Category Archives: Ranty ones

Ten things I hate about Doxy Number 3

OK gang, listen up because I’m angry. For years – YEARS – I have been recommending the Doxy to anyone and everyone with a clitoris. It’s the turbo-charged fuckstick of my wildest dreams and by my rough calculations it has delivered more orgasms in the three and a half years I’ve owned it than any living human has given me over the course of the rest of my life. Myself included. I love Doxy so much I would recklessly and gleefully abseil down the nearest tall building to unfurl a ‘FUCK YEAH DOXY’ banner that could be read from miles away. But now Doxy has launched a new toy – a compact wand called ‘Doxy Number 3’ – and I am, to put it mildly, livid.

Here are 10 things I hate about the Doxy Number 3.

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My best friend is a boy

My best friend is a boy. We sit together in pub gardens in the freezing cold, fishing weird white bits out of cold pints of cheap scrumpy. We laugh at each other, and ourselves. We fight over whose round it is because we always think the other is more skint than they’re letting on.

And when people find out that he’s a boy they ask some version of this: ‘so have you fucked?’

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Good beds to fuck in: a rant

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.

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Love is not dead because two people fell out of it

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.

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When men are sexist, sometimes I play along…

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.

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