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Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Rude Girls
Just a quick thank you to all the people who turned up to my talk at the Soho Theatre last night. I was pretty gobsmacked that the event was sold out (probably due to the plug here no doubt, thanks Time Out!) and was gutted that some of my friends were turned away at the door (but obviously very chuffed that a few did get seats and were there to support me, cheers all). It was really lovely to have such a warm welcome from the audience, which was some relief given that prior to the talk my nerves were getting the better of me, and (bar a double whisky) I couldn't keep anything down.
It went well, I think, and I actually enjoyed myself immensely. It seemed such a shame that the event ended after an hour and a half because Rowan and I were really having fun at that point and we both agreed that we could have continued the discussions well into the night. We still covered a lot in that 90 minutes though and I am really pleased that debates about body image, female vs feminist politics and 'women's' magazines, occurred alongside the discussions about female sexuality, promiscuity and 'Raunch Culture'. I was very impressed by the questions from the audience and only wish we had had the time to answer more. Thanks to everyone who asked a question from the floor and apologies to those who did not get the chance to contribute.
And to the women who approached me afterwards wanting to know why I thought so many women are misogynists and attack and undermine other women - in addition to what I said last night, and in my recent Guardian piece, about how in-fighting between women benefits the patriachy because it means they are not challenging the status quo or their position in society - I would also say this: I don't know why women feel they have to cut other women down and it saddens me greatly. Depressingly, and for reasons I fail to grasp, you can almost guarantee that once this post about my doing this public talk goes up on the blog, there will be some vitriolic/envious/bitter responses from other bloggers and readers, many of whom, sadly, will be other women.
Still, meeting all those like-minded folk last night gives me hope: not all women are bitchy and backstabbing and some of us, indeed many of us, want to have an open and progressive dialogue about female (and male) sexuality. So thanks again to everyone who came along, I hope you got as much out of the evening as I did.
It went well, I think, and I actually enjoyed myself immensely. It seemed such a shame that the event ended after an hour and a half because Rowan and I were really having fun at that point and we both agreed that we could have continued the discussions well into the night. We still covered a lot in that 90 minutes though and I am really pleased that debates about body image, female vs feminist politics and 'women's' magazines, occurred alongside the discussions about female sexuality, promiscuity and 'Raunch Culture'. I was very impressed by the questions from the audience and only wish we had had the time to answer more. Thanks to everyone who asked a question from the floor and apologies to those who did not get the chance to contribute.
And to the women who approached me afterwards wanting to know why I thought so many women are misogynists and attack and undermine other women - in addition to what I said last night, and in my recent Guardian piece, about how in-fighting between women benefits the patriachy because it means they are not challenging the status quo or their position in society - I would also say this: I don't know why women feel they have to cut other women down and it saddens me greatly. Depressingly, and for reasons I fail to grasp, you can almost guarantee that once this post about my doing this public talk goes up on the blog, there will be some vitriolic/envious/bitter responses from other bloggers and readers, many of whom, sadly, will be other women.
Still, meeting all those like-minded folk last night gives me hope: not all women are bitchy and backstabbing and some of us, indeed many of us, want to have an open and progressive dialogue about female (and male) sexuality. So thanks again to everyone who came along, I hope you got as much out of the evening as I did.
Comments
Monday, October 29, 2007
Money shot
‘Where would you like me to come on you?’
‘What?’
‘Where would you like me to come on you? How about your face?’
He broke out into a grin and I raised my eyebrow at him, pausing for thought. We weren’t in bed together; in fact we weren’t naked, or even alone for that matter. Instead, we were sat in a crowded pub, and whilst our conversation had turned decidedly risqué, it had not, to my mind, progressed to the point where discussing the placement of his sperm could be done in a blasé fashion. Plus, his question annoyed me, making me hesitant about wanting to shag him (which by that point was somewhat of a done deal).
Call me selfish (do: it’d be accurate), but sex for me is not solely about focussing on the man’s orgasm. In my case, I confess, it is usually about mine: there is nothing better than having a climax and I am a fucking horrible bitch to be around if I don’t orgasm during sex. (It’s lucky, if not convenient, that I come so easily and frequently.) I can, however, quite clearly state that at no point will there be a likelihood of my having an orgasm purely because a man has squirted his seed somewhere onto my body. Sure, it can feel nice; in the way that heated massage oil feels nice. Sure, it can be erotic, because I enjoy men coming; I get off on their pleasure. But in and of itself, a guy spunking on me is not going to do it for me: my skin is just not that sensitive.
Sex, for me, does not end when a guy climaxes; it is just a temporary blip (so to speak) before continuing with other sensual activities. And I try to avoid porn-film clichés and fantasy representations of sex in my own sex life; so that immediately excludes a “money shot” (and faked orgasms). Exactly how is my clit or pussy going to be stimulated solely through a guy shooting his wad onto my face? Fair play to those that enjoy having spunk all over their faces; I am not one of those women (or men). Anyway, if he wanted to impress me with promises of the sexual pleasure awaiting me, he was going the wrong way about it: suggesting the primary focus – for us both – should be his orgasm, pissed me right off.
I shot him a bemused look and placing my hand on his knee, squeezed it and said, in a whisky-fuelled, flirtatiously sarcastic retort, ‘Darling, surely we should be discussing where it is on you, that I shall be coming.’
He stared at me with a bewildered expression, looking as if he half expected me to whip out a penis of my own there and then and spurt all over him. Trying to deflect the unease I saw growing on his face, I flashed him a smile and he visibly relaxed. He looked sexy when he wasn’t trying to be so macho; given his age I guess that his attempt at bravado was only to be expected. As he looked sheepishly at me, I softened towards him and began to reconsider whether I should fuck him. I also deliberated how and in what way I should explain my thoughts on the location of his ejaculation deposit. And I wondered how long it would be before I got him naked with me on top of his cock, because all this spunk talk was an unnecessary delay to our having some fun. I decided to be tactful, yet direct.
‘Well, how about you come with a condom on, deep inside me? I’d like that.’
He looked confused. ‘No, I meant where on you… Your thighs, your tits, your face… That’s what I want to do.’ His eyes lit up at this point and I saw where this was headed: not in a direction I was happy with.
‘Look, tits would be fine, thighs, whatever,’ I said dismissively, ‘the face, however, is out of bounds.’
‘Why?’ His hand was resting on my inner thigh at this point, squeezing me gently. I was well aware of the heat emanating between my legs, but that was connected to the fact that his delicious chest hair was poking over the top of his shirt and I was imagining running my fingers though it whilst fucking him. (I am shallow like that.) I tried to focus, keep a clear head.
‘That’s not something I like. At all. There is no way I’d do that.’
‘Why not? It’s fun.’
‘I just don’t like it. And the only way I would do it is if it was with someone I loved and he really, really wanted me to.’
He grinned at me. ‘I really, really want you to.’
I squinted at him and debated the level of tact I would be capable of in relation to how much whisky I had ingested, and also the level of annoyance I felt about the current conversation.
‘Look, this, us, this is just casual, right? I’m not going to do something like that on a one-night stand.’
He looked disappointed. ‘Really? Oh.’
I grasped his hand that was still placed on my inner thigh. ‘No. Definitely not. But I can think of a few things we can do that will be much more fun.’
A mischievous smirk appeared on his face and not long after we ended up in bed, devouring each other impatiently. In the early morning he got on top of me, straddling my chest and pinning down my arms with his thighs. Pleased with his positioning, he began to stroke himself, occasionally dipping his cock into my mouth for good measure. I watched his face as his thrusting increased in intensity and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he climaxed. I also knew that if he didn’t shift I would have his come all over my face. I felt myself flush with anger.
‘Don’t spunk on my face,’ I said gently, but firmly. ‘Do it on my tits.’
He gave me a cheeky smile and continued stroking himself, thrusting his cock closer to my face.
‘Seriously,’ I said, more direct this time, ‘don’t.’
‘Oh yeah, what are you going to do?’ he replied in a fuck-you voice, his thrusting even faster.
Before I could think, I heard myself speaking; the words exited my mouth as if they belonged to someone else.
‘Oh yeah, well you see this?’ I lifted my hand from under his thigh and clenched it into a tight fist. Then I pushed my knuckles deeply and firmly into his balls and twisted my hand so he could be sure of its delicate placement. ‘I would punch you very hard, right here, if you came on my face. So don’t even think about it.’
My reaction surprised me more than him I think. I mean, he was shocked: he immediately shifted down my body so his cock was nowhere near my face and he looked more than a little scared; terrified, even. But I was stunned at what I said, what I threatened to do. I didn’t know that I was capable of making such a threat – and meaning it. Even though I said it in a jovial manner, my latent violence scared me. There’s hurting a man for fun (when it is consensual) and there is defending yourself from a man when under physical attack. This situation was neither.
He didn’t end up coming on my face; his spunk landed all over my belly, if memory serves me correct. And after his cock had gone soft, and he had caught his breath, I demanded his hand and tongue pleasured me again a few more times. The final tally (if one must count these things) was probably about six or seven orgasms for me, to his one, which obviously pleasured me immensely.
Looking back, I guess I felt he was trying to take advantage of me without my consent, and because I made a promise to myself in my twenties that I was never, ever going to let a man do that to me ever again, my reaction to him reflected that. But, admittedly, my threatening to punch him in his balls was very over the top. Still, I think I scared him so much that I doubt he will ever try to coerce another woman into doing something she didn’t want to do – which, to my mind, is far more important than all the orgasms in the world, nice though they may be.
‘What?’
‘Where would you like me to come on you? How about your face?’
He broke out into a grin and I raised my eyebrow at him, pausing for thought. We weren’t in bed together; in fact we weren’t naked, or even alone for that matter. Instead, we were sat in a crowded pub, and whilst our conversation had turned decidedly risqué, it had not, to my mind, progressed to the point where discussing the placement of his sperm could be done in a blasé fashion. Plus, his question annoyed me, making me hesitant about wanting to shag him (which by that point was somewhat of a done deal).
Call me selfish (do: it’d be accurate), but sex for me is not solely about focussing on the man’s orgasm. In my case, I confess, it is usually about mine: there is nothing better than having a climax and I am a fucking horrible bitch to be around if I don’t orgasm during sex. (It’s lucky, if not convenient, that I come so easily and frequently.) I can, however, quite clearly state that at no point will there be a likelihood of my having an orgasm purely because a man has squirted his seed somewhere onto my body. Sure, it can feel nice; in the way that heated massage oil feels nice. Sure, it can be erotic, because I enjoy men coming; I get off on their pleasure. But in and of itself, a guy spunking on me is not going to do it for me: my skin is just not that sensitive.
Sex, for me, does not end when a guy climaxes; it is just a temporary blip (so to speak) before continuing with other sensual activities. And I try to avoid porn-film clichés and fantasy representations of sex in my own sex life; so that immediately excludes a “money shot” (and faked orgasms). Exactly how is my clit or pussy going to be stimulated solely through a guy shooting his wad onto my face? Fair play to those that enjoy having spunk all over their faces; I am not one of those women (or men). Anyway, if he wanted to impress me with promises of the sexual pleasure awaiting me, he was going the wrong way about it: suggesting the primary focus – for us both – should be his orgasm, pissed me right off.
I shot him a bemused look and placing my hand on his knee, squeezed it and said, in a whisky-fuelled, flirtatiously sarcastic retort, ‘Darling, surely we should be discussing where it is on you, that I shall be coming.’
He stared at me with a bewildered expression, looking as if he half expected me to whip out a penis of my own there and then and spurt all over him. Trying to deflect the unease I saw growing on his face, I flashed him a smile and he visibly relaxed. He looked sexy when he wasn’t trying to be so macho; given his age I guess that his attempt at bravado was only to be expected. As he looked sheepishly at me, I softened towards him and began to reconsider whether I should fuck him. I also deliberated how and in what way I should explain my thoughts on the location of his ejaculation deposit. And I wondered how long it would be before I got him naked with me on top of his cock, because all this spunk talk was an unnecessary delay to our having some fun. I decided to be tactful, yet direct.
‘Well, how about you come with a condom on, deep inside me? I’d like that.’
He looked confused. ‘No, I meant where on you… Your thighs, your tits, your face… That’s what I want to do.’ His eyes lit up at this point and I saw where this was headed: not in a direction I was happy with.
‘Look, tits would be fine, thighs, whatever,’ I said dismissively, ‘the face, however, is out of bounds.’
‘Why?’ His hand was resting on my inner thigh at this point, squeezing me gently. I was well aware of the heat emanating between my legs, but that was connected to the fact that his delicious chest hair was poking over the top of his shirt and I was imagining running my fingers though it whilst fucking him. (I am shallow like that.) I tried to focus, keep a clear head.
‘That’s not something I like. At all. There is no way I’d do that.’
‘Why not? It’s fun.’
‘I just don’t like it. And the only way I would do it is if it was with someone I loved and he really, really wanted me to.’
He grinned at me. ‘I really, really want you to.’
I squinted at him and debated the level of tact I would be capable of in relation to how much whisky I had ingested, and also the level of annoyance I felt about the current conversation.
‘Look, this, us, this is just casual, right? I’m not going to do something like that on a one-night stand.’
He looked disappointed. ‘Really? Oh.’
I grasped his hand that was still placed on my inner thigh. ‘No. Definitely not. But I can think of a few things we can do that will be much more fun.’
A mischievous smirk appeared on his face and not long after we ended up in bed, devouring each other impatiently. In the early morning he got on top of me, straddling my chest and pinning down my arms with his thighs. Pleased with his positioning, he began to stroke himself, occasionally dipping his cock into my mouth for good measure. I watched his face as his thrusting increased in intensity and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he climaxed. I also knew that if he didn’t shift I would have his come all over my face. I felt myself flush with anger.
‘Don’t spunk on my face,’ I said gently, but firmly. ‘Do it on my tits.’
He gave me a cheeky smile and continued stroking himself, thrusting his cock closer to my face.
‘Seriously,’ I said, more direct this time, ‘don’t.’
‘Oh yeah, what are you going to do?’ he replied in a fuck-you voice, his thrusting even faster.
Before I could think, I heard myself speaking; the words exited my mouth as if they belonged to someone else.
‘Oh yeah, well you see this?’ I lifted my hand from under his thigh and clenched it into a tight fist. Then I pushed my knuckles deeply and firmly into his balls and twisted my hand so he could be sure of its delicate placement. ‘I would punch you very hard, right here, if you came on my face. So don’t even think about it.’
My reaction surprised me more than him I think. I mean, he was shocked: he immediately shifted down my body so his cock was nowhere near my face and he looked more than a little scared; terrified, even. But I was stunned at what I said, what I threatened to do. I didn’t know that I was capable of making such a threat – and meaning it. Even though I said it in a jovial manner, my latent violence scared me. There’s hurting a man for fun (when it is consensual) and there is defending yourself from a man when under physical attack. This situation was neither.
He didn’t end up coming on my face; his spunk landed all over my belly, if memory serves me correct. And after his cock had gone soft, and he had caught his breath, I demanded his hand and tongue pleasured me again a few more times. The final tally (if one must count these things) was probably about six or seven orgasms for me, to his one, which obviously pleasured me immensely.
Looking back, I guess I felt he was trying to take advantage of me without my consent, and because I made a promise to myself in my twenties that I was never, ever going to let a man do that to me ever again, my reaction to him reflected that. But, admittedly, my threatening to punch him in his balls was very over the top. Still, I think I scared him so much that I doubt he will ever try to coerce another woman into doing something she didn’t want to do – which, to my mind, is far more important than all the orgasms in the world, nice though they may be.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I've just been accused by an old acquaintance of being
'lost in show business'
and that I need to get my feet
'back on the ground where the real people are'.
What's provoked this criticism? It's simple: My requesting that if she is going to include me in a group chain email, then could she please BCC my private email address, rather than display it in the main body of the email.
Clearly she felt this demand was uncalled for, and that I was becoming too big for my boots and needed to be brought back down to earth. Who do I think I am to wish for my email address to remain private? Someone special, obviously. Too important to be publicly named on an email, right?
Not at all. I just a) hate fucking chain emails, b) hate getting copied in on every Tom, Dick and Harry's response to said fucking chain email, and c) hate getting spam as a result of my email address being shared with total strangers via a fucking chain email. I know I am not alone in having these feelings about chain emails; like so many other people I'd just prefer not to be sent crap - and certainly not then copied in on the responses to that crap, thank you very much. All of this is unrelated to how I now earn my living, as she seems to be suggesting; it just is about my wishing not to be spammed.
I wrote back, (gently) explaining the above situation and then added:
'I apologise if you interpreted my request as me being officious or rude - that wasn't my intent at all - but please don't attack me for being some kind of stuck-up celebrity. We've both worked with plenty of those type of pricks and there is no way I would ever behave like them, having the experience that I do being on the receiving end of their crap. So I do take slight offence at your accusation of my being 'lost in show business' - nothing could be further from the truth. I am very much grounded, even if I do happen to be on the other side of the camera nowadays.'
Somehow I don't reckon I will hear from her again. Not a huge loss in my life, it has to be said, because as it is I am attacked regularly enough by total strangers for what they perceive as my "success", so I certainly don't need unjustified resentment from those people whom I consider friends.
Still, as they say, you know who your friends are, and over the last twelve months I've discovered I have some amazing friends - and they are people who wouldn't jump to a stupid conclusion about my asking not to be included on a fucking chain email.
(If they wanted to send me some decent porn, however, I would be fine with that.)
Monday, October 15, 2007
Choice
Jesus, this article has pissed me off.
"A woman's right to choose?" Not likely when we are still fighting this type of underhand crap that supposedly represents women's best interests in the name of "science".
'This inquiry is specifically about the scientific evidence not moral or religious arguments and our witnesses need to be evidence-led not ideologically or theologically driven.'
Amen to that.
"A woman's right to choose?" Not likely when we are still fighting this type of underhand crap that supposedly represents women's best interests in the name of "science".
'This inquiry is specifically about the scientific evidence not moral or religious arguments and our witnesses need to be evidence-led not ideologically or theologically driven.'
Amen to that.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Call-out
You know what's funny? People outside the blog world assume us bloggers don't chat amongst ourselves. That somehow we all exist in a vacuum; that we are all too self-absorbed to pay attention to what might be going on other blogs or with other bloggers. Publishers especially seem to underestimate the strength of the "community" that makes up the interconnectedness of bloggers; I've had to explain time and time again that bloggers actually, you know, "talk" to each other?
I've now been blogging almost four years and during that time have got to know some amazing bloggers. These are people who have looked out for me; people who have watched my back; people who respected and upheld my privacy and anonymity. And, as would happen with mates in the offline world, my online friends get in touch with me the minute something odd happens in the blog world.
Like, for example, a mass email sent from my American publisher to a bunch of prominent sex bloggers asking them to plug the US edition of my book. I knew nothing about this email, until these bloggers informed me an hour ago; they were shocked - and a little annoyed (and rightly so) - that this blatant PR request had been sent cold to them, given they are my friends. 'Why didn't you just ask us directly if you wanted us to plug your book?' they said. 'I don't want you to plug it!' I replied, 'I didn't have anything to do with this email!':
The publishers also included a link to my blog in their email, which implies they were acting on my behalf in asking bloggers to plug my book. This situation has infuriated me for a number of reasons:
1) I've not heard from my American publishers since the book was published in the US in March of this year. Given I am the author, one might think that they would inform me of their plans to promote/relaunch it - especially when they involve blogging friends of mine.
2) Back in March, when I was in NYC to launch the book, I declined the publisher's suggestion to "ask other sex bloggers to promote it", because I felt it entirely unethical and against everything that blogging - and I - stand for. To say I am gobsmacked that they have now decided to ignore my explicit wishes and go over my head by making a direct approach to my sex blogging pals themselves, is an understatement.
3) By approaching these bloggers to do PR for my book it is evident that the publisher does not care that my friendships with all these bloggers could then be put in jeopardy. I've built up these friendships over four years and I am furious that in one instant they could be undermined by people who clearly do not give a damn about the outcome of their actions.
4) Are publishers really so ignorant about blogging that they think all bloggers will immediately jump at the chance to plug something, just because they ask them to? Do they really think that? Do they not grasp what blogging is about?
5) Finally, it's clear that the US publishers have failed to comprehend just how bad the publicity for the American book will be now that they have sent out a mass email to bloggers asking them to plug it. Word of mouth? It ain't gonna be good, their entire approach has guaranteed that...
At the end of the day, when books are done and dusted, and publishers have figured out that blogs are NOT just another form of free advertising for products, I'll know who my friends are, and they're the people that backed me up when all went to shit last year and whom inform me when my name (via my book) is being used in an manipulative and exploitative way. And it is these people that I care about and that I worry whose friendship might have been put at risk - and all because someone thought that a mass email might help shift a few more copies of a book.
Update: Behind The Buzz, Viviane's Sex Carnival, Bad Man
NOTICE
I have no idea how many bloggers, or whom, have been approached by my US publishers and asked to promote my book. All I can say to those who have received emails is: please know I had nothing to do with this PR attempt. I would never ask ANY blogger to plug my book. So if you are a blog friend of mine, or just a reader of this blog, and have received an email asking you to write about my book, please ignore it, because it was not done with my authorisation, or my support, or with any of my wishes taken into account.
And to my American publishers: I'm not quite sure an apology covers it, but as yet I have had nothing in my inbox.
I've now been blogging almost four years and during that time have got to know some amazing bloggers. These are people who have looked out for me; people who have watched my back; people who respected and upheld my privacy and anonymity. And, as would happen with mates in the offline world, my online friends get in touch with me the minute something odd happens in the blog world.
Like, for example, a mass email sent from my American publisher to a bunch of prominent sex bloggers asking them to plug the US edition of my book. I knew nothing about this email, until these bloggers informed me an hour ago; they were shocked - and a little annoyed (and rightly so) - that this blatant PR request had been sent cold to them, given they are my friends. 'Why didn't you just ask us directly if you wanted us to plug your book?' they said. 'I don't want you to plug it!' I replied, 'I didn't have anything to do with this email!':
"You have a great site. Like Abby's, your blog provides great material for any "sex fiend," and we'd ask you to please consider:
* Posting the cover, information, excerpt, and/or link to a bookseller on your site?
* Reviewing the book for your readers, or posting a review on a bookselling site?"
The publishers also included a link to my blog in their email, which implies they were acting on my behalf in asking bloggers to plug my book. This situation has infuriated me for a number of reasons:
1) I've not heard from my American publishers since the book was published in the US in March of this year. Given I am the author, one might think that they would inform me of their plans to promote/relaunch it - especially when they involve blogging friends of mine.
2) Back in March, when I was in NYC to launch the book, I declined the publisher's suggestion to "ask other sex bloggers to promote it", because I felt it entirely unethical and against everything that blogging - and I - stand for. To say I am gobsmacked that they have now decided to ignore my explicit wishes and go over my head by making a direct approach to my sex blogging pals themselves, is an understatement.
3) By approaching these bloggers to do PR for my book it is evident that the publisher does not care that my friendships with all these bloggers could then be put in jeopardy. I've built up these friendships over four years and I am furious that in one instant they could be undermined by people who clearly do not give a damn about the outcome of their actions.
4) Are publishers really so ignorant about blogging that they think all bloggers will immediately jump at the chance to plug something, just because they ask them to? Do they really think that? Do they not grasp what blogging is about?
5) Finally, it's clear that the US publishers have failed to comprehend just how bad the publicity for the American book will be now that they have sent out a mass email to bloggers asking them to plug it. Word of mouth? It ain't gonna be good, their entire approach has guaranteed that...
At the end of the day, when books are done and dusted, and publishers have figured out that blogs are NOT just another form of free advertising for products, I'll know who my friends are, and they're the people that backed me up when all went to shit last year and whom inform me when my name (via my book) is being used in an manipulative and exploitative way. And it is these people that I care about and that I worry whose friendship might have been put at risk - and all because someone thought that a mass email might help shift a few more copies of a book.
Update: Behind The Buzz, Viviane's Sex Carnival, Bad Man
NOTICE
And to my American publishers: I'm not quite sure an apology covers it, but as yet I have had nothing in my inbox.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Dating
Recently I've been trying to date on the sly. Actually, more specifically, I've just not mentioned it on the blog. Once upon a time, my writing here was an extremely honest and open account of my romantic and sex life, but that’s no longer possible…
Anyway, dating: meeting members of the opposite sex, hoping for mental stimulation, plenty of shagging and possibly more.
It's not been going well.
Hilariously, (not for me, but I can appreciate the schadenfreude), my main (read: easiest, because I am busy with work plus I am also exceedingly lazy) method of meeting men – the internet – has in recent times proved a route fraught with anxiety and worry; leaving me single, shagless and lacking any romance.
My procuring dates through the internet have begun well: mutual appreciation of profile pictures, some flirtatious emails, perhaps even meeting up for a drink one evening. There the conversation might flow, there may be good chemistry, heck, we might both wonder what the other looks like naked. But at some point during every internet-liaison I have had in the last twelve months, the inevitable seems to happen, along the lines of:
Him: So, what do you do for a living?
Me: Oh, I write, it's nothing really. Tell me some more about your legal/banking/sales/architecture/IT work.
A little time passes, during which a) I get to find out what sort of person he is and whether he lives to work, or works to live, and b) I feel relieved to have evaded talking about myself. But a short while later:
Him: What sort of stuff do you write then?
Me: This and that; it's not very interesting. Hey, did you see Screenwipe last night?
Him: I know.
Me: Sorry?
Him: I know: you're The Girl.
Me: What?
Him: Abby Lee. I've read the book and blog. I recognised you from your profile picture.
Me, a rabbit in the headlights: Oh. I see.
Then follows a brief interlude where said man says very nice things to reassure me, tells me how much he enjoys the blog and that he would like to see me again. Meanwhile I try not to appear like I am panicking, but am simultaneously planning the swiftest route to escape from the date.
Now, some might say I should embrace the situation: take advantage of the fact that there are cool, sexy, intelligent men out there who a) know about all the sex I've had and don't judge me on that; b) are open-minded about sex themselves; c) appear interested in getting to know me more intimately. If I don't want to enter into anything serious with them, I should just mark them up on my shagging scorecard, right? A little casual sex with a book/blog-reader: what's wrong with that?
But for me, feeling secure about sexual intimacy – in whatever context – is important. So when a bloke says, as a guy did with me some months ago on a one-night stand, 'I feel intimidated by you; how can I compete with the other men you've written about?' all I could say was, 'well I feel intimidated by you expecting me to live up to what you’ve read’. The outcome? Unsatisfying sex, and me (and most likely him too) feeling nervous and uncomfortable.
I remember saying about men in my first ever interview last year, 'I suppose I can use the book as some sort of test - "Just read that. If you don't have a problem with it, then you must be OK."' I take that statement back now. Not because I think the men who have read my book or blog are weird in some way - the opposite is true actually - but given they know so much about me, it would not be a good foundation for intimacy of any sort. How could I trust the shared experience of learning and discovering about another when a man can hold all that previous knowledge of me, and I, none of him? Coming face-to-face with a guy whom, prior to even meeting me, knows almost my entire sexual history and all my thoughts and feelings about that, leaves me intimidated not relaxed.
So I run. I don't stick around to get to know the guy. I've sent at least a dozen 'sorry, I can't meet you again' emails to men whom I am sure are very nice but who I learned were blog fans; I’ve removed a handful of profiles on various websites because they spotted I was The Girl. Don't get me wrong, I am not suggesting that every man who looked at one of my online profiles put two and two together and guessed I wrote this blog, but the majority have: enough to make me yearn for my previous anonymity.
Before I am accused of wallowing in my own self-pity, I am not sharing my dating woes to obtain sympathy. Boo hoo, The Girl is dateless, big deal, there are worse things in the world and my life is not all bad, thank you very much. And if it appears otherwise, I am very complimented by the fact that these guys enjoy the blog; I am honoured that they might think me interesting enough to want to get to know me some more. But at the end of the day, it's just little me out there, trying to navigate the choppy waters of my increasingly surreal life and one stress I cannot cope with is the shark-like prowling of the online dating world: the internet was once a source of potential sexual and/or romantic possibilities for me but has now become a hazardous ocean of uncertainty.
The solution to all this? I don't know; at the moment I’ve got other, more important things to worry about, so my love life will just have to take a back-seat, I suppose. A friend said to me recently, 'your entire life, quite literally, is online. Perhaps now it is time to start living it offline?' I responded very defensively to their suggestion when they voiced it, but right now I am beginning to think that they might have a very valid point.
Anyway, dating: meeting members of the opposite sex, hoping for mental stimulation, plenty of shagging and possibly more.
It's not been going well.
Hilariously, (not for me, but I can appreciate the schadenfreude), my main (read: easiest, because I am busy with work plus I am also exceedingly lazy) method of meeting men – the internet – has in recent times proved a route fraught with anxiety and worry; leaving me single, shagless and lacking any romance.
My procuring dates through the internet have begun well: mutual appreciation of profile pictures, some flirtatious emails, perhaps even meeting up for a drink one evening. There the conversation might flow, there may be good chemistry, heck, we might both wonder what the other looks like naked. But at some point during every internet-liaison I have had in the last twelve months, the inevitable seems to happen, along the lines of:
Him: So, what do you do for a living?
Me: Oh, I write, it's nothing really. Tell me some more about your legal/banking/sales/architecture/IT work.
A little time passes, during which a) I get to find out what sort of person he is and whether he lives to work, or works to live, and b) I feel relieved to have evaded talking about myself. But a short while later:
Him: What sort of stuff do you write then?
Me: This and that; it's not very interesting. Hey, did you see Screenwipe last night?
Him: I know.
Me: Sorry?
Him: I know: you're The Girl.
Me: What?
Him: Abby Lee. I've read the book and blog. I recognised you from your profile picture.
Me, a rabbit in the headlights: Oh. I see.
Then follows a brief interlude where said man says very nice things to reassure me, tells me how much he enjoys the blog and that he would like to see me again. Meanwhile I try not to appear like I am panicking, but am simultaneously planning the swiftest route to escape from the date.
Now, some might say I should embrace the situation: take advantage of the fact that there are cool, sexy, intelligent men out there who a) know about all the sex I've had and don't judge me on that; b) are open-minded about sex themselves; c) appear interested in getting to know me more intimately. If I don't want to enter into anything serious with them, I should just mark them up on my shagging scorecard, right? A little casual sex with a book/blog-reader: what's wrong with that?
But for me, feeling secure about sexual intimacy – in whatever context – is important. So when a bloke says, as a guy did with me some months ago on a one-night stand, 'I feel intimidated by you; how can I compete with the other men you've written about?' all I could say was, 'well I feel intimidated by you expecting me to live up to what you’ve read’. The outcome? Unsatisfying sex, and me (and most likely him too) feeling nervous and uncomfortable.
I remember saying about men in my first ever interview last year, 'I suppose I can use the book as some sort of test - "Just read that. If you don't have a problem with it, then you must be OK."' I take that statement back now. Not because I think the men who have read my book or blog are weird in some way - the opposite is true actually - but given they know so much about me, it would not be a good foundation for intimacy of any sort. How could I trust the shared experience of learning and discovering about another when a man can hold all that previous knowledge of me, and I, none of him? Coming face-to-face with a guy whom, prior to even meeting me, knows almost my entire sexual history and all my thoughts and feelings about that, leaves me intimidated not relaxed.
So I run. I don't stick around to get to know the guy. I've sent at least a dozen 'sorry, I can't meet you again' emails to men whom I am sure are very nice but who I learned were blog fans; I’ve removed a handful of profiles on various websites because they spotted I was The Girl. Don't get me wrong, I am not suggesting that every man who looked at one of my online profiles put two and two together and guessed I wrote this blog, but the majority have: enough to make me yearn for my previous anonymity.
Before I am accused of wallowing in my own self-pity, I am not sharing my dating woes to obtain sympathy. Boo hoo, The Girl is dateless, big deal, there are worse things in the world and my life is not all bad, thank you very much. And if it appears otherwise, I am very complimented by the fact that these guys enjoy the blog; I am honoured that they might think me interesting enough to want to get to know me some more. But at the end of the day, it's just little me out there, trying to navigate the choppy waters of my increasingly surreal life and one stress I cannot cope with is the shark-like prowling of the online dating world: the internet was once a source of potential sexual and/or romantic possibilities for me but has now become a hazardous ocean of uncertainty.
The solution to all this? I don't know; at the moment I’ve got other, more important things to worry about, so my love life will just have to take a back-seat, I suppose. A friend said to me recently, 'your entire life, quite literally, is online. Perhaps now it is time to start living it offline?' I responded very defensively to their suggestion when they voiced it, but right now I am beginning to think that they might have a very valid point.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Sky
I arrived with just a few minutes to spare and headed straight to make-up. The bright lights a familiar sight to me, the memories of early mornings and fleeting gulps of coffee came flooding back as I crossed the room towards the mirrors. But this time I wasn't leading someone else to the chair: I was to sit in it myself.
Warpaint swiftly applied, (three inches thick to my estimate: I need it), the Green Room beckoned. So many times I'd be the first one in of a morning, making sure the room for the artistes was heated and lit and comfortable. Now it was me relaxing amongst the cushions and being asked if I wanted a coffee. Very odd.
The Floor Manager came in to mic me up and I smiled inwardly as she explained how to fit the wires around the nape of my neck and down to the radio pack hanging on my belt: I know broadcast equipment like the back of my hand - I lived and worked with it for over a decade. When she left, I quickly pored through my notes, trying to ensure I would be able to comment succinctly and with authority. I wasn't sure if I had prepared enough; you can never prepare enough for these things.
Nervously, I went to the loo: I needed a pee, last minute bra adjustments were called for and my lips begged more lipstick with their dryness. Ever the AD, I had checked my watch when I entered the toilets, estimating I had just enough time before being called on. I was wrong: a minute later the Floor Manager darted in and told me it was 'time'. We rushed along the corridor and I resisted the temptation to tell her that I used to do a job just like hers; that I also used to have to run into toilets to grab the "talent"; and that I used to get pissed off when the "talent" would fart-arse around making last-minute phone calls, or having a quick fag, or finishing off their crosswords. With my boss screaming in the walkie-talkie hooked into my ear, 'Where the fuck are they? We are ready to shoot!', I would have to delicately attempt to convince them that they needed to come to set NOW. I'd often get the blame for their being late of course. The "talent" probably never knew that; they certainly rarely apologised for their delays. And here was I, unintentionally pulling the same fucking trick. God, I was embarrassed: I apologised profusely. I'm not sure if the Floor Manager believed me (if she's reading this, I really am sorry).
Approaching the tiny set, I was shocked to see all three cameras were unmanned (or unwomanned) and were set up in stationary positions (wide single, medium single, reverse two-shot) to record the broadcast. There's me, used to the movies with their big special effects scenes and nine film cameras rolling at once, and here I was faced with what I can only assume is standard, for news-based eg. cheap, live-telly. I guess it saves a lot of wages when you cut out the camera operators...
I settled next to one of the cameras and waited for my segment to begin, a few minutes into the show. My legs, already jelly-like from nerves, were now shaking. This only increased throughout the programme: thank god there was a table hiding them. A lot of material was covered in the news piece and it went well, I think, or at least I didn't freeze up, which was a bonus. It was nice, refreshing even, to be talking about non-sexual material and hopefully it was interesting for the people watching it too.
When it was over, I wobbled (legs still shaking) back to the Green Room and chatted to the Producer. As I left I told him, 'You're very daring to have a sexblogger on the show.' And I think he was. Not because it was me - I am no-one special - but because having a sexblogger (and also their blog address) onscreen pre-9:00pm watershed on television is quite courageous, I think. It may only be a small step towards the acceptability of sex-writers in the mainstream media, but a progressive step forwards it is, nevertheless.
In the cab on the way home, my mum phoned. 'You did well,' she said. 'Your dad and I laughed a lot when you cracked that joke about the American State Legislator who was found to have porn on his computer.' Progress indeed.
Warpaint swiftly applied, (three inches thick to my estimate: I need it), the Green Room beckoned. So many times I'd be the first one in of a morning, making sure the room for the artistes was heated and lit and comfortable. Now it was me relaxing amongst the cushions and being asked if I wanted a coffee. Very odd.
The Floor Manager came in to mic me up and I smiled inwardly as she explained how to fit the wires around the nape of my neck and down to the radio pack hanging on my belt: I know broadcast equipment like the back of my hand - I lived and worked with it for over a decade. When she left, I quickly pored through my notes, trying to ensure I would be able to comment succinctly and with authority. I wasn't sure if I had prepared enough; you can never prepare enough for these things.
Nervously, I went to the loo: I needed a pee, last minute bra adjustments were called for and my lips begged more lipstick with their dryness. Ever the AD, I had checked my watch when I entered the toilets, estimating I had just enough time before being called on. I was wrong: a minute later the Floor Manager darted in and told me it was 'time'. We rushed along the corridor and I resisted the temptation to tell her that I used to do a job just like hers; that I also used to have to run into toilets to grab the "talent"; and that I used to get pissed off when the "talent" would fart-arse around making last-minute phone calls, or having a quick fag, or finishing off their crosswords. With my boss screaming in the walkie-talkie hooked into my ear, 'Where the fuck are they? We are ready to shoot!', I would have to delicately attempt to convince them that they needed to come to set NOW. I'd often get the blame for their being late of course. The "talent" probably never knew that; they certainly rarely apologised for their delays. And here was I, unintentionally pulling the same fucking trick. God, I was embarrassed: I apologised profusely. I'm not sure if the Floor Manager believed me (if she's reading this, I really am sorry).
Approaching the tiny set, I was shocked to see all three cameras were unmanned (or unwomanned) and were set up in stationary positions (wide single, medium single, reverse two-shot) to record the broadcast. There's me, used to the movies with their big special effects scenes and nine film cameras rolling at once, and here I was faced with what I can only assume is standard, for news-based eg. cheap, live-telly. I guess it saves a lot of wages when you cut out the camera operators...
I settled next to one of the cameras and waited for my segment to begin, a few minutes into the show. My legs, already jelly-like from nerves, were now shaking. This only increased throughout the programme: thank god there was a table hiding them. A lot of material was covered in the news piece and it went well, I think, or at least I didn't freeze up, which was a bonus. It was nice, refreshing even, to be talking about non-sexual material and hopefully it was interesting for the people watching it too.
When it was over, I wobbled (legs still shaking) back to the Green Room and chatted to the Producer. As I left I told him, 'You're very daring to have a sexblogger on the show.' And I think he was. Not because it was me - I am no-one special - but because having a sexblogger (and also their blog address) onscreen pre-9:00pm watershed on television is quite courageous, I think. It may only be a small step towards the acceptability of sex-writers in the mainstream media, but a progressive step forwards it is, nevertheless.
In the cab on the way home, my mum phoned. 'You did well,' she said. 'Your dad and I laughed a lot when you cracked that joke about the American State Legislator who was found to have porn on his computer.' Progress indeed.