pronto?
I did none of the above. It gives me little pride to describe what I did next: I promptly removed my hand from his underwear, pushed him onto his back, sat on top of him, and dry-humped his pants-covered erection until I had an orgasm.
And then I threw him out my flat; yes, erection and all.
Selfish, I might be, but if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who lacks skills in the personal hygiene department: there are no excuses for a bloke who can’t keep his cock clean. If a guy thinks his stinky schlong is going to be getting some action with this girl, he’s got another thing coming.
As, in this case, me.
Now, at this point my fingers were actually around his cock, and I found myself in a difficult position. Do I continue what I was doing and – risking projectile vomiting – slide his smelly cock into my mouth? Perhaps it would it be best to just politely toss him off inside his pants in the hope of avoiding the dreadful stench coming from his groin? Or, should I show my disgust, stop groping his penis, and tell him to go and wash it pronto?
I did none of the above. It gives me little pride to describe what I did next: I promptly removed my hand from his underwear, pushed him onto his back, sat on top of him, and dry-humped his pants-covered erection until I had an orgasm.
And then I threw him out my flat; yes, erection and all.
Selfish, I might be, but if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who lacks skills in the personal hygiene department: there are no excuses for a bloke who can’t keep his cock clean. If a guy thinks his stinky schlong is going to be getting some action with this girl, he’s got another thing coming.
As, in this case, me.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
The three R's
1. Recap of recent events. (Thank you everybody)
2. Review of my book over at the f-word ("Abby’s writing might also help do feminism a useful service by chipping away at the myth that women’s sexuality is somehow massively different from men’s")
3. Register your votes at the 2007 Bloggies (Don't nominate me: winning the 2006 award for Best UK blog suited me just fine, thank you. Instead, how about perusing the fantastic blogs in my sidebar and recommending them for one of the (many) awards - they all deserve the recognition)
UPDATE:
The fourth R - the Reply.
2. Review of my book over at the f-word ("Abby’s writing might also help do feminism a useful service by chipping away at the myth that women’s sexuality is somehow massively different from men’s")
3. Register your votes at the 2007 Bloggies (Don't nominate me: winning the 2006 award for Best UK blog suited me just fine, thank you. Instead, how about perusing the fantastic blogs in my sidebar and recommending them for one of the (many) awards - they all deserve the recognition)
UPDATE:
The fourth R - the Reply.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Three
Today this blog is three years old. What started out as a private place for me to express my thoughts and vent my feelings has now developed into something I never, in my wildest dreams, imagined. Three years on, and three million visitors later, I am still gobsmacked at the response this blog has had and am totally chuffed that people return on a regular basis to read my thoughts on sex. To each and every one of the people who have read, commented, lurked, linked, emailed, and debated here, thank you.
I’ve always done a yearly round-up of blog posts on this date; today is no different, barring the fact that this last year has been the oddest I have ever experienced. What was once my private life has now become public, in its most literal sense. I’ve been proud that my writing crossed into the book medium this year; I’ve been gutted that I lost my anonymity in the process. Here are the highs and lows of the past twelve months:
Being single
Date-related erections
Men want children too
Cooking and sex
Making love
How to be a good lover
Winning a Bloggie
Man on man
Closure
Finger skills
Equality in bed
Intellectual sex
Casual sex
Cheating lovers
Book completion
Pornographic pictures
Disappointing BDSM
Fucking my way across London
Men wank too hard
Am I a sex addict?
Losing my anonymity
Below is one of the actual emails from the Sunday Times newspaper which was sent to me the day prior to the publication of their article ‘outing’ me. [For reasons of privacy, I have deleted certain details in the parentheses]. I print this to show the level newspapers will stoop to, to get a ‘story’, and also to highlight the private effect that an article such as this can have:
When I received this email, I cried. And then showed it to my mother. It was one thing to expose me in a newspaper; it was another thing altogether to violate my mother’s privacy too – I was worried about the effect it would have on her job and her private life. As my mother read the email, I told her I would do whatever the newspaper wanted – participate in their fucking photo-shoot, or give them the interview they had been demanding – if it meant they left her out of it. I was ready to comply, cave in, and submit to their threats.
You know what my mother said? “Fuck them.” She told me not to dignify the email with a response; to ignore them ringing my phone off the hook. She hugged me and told me that whatever happened, she and my dad would be behind me and back me up. So we sat tight, ignored all the harassment, (never once communicating with the paper I might add) and waited for the article to come out. And then my parents made me lots of cups of tea, and toast and marmite, whilst I tried to pick up the pieces of my no-longer-existent private life. I am forever grateful for all their support.
Dealing with press intrusion
Doing an interview with The Guardian newspaper
Why I was anonymous
Personal aftermath
Appearing on the Sharon Osbourne TV show
Yet another lover finds out
Drunken contact
Speaking on Woman’s Hour
Losing my pick-up confidence
My book signing – first public appearance
Speaking at a feminist conference
Why I would fuck Russell Brand
Blow-job technique
Appearing on Imagine TV programme
Obtaining a sexual massage
It’s been a weird year, one obviously defined by my being exposed in the media, and since then my life has completely changed. Overall I’m glad it’s over, because much of the latter part of it has been a struggle. However, it's now a fresh new year and I’m optimistically looking forward to it, and lots of new, positive things happening.
Happy new year everybody, here’s hoping Two Double O Seven is a great one.
I’ve always done a yearly round-up of blog posts on this date; today is no different, barring the fact that this last year has been the oddest I have ever experienced. What was once my private life has now become public, in its most literal sense. I’ve been proud that my writing crossed into the book medium this year; I’ve been gutted that I lost my anonymity in the process. Here are the highs and lows of the past twelve months:
Being single
Date-related erections
Men want children too
Cooking and sex
Making love
How to be a good lover
Winning a Bloggie
Man on man
Closure
Finger skills
Equality in bed
Intellectual sex
Casual sex
Cheating lovers
Book completion
Pornographic pictures
Disappointing BDSM
Fucking my way across London
Men wank too hard
Am I a sex addict?
Losing my anonymity
Below is one of the actual emails from the Sunday Times newspaper which was sent to me the day prior to the publication of their article ‘outing’ me. [For reasons of privacy, I have deleted certain details in the parentheses]. I print this to show the level newspapers will stoop to, to get a ‘story’, and also to highlight the private effect that an article such as this can have:
Aug 5, 2006 11:08 AM
Dear Miss [my name],
We intend to publish a prominent news story in this weekend's paper, revealing your identity as the author of the book, Girl With a One Track Mind.
We have matched up the dates of films you have worked on - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Batman Begins and Lara Croft Tomb Raider - and it is clear that they correlate to your blog. We have obtained your birth certificate, and details about where you went to school and college.
We propose to publish the fact that you are 33 and live in [my address] -London, and that your mother, [her name], is a [her address] -based [her profession]. The article includes extracts from your book and blog, relevant to your career in the film industry. We also have a picture of you, taken outside your flat.
Unfortunately, the picture is not particularly flattering and might undermine the image that has been built up around your persona as Abby Lee. I think it would be helpful to both sides if you agreed to a photo shoot today so that we can publish a more attractive image.
We are proposing to assign you our senior portrait photographer, Francesco Guidicini, and would arrange everything to your convenience, including a car to pick you up. We would expect you to provide your own clothes and make up. As the story will be on a colour page, we would prefer the outfit to be one of colourful eveningwear.
We did put this proposal to you yesterday, but heard nothing back. Clearly this is now a matter of urgency, and I would appreciate you contacting me as soon as possible. To avoid any doubt we will, of course, publish the story as it is if we do not hear from you.
Yours sincerely,
Nicholas Hellen
Acting News Editor
Sunday Times
When I received this email, I cried. And then showed it to my mother. It was one thing to expose me in a newspaper; it was another thing altogether to violate my mother’s privacy too – I was worried about the effect it would have on her job and her private life. As my mother read the email, I told her I would do whatever the newspaper wanted – participate in their fucking photo-shoot, or give them the interview they had been demanding – if it meant they left her out of it. I was ready to comply, cave in, and submit to their threats.
You know what my mother said? “Fuck them.” She told me not to dignify the email with a response; to ignore them ringing my phone off the hook. She hugged me and told me that whatever happened, she and my dad would be behind me and back me up. So we sat tight, ignored all the harassment, (never once communicating with the paper I might add) and waited for the article to come out. And then my parents made me lots of cups of tea, and toast and marmite, whilst I tried to pick up the pieces of my no-longer-existent private life. I am forever grateful for all their support.
Dealing with press intrusion
Doing an interview with The Guardian newspaper
Why I was anonymous
Personal aftermath
Appearing on the Sharon Osbourne TV show
Yet another lover finds out
Drunken contact
Speaking on Woman’s Hour
Losing my pick-up confidence
My book signing – first public appearance
Speaking at a feminist conference
Why I would fuck Russell Brand
Blow-job technique
Appearing on Imagine TV programme
Obtaining a sexual massage
It’s been a weird year, one obviously defined by my being exposed in the media, and since then my life has completely changed. Overall I’m glad it’s over, because much of the latter part of it has been a struggle. However, it's now a fresh new year and I’m optimistically looking forward to it, and lots of new, positive things happening.
Happy new year everybody, here’s hoping Two Double O Seven is a great one.