Category Archives: Unsolicited advice

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On the first time

The first shag you have with someone is, technically, rubbish.

You’re both excited, and happy that you’ve managed to ensnare someone hot, but despite your enthusiasm for that first shag you will probably fuck it up. Of course you will – you have almost no idea what they actually like.

Your ideas about their preferences will be based on casual conversations that you’ve had when (let’s be honest) you’re quite pissed. You know from pub chat that they like blow jobs/spanking/being pissed on/that bit where you stick your fingers in their ass just before they come/etc. But you haven’t a sodding clue about the nuanced things that give them that kick-in-the-gut drooling lust that’s so crucial in a spectacular fuck.

The first time you see them naked might be a disappointment, and you’ll probably be a disappointment to them. People are prettier with clothes on – we use clothes to carefully hide the bits we’re less happy with, to enhance our curves and cover our scars.

New people, be they male or female, will make noises that you’re not used to, say things that you aren’t familiar or comfortable with or – even worse – conduct the whole thing in a stony silence that leaves you wondering if they’d rather be chewing broken glass.

They might have problems getting hard or wet. They might be less energetic than you’re used to, or they might try to twist you into acrobatic positions that you’re unable to do because you don’t have the same yoga background as their ex.

How awful. Why on earth do people do it?

Well, because it’s spectacularly fun, that’s why. Despite the technical failings the overall experience is usually enjoyable. And more importantly, it is usually worth putting in the groundwork to establish something that could be spectacular.

Unless your life consists of a string of meaningless, nameless fucks, there’ll almost certainly be some stuff in that first time shag that you can work with.

OK, so he didn’t really get that bit quite how you like it, and he asked you to stop blowing him because you were ‘overenthusiastic’, but he probably also did some stuff that blew your mind, or at the very least made you go ‘oooh’. And that’s the point.

I’m extremely good in bed with some of my boys. With others I’m less good, and we’re still stumbling through a few things that need to be refined, improved upon or scrapped altogether. We’re working on an early iteration of the brilliant sex that we’ll eventually have when we’ve had some more goes at it.

With guys I’m with for the first time, I am an utter amateur. I can give them all the special moves I like but without any frame of reference it’s always going to be a bit poor. Especially because in those very early stages people are reluctant to give feedback that could be construed as criticism. So we stumble awkwardly through the jungle of sexual adventure until we… erm… discover the hidden temple of ‘how to do things properly’.

Laboured metaphor, but you get the gist.

What I’m saying is that you’re rubbish in bed. And so am I. We’re awful, awkward and inept, and anyone watching would shake their heads sadly at our mutual incompetence. But rather than lament the fact that the first time didn’t make the earth move, let’s accept that that’s always the case, and stick a date in the diary for a bit more practise.

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On how to ask nicely

When I was at school boys would occasionally, very occasionally, ask me out. Let’s say there were around 10 times this happened. On 8 out of those 10 occasions, they were joking.

Of course we grown-ups can tut and sigh and shake our heads at the cruelty of children, but what’s much better is to recognise what we can learn from it. And like all the best lessons in life, this one could help you get laid. Get your notebooks out, face front and keep your eyes on the fucking blackboard…

Understanding insecurity gives you a way into someone’s pants, because you can push the buttons that make them feel good.

It’s been years since a boy jokingly asked me out, and life’s a bit different now. I’m no longer fat and fourteen and in love with any boy who was willing to put his hand up my skirt during maths lessons, but I’m still a child really. That fourteen year old is just a bit bigger, and is gobsmacked that she has a job, a flat, and the legal right to drink herself insensible whilst livetweeting the Apprentice.

So despite my external grown-up-ness, the memory of these joke-proposals stays with me, as I imagine it stays with any girl who’s ever been shy, covered in acne, or good at science. Now that we’re grown-ups, no matter how hot we’ve become or how confident we are, there’s always a little something that makes us wonder if you’re joking when you ask.

A casual, throwaway, “Fancy a shag?” opens up the mental fight between confidence: “Say yes, say yes, he’s beautiful.” and the insecurity still nurtured by that 14 year old: “He’s joking. Say no. Then run away and cry behind the gym.”

If you ask this question of a lady and you don’t look serious, my money’s on the fact that you’ll probably get a no.

But God, GOD. In the situations where you really want it, and tell me you really want it, it’ll be the hardest thing I ever do to turn you down. There is nothing in this life more attractive than a man who is panting for you. Dripping for you. So desperate to get within 20 feet of you that he’d happily fuck a letterbox if you shouted words of encouragement.

And so, gents. When you’re looking at a lovely lady, and you think she might be out of your league, remember that one day she was probably fat and fourteen. She still wakes up most mornings and winces at her reflection in a mirror. She might worry that she’s got cellulite, or that her tits are slightly uneven, that her hands look old or her eyebrows unplucked or her feet too big for her awkward, stumbling body.

Approaching women is hard, of course. But if you can be the one who strides over with confidence, and says: “You know what? You’re fucking spectacular” then you win. You win so hard your friends will wonder what your secret is. You’ve just made someone’s day, and you could be the one screwing her twelve shades of happy by the time that day is done.

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On choosing the right words

Writing about sex involves very careful word selection. I probably use some words that kill your mood sometimes, and likewise there are some words that make me dry up and cringe into a ball of hateful misery. Here are some of them, feel free to add to the list.

Cum

You might think it is a sexualised form of a common word: I think it’s a spelling error. You say ‘tomato’, I say ‘I will probably be less attracted to you if you spell things wrong’.

Pussy

Good lord no. For so many many reasons, of which here are a few:

  • ‘Pussies’ belong to porn stars and gangster hos, so experience implies that a pussy is something for a guy to fuck, not something for a girl to get genuine eye-rolling, bedsheet-tearing pleasure from.
  • Say it out loud: “wet pussy”. Eugh. “wet pussy” It doesn’t sound like a part of a person, but something you might step in.
  • Mrs Fucking Slocombe

Any word for ‘tits’ that ends in -ies

I have never had ‘titties’ or ‘boobies’. I have tits. These words are only acceptable during comedy, or if you are a member of the Bloodhound Gang.

Medical terms

When I leave the doctor’s surgery my vagina becomes a cunt. My breasts become tits. Likewise although my doctor has a penis, you have a cock. Dick. Prick. By using medical terms I start expecting a medical examination, so if you call it a ‘penis’ I’m less likely to suck it than to give it an ultrasound.

Cutesy names for your cock

You don’t fuck someone raw with ‘Barry Junior’. And I don’t want to swallow ‘Mr Winkie’. Come on, lads – it’s ‘it’, not ‘he’.

I have no idea why any guy ever does this, unless he has been with a girl who is a bit afraid of his looming, punishing hardon. Men: your cock is the most powerful, brilliant thing about you; don’t turn it into a fucking Disney character.

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On the worst dating site fails

I don’t believe you’re real

You obviously believe I’m real enough to initiate a conversation with, so what is the point of this question? This is one of the most irritating dating site fails.
I’ve written the profile, I can write replies, but short of running round to your house and headbutting you in the crotch, there’s not much else I can do to prove it.

Wanna chat?

Why yes, yes I do. But in real life, please, not on some idiotic chat programme where we have stilted conversations about what we’re both doing, culminating in me being massively turned off by your excessive use of the term ‘lol.’

I always say in my profile that I hate IM. If you then insist on IMing me I’ll assume not only that you’re typing one-handed, but also that all that ‘one-handed typing’ has made you so blind you can’t read.

I expect you won’t reply…

Why, do I look like an arsehole?

In all seriousness I get a fair few messages, mainly because I mention sex on my profile and men these days have reasonably low standards. But I don’t get so many that it’d be impossible to reply to all of them – I reply to about one in five – the ones that don’t break these rules.

Wow your so hot

If you can’t spot what’s wrong with this then I wouldn’t reply to you either.

Do you have a pic of your body?

Or, to say what you actually mean: “are you fat?”

That’s what you’re asking, so why not come out and say it? Well, because it’s fucking rude, obviously.

I’m not going to tell you whether or not I’m fat, just as I’m not going to suck my stomach in and stand in front of a mirror just so I can send a picture of my body to someone so shallow I’d definitely not fuck him in the first place.

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On safe words

Red. Purple. Stop. やめて. Dead puppies.

Whatever your kink, if it extends beyond ‘tie me up with silk scarves and tickle me with a feather duster’ chances are someone’s suggested a safe word at some point. I think safe words suck, and here’s why:

They encourage you to push yourself further than you might like.

There’s a challenge implicit in a safe word. A safe word says ‘this is the absolute limit, as much as I can take. If you do anything more I will die/call the police/punch you into the sun.’ And so when you know that there’s a word you can use at any time to make it stop, all you’re trying to do is prevent yourself from using that word.

A safe word implies that you’re playing just to see how hard you can take it, so you want to prove that you can take it as hard as possible. You are superwoman – undefeated in all 12 rounds of this sex. He’ s beating/fucking/electrocuting you so badly that you’ve never been in so much pain – you’re gritting your teeth and biting your tongue and hating every miserable minute of it. Boy, you have never won at sex so hard as you’re winning now.

The challenge is not the fun bit – the fun is the fun bit. If you have a safe word that encourages you to push yourself to the point where you don’t like it, you might as well call ‘red’ right at the beginning and sneak off for a wank – you’re more likely to have a good time.

They curb your imagination

Hurting someone is a challenge, and one of the most difficult things to get right. You have to know roughly what they like, what they hate, and wobble uncomfortably on the high-wire that runs between those two things.

You also, if you want me to really love you, have to do some stuff that’s just for you. I might hate being caned (stupid stingy unsexy ouch fuck fuck ouch) but if you love it then it’s awesome, and I’ll grin and bear as much as possible, and even sneak in some brattiness between strikes if that’s what gets you off.

So yes, there’s a lot to balance. But sadly with a safe word there’s less incentive to work at that balance. If you give a girl a safeword, that’s a free pass for you to do whatever you like until she yells ‘stop’, which means that she and you miss out on the joy that can be had from playing around in that grey area – pushing things she doesn’t want to be pushed, into places she might not be keen on you pushing them.

They require negotiation

Anything that delays the sexual act, or requires chatter and discussion of a practical nature, will kill my drive pretty quickly. I love the pre-sex preamble where you chat about things you have done and talk about stuff you both find hot. It means that when you do get into bed you can experiment with the new knowledge you’ve acquired.

But if you chat around sex in order to tick things off a bizarre safety list, it’s no fun at all.

“So, you like to be spanked? OK. I’m going to spank you, and I’m going to start really gently, so let me know on a scale of 1-10 how much that hurts. And if I do anything too hard just say ‘red’ and I’ll immediately stop and give you a nice cuddle and a hot chocolate.”

See? It’s just not sexy. There’s no uncontrolled passion in that. As soon as you have to codify it and lay down rules, the spontaneity is ripped out of it and you end up fucking like you’re following an IKEA furniture construction leaflet. I don’t want to know that you’ll stop when I ask, I don’t want to know exactly how many strokes you’ll give me before we have a rest and a chat about my boundaries. I want you to do things you like, things I like, things you think we might both like, and see at what point I start tearing the walls down.

“So what turns you on?”
“This one time a guy bent me over and paddled me till I cried, then fucked me in the ass while he called me a ‘good girl.’”
“Take your fucking pants off.”

Attaboy.