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On food and sex

Do you want to lick melted chocolate off my nipples? How about squirting whipped cream all over your cock and letting me noisily slurp it off? Are you willing to drizzle nacho cheese into the crack of my arse then fuck me to a sticky, cheesy completion?

No?

Then you’re probably my kind of guy.

Food in sex is bloody weird. I think my general hatred of it stems from a rather naïve 16 year-old experience in which my boy bought some sort of ‘penis knickerbockerglory kit’ from Ann Summers, covered his cock in cream and chocolate sauce, and completed the fiasco with (I’m not making this up) brightly-coloured hundreds and thousands. He then insisted that I lick off this sticky, sickly mess until I felt so ill I’d rather have spent the afternoon bent over the toilet bowl than the side of the bed.

If you want a blow job, the best way to get one is to unzip your trousers and tell me to give you a blow job. You don’t need to cover it in fucking chocolate – I’m not a reluctant 12 year old, and your cock is not a brussels sprout that you’re forcing me to eat at Christmas. I like sucking your cock, that’s why I’m here.

And conversely, if you don’t want to lick my cunt, then don’t. If you don’t like the taste of it, I’d strongly advise you not to put your face there at all. Smearing it in toothpaste or custard or raspberry jam is just going to make a mess of the bedsheets, and mean you’re concentrating more on cleaning me up than on tonguing my clit until I squeal like a strangled cat.

I like sex more than sweeties

Some people might love the food thing, and if you do then good on you. Someone’s got to keep Ann Summers afloat, after all.

But flavoured/scented/sweet-smelling stuff leaves me cold. Getting messy is fun – ask any splosh fetishist – but the need to make sex taste and smell like dessert removes one of the things that I love most about fucking. The smell of your cock. The smell of your sweat. The beautiful, musky, angry scent of boys.

It’s not just food – flavoured condoms, scented lube and edible underwear can shit off as well.  These things make sex unsexy, and fit better behind the counter at Greggs than in my bedroom.

Chocolate, whipped cream, flavoured lube, strawberries, toffee sauce, ice cream, condoms that taste like bananas – they can all fuck off back to the lollipop-scented candifloss-coated shitfuck sweetshop nightmare that they came from. I want your dick to taste like dick.

On my sexy Christmas wish: a casual gang bang

A while ago I asked people for their sexy Christmas wishes. What sexual favours did they want for Christmas? Things they wouldn’t normally get but would normally get wet for. Only one person replied, which I can only assume means you’re either all prudes or you’re all already so sexually satisfied that nothing short of a jizzbomb to the face would satisfy your devious ends.

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Sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button

As anyone who follows me on Twitter knows, a lot of things make me angry. Selfish commuters, bigoted people, Tories, scented tampons, cider that does not taste like apples and is therefore definitely not cider, etc.

But very recently I experienced a new kind of anger. Someone, who I can only describe as a ‘weapons-grade arsehole’ discovered my blog by searching the phrase “sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button.”

Well. I have since googled this phrase, and discovered that there are a fair few cretins out there who find it hilarious. So now I’m on a mission. I know it’s hard to change someone’s mind on the internet, I believe Charlie Brooker once described internet debate as ‘like hurling shoes at the sky’. But I think there’s a slight possibility that some people just think this phrase is funny, and don’t realise how ignorant and ridiculous it is.

So I wrote this. In the hope that at least one person in the future will search that phrase, come here, and realise that vaginas don’t need a ‘clear history’ button, whether they belong to a slut or not.

sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button

Let us examine why this phrase is utterly odious on a number of different levels.

What is a slut, exactly?

What counts as too many partners? Five? Ten? Twenty? The ‘slut ratio’ when I was a teenager was generally taken to be your age, meaning that you were a slut if you’d fucked more people than you’d had birthdays.

But no doubt this is a cultural thing – there may well be places where it would be considered the height of sluttery for a 20 year old to have fucked three guys. A hundred years ago it would be considered slutty for a woman to have been fucked by anyone other than her husband. What counts as excessive promiscuity is completely subjective, and a ridiculous judgement to make about someone.

Calling someone a ‘slut’ frequently (although not always) smacks of jealousy and resentment, and the word is generally used to make women feel small if they enjoy having sex, or don’t have the squeaky-clean sexual history that archaic-thinking dickheads think they should have. But that shouldn’t matter – what’s happened in the past doesn’t always stamp itself indelibly on someone’s character. Just because someone’s fucked a hundred men before you, that doesn’t mean she’s evil or weak or callous – it just means she likes fucking. And correct me if I’m wrong, but fucking is generally something that we want our partners to enjoy.

I don’t care whether you think I’m a slut

While I give a massive toss about the general attitudes that make women feel like they should ration out their sexual favours as if they’re bestowing precious gifts on the men they deign to sleep with, your individual opinion of my own sex life is of little importance.

It’s really easy, so I’ll keep it short: whether you think I am a slut or not, I don’t give one tenth of an atom of a gram of a portion of a shit. So fuck you.

I wouldn’t push a ‘clear history’ button on my vagina

The phrase “sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button” implies that, if there was a ‘clear history’ button, ‘sluts’ would want to push it. Because they are ashamed. Devastated at their lack of self control. Their inability to refuse an offer of sexual gratification.

Which is, you know, complete and utter bullshit. I’ve slept with a fair few guys – probably not as many as people tend to think based on this blog, but more than I’d gleefully admit to my mother – and I’m glad that I fucked each and every one of them. The hot ones, the not-so-hot ones, the ones who struggled getting it up, the ones who hurt me in a delicious way, the ones I loved, the ones I grew to hate, the ones I cried over and the ones I cried for.

Some of them were awful. Some of them were beautiful. One of them was violent. One of them was gay. One was a virgin so nervous he could barely touch me. All of them did good things to me, and some did very bad things too. But even if there was a magical button that removed any of them from my sexual history, I wouldn’t erase a single second of a single fuck with a single guy I’ve ever had.

I’m not just proud and delighted, I’m grateful. For the fun, for the lessons learnt, for the whip-marks and come-stains and memories I still frequently wank to. I’m grateful to each and every one of them for giving me something to weave into the rich, jizz-soaked tapestry of my lucky, lucky life.

Slut shaming

I’m on a mini-crusade – I need people to know that this shit doesn’t fucking matter. Who a girl has fucked, how many people she’s fucked, how she’s fucked them, etc. Not just because it’s a personal bugbear of mine, but for all the women who are aching with lust, and desperate for cock, and in love with guys and in love with fucking.

For all those women who want to do it but don’t. For the women who’ll leave a first date frustrated and horny, going home alone because they don’t want to ‘give the wrong impression.’ For the teenaged girls who give endless blowjobs but can’t ‘put out’ and get genuine sexual pleasure of their own in case word gets around that they’re easy.

For the guys who don’t care how many people you’ve fucked. For the guys who love a girl with special tricks others have taught her. For the ones who like to watch, and talk, and hear stories of times you’ve been gang-banged in a sex cinema. For all the men and women the world over who love a good fuck, but hate the fucking judgement.

For me. Because I’m slutty and I fucking like it.

At some point in the future I want someone to google that phrase and find this. If you want to, you can help me optimise the fuck out of this blog entry.

If you have a blog and want to link to this, please do it using the phrase

“sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button”

Write your opinions on it, tag them “sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button.” Use subheads and titles including the phrase “sorry sluts, your vagina doesn’t have a ‘clear history’ button”. Send me a link to your entry so I can help you to promote it.

Tweet about it, facebook it, share it with the limited collection of nerds who are in your Google+ circles.  Add a link in forums, blog comments, Flickr sets and Wiki-fucking-pedia. Tell your friends, acquaintances and colleagues. Tell your church group. Tell your postman. Tell your Mum.

Spread the word, kids: I’ve fucked a lot of people, and I couldn’t give a fuck.

Knickers: hot things to do with them while we fuck

Knickers are well boring, right? You just want to get them off a girl quickly so you can have your wickedly exciting way with her, yeah?

No. Of course not.

Knickers are a functional piece of clothing, and they can also be devastatingly pretty. But more importantly, like most things that aren’t sex toys, you can essentially turn them into a sex toy just by doing filthy things with them. Here are my favourite ways to use knickers during sex…

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On your kids

Even given a multiverse of infinite worlds I still struggle to comprehend a possible one in which I could give less of a shit about your kids.

Don’t get me wrong, I wish no harm upon your – or indeed anyone else’s – children. It’s just that given the choice I’d rather you didn’t tell me about them in unrelenting, tedious detail.

I know single parent dating is hard, but this rule applies most emphatically, to those guys that I fuck.

Why? Well, kids just aren’t sexy. Your ability to raise offspring, while no doubt held in great regard by some women, has no bearing whatsoever on my own affections towards you.

Talk about them if you like – I’m aware that in the cacophonous mêlée of your life you may well need to vent about certain things. Feel free to mention them, tell me how precocious and cute they are, or regale me with an amusing anecdote involving the time one of them said something so adorable it made everyone at that family wedding spew Cava through their nose in a spontaneous gesture of delighted amusement: just don’t bang on and on about them as if they’re the only interesting thing about you.

I highly doubt I’ll ever have kids, and if I do I’m sure the world will not be big enough to contain the gigantic flying fuck that I’m willing to give about them. My kids will be as special to me as yours, no doubt, are to you. But right now, please don’t expect me to care.

Further, please understand that too much child-based conversation could seriously hinder my ability to find you attractive. Yes, you are virile and strong and manly: your sperm has been biologically successful on at least one occasion. But that does not impress me. If you can shoot it over your shoulder I’ll be impressed. Hit a bullseye at 20 paces and I’ll fawn in gushing admiration. Dribble it into a woman? Not so much.

Your reminder that sex produces small, vomiting, expensive packets of noise actually has a similar effect on me to the effect that it might have on you if I were to mention castration: it kills the mood. It reminds me that there are horrible, awful, cunt-ripping things that can happen to me as a result of our sweaty, joyful union. And those are things that, believe it or not, make me dry up faster than you can say “episiotomy“.

Again, I will restate for the people who will have skimmed over my original disclaimer: I wish no harm upon your kids. I’m not anti-child. I appreciate that in order for our race to exist beyond the next generation we do need some of these creatures.

So I don’t hate kids. Parents I know assure me patronizingly that I’ll definitely want one some day, and at that moment I’ll understand the soaring joy of having them. I will one day realise that it’s all worthwhile – giving up my social life, burying myself in shit and vomit, spending all my cash on ridiculous buggies and toys that make animal noises when you drop-kick them across the kitchen, etc.

They’re right, of course, one day I may well want a small girlonthenet so I can train her to continue my glorious works. But in the meantime, as I have no kids, I have no opinions to contribute to this conversation about yours. Even if I did have opinions, you probably wouldn’t want me to contribute them.

Usually a conversation consists of one person talking about something and the other chipping in with an opinion or a story of their own. Sadly I have few appropriate child-based stories of my own and lack of experience means my opinions are worthless to you.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve offered a suggestion to a parent on how to deal with the toddler-based problem they have just told me about, only to be greeted with “you wouldn’t understand, you’re not a parent.”

Well no, demonstrably I’m not. And so you talking about your kids is a pretty one-sided conversation. A one-sided conversation that leaves me slightly bored, occasionally belittled and deeply unaroused.

Look – children can be very cute sometimes. They’re a bit like small versions of adults, but more stupid, which means they say funny things and have cute tiny hands and wear outrageous clothes and beg for ice-cream and all that jazz. They have toys that I pretend I don’t want to play with but secretly quite enjoy (train sets and Play-doh: fuck yeah) and they do tend to liven up otherwise tedious family gatherings.

So I don’t hate kids, and if you’re a boy I’m fucking I certainly don’t hate your kids – I just don’t want to be engaged in a long discussion about them. Just as you’re probably deeply disinterested in the minutiae of the strategy meeting that I had today at work, I am not interested in the minutiae of tiny lives you nurture when you’re somewhere far from me.

Your kids are fine – I don’t hate them. On the contrary I wish them health, wealth, happiness, success, and a long life followed by a noble exit. I just wish they’d do it fucking quietly.