Regular readers might be aware that I have very strong feelings about sofas. A decent sofa can make all the difference in a romantic or sexual relationship. You need one that’s good for snuggling and fucking, and which will ideally allow you to do both of those things without either permanently staining it or giving yourself neckache. But until recently I hadn’t realised that I need to write the same rant about good beds for fucking and bad beds for fucking. So pull up a duvet, snuggle down, and I will tell you why furniture shops in the UK are ABSOLUTELY SHITE AT anticipating people’s sexual needs.
If my other half is beside me when I die at the age of ninety, it will come as quite a surprise. Not just surprising that I’ll have lived until ninety, which is unlikely given my lifestyle. It will come as a surprise that we haven’t yet split up.
When men are sexist, the least I can do is tell them not to be. I should say ‘nope’ or ‘fuck off’ or ‘are you shitting me?’ – sexist men deserve challenging responses. The last thing they deserve is for me to play along. Smile and nod and say ‘haha yes’, before sidling away and then kicking myself later. That’s the last thing they deserve, but it’s sometimes what I do.
Summer beauty tips direct from my horrible subconscious.
Step right up, it’s summer! And my my, it’s a scorcher! You’ll be looking forward to going to the park with your friends, won’t you? Having a nice pint in a beer garden, or heading down to the beach? Before you do, though, there’s a bit of admin to get sorted. Firstly: shave your fucking legs.
“SHORTS,” my brain screams, irritatingly. “LOOK. MEN WEARING SEXY SHORTS.” Try as I might to shut it up, it refuses to be silenced on the most important issue of the day. “LOOK,” it insists, even as I try to distract myself by remembering my times tables, “THERE ARE SEXY LEGS ALL OVER THE PLACE. SHORTS. LOOK AT THE SEXY SHORTS.” So I comply. I drink it in. And I melt with lust.