That ‘you’, in the title? It refers to everyone, including women.

This week a minor row kicked off between DickGraceless and Katy_Red – two people who write a funny and occasionally offensive blog over at Honey and Cream. The row began when Dick said women who insist that men pay for dates are prostitutes. Anger occurred, responses happened, and Katy_Red then outlined why she thought that – on a straight date – the man should pay, at least on first dates, special occasions, and if he’s asked the girl out.

I don’t intend this to be a personal attack on Katy_Red – she writes funny blogs and seems nice, and no one ever deserves the full brunt of my rage. But there are a number of women (and men) who believe that men should pay for dates – an idea which I find horribly offensive. So take cover, because this one might be a little bit angry.

What women want

Are you on this date because you fancy this person? Because you think you’ll have a nice time? Then cough up – pay half of the bill. Get your fucking round in. Because otherwise you’re perpetuating the ridiculous idea that men have money and women don’t. That men want women and women want free stuff.

You’re on the date – you wanted to be there, you attended because you thought you’d have a good time. So chip the fuck in.

Katy_Red says that she doesn’t find the idea of splitting the bill all that sexy. It’s not supposed to be sexy. That bit is not the key element of the date. The sexy elements come elsewhere – long sultry glances across dinner, talking about the filthy things you want to do, squeezing his dick under the table. In fact, the sexiest thing about a date is knowing that the other person really wants to be there – that of all the things they could have done tonight they chose to spend it in your company. So congratulations – by insisting that your date buys dinner in exchange for your time you have just killed the sexiest fucking bit of the evening.

What exactly do you want out of this date? Do you want to have a relationship, or sex with this person, or do you just want free stuff?

Everyone has different needs and desires, but I’ll tell you what I want – I want to find men I like and then fuck them. I want to go out with interesting, funny, nerdy guys who’ll share a pint with me, take the piss out of my stupid bits and compliment my good bits, and I want them to take me home at the end of the evening and present me with a nice, hard dick. If you fancy me and I fancy you then what I want from you is sex – not dinner. If you gave me the choice between an expensive meal out and a hand job I’d be cancelling reservations and pulling my knickers down quicker than you can say ‘manual relief, please.’

Are these women prostitutes?

No. Absolutely and conclusively not. When you fuck a prostitute it’s pretty straightforward – you agree a price for certain services, he or she performs those services, and you hand over your cash. A professional, honest transaction.

Insisting that someone buy you dinner on the potential promise that at some point you might have sex with them is not a straightforward and honest transaction, so it doesn’t make you a prostitute. It makes you an arsehole.

In her blog on the topic Katy_Red asserts that men are more likely to get a snog, or a blow-job if they’ve ‘flashed the brass a bit.’ Apparently men are just sexier if they’ve poured expensive wine into your face.

Forgive me if my opinions on this fall beyond the line of acceptability, but I don’t find men more attractive if they have money. Money is, in fact, something that any man could potentially acquire – it doesn’t turn them all into Colin fucking Firth. A rich Joe Bloggs is the same as a poor Joe Bloggs, just with more accessories. Money does not maketh the man – being funny, hot, and willing to fuck me till I cry maketh the man. No matter how much cash you’ve got you can still be unshaggable or unattractive in other ways – I mean, Christian Grey had a private helicopter and he was still a gigantic bellend.

Exceptions to the rule

As with all good rules there are exceptions. I’ll pay for the whole meal if, say, it’s someone’s birthday or if they’re broke. I’ll let them pay if they’re taking me somewhere really posh that I’ve told them I can’t afford, or if they just feel like treating me. But these are the exceptions, and that’s as it should be. Buying dinner should be a nice thing that you do for someone, not an expectation based on weird ideas we have about which gender should be the ‘giver’ and which the ‘receiver.’

Men – stop fucking doing it

I’ve been on dates before where men have not just offered to pay, but insisted on paying. Taken the bill, refused to show it to me, even handed my credit card back when I’ve placed it down on the saucer with the mints. People wonder why I’m offended, and I’m even more offended that the answer isn’t fucking obvious – is there any better way to belittle me? To show me that you’re the powerful one?

Gentlemen – in hiding the bill for me you’re forcing yourself into the role of my provider. And, in a situation where I offer to pay and you refuse to let me, I don’t hear ‘I’m great boyfriend material because I am generous and have loads of money’ I hear ‘there there, sweetheart – don’t trouble your pretty little head about cash – I have plenty for both of us.’ Well bully for you, but fuck off.

I trouble my pretty little head about cash every day – when I pay my mortgage, when I pay my bills, when I buy my food, when I splurge ridiculous sums of money on nights out that end in miserable hangovers and – listen carefully – when I decide whether I can afford to go out on a date.

You’re not my provider – I am. The only thing I want in exchange for my company is good company in return, and someone who respects the fact that I am an autonomous individual capable of making my own decisions. If you insist on paying even after I’ve vehemently protested, you’re not being generous, you’re being controlling. You’ve stripped me of the responsibility I have over the money that I work fucking hard to earn.

Sex in exchange for dinner

The absolute bottom line, of course, is that dates and relationships are never transactions. A girl doesn’t ‘have’ to fuck you because you’ve taken her somewhere with a Michelin star. Nor do you ‘have’ to buy her presents because she gives you head. No matter how much you spend on a date, a girl is never compelled to fuck you – it’s her decision. So why are we still pretending that you have to open your wallet before she’ll open her legs?

I want to live in a world where I fuck people because I want to, not just because they’ve bought me presents or dinner. So – men, women, everybody – please stop perpetuating the idea that the relationships we have with each other are some sort of weird exchange of unequal commodities. I’ll give you sex in exchange for sex. I’ll get my round in if you do. And if I want fucking dinner I can buy it myself.

It’s easy to get caught up in the good qualities – when arbitrarily judging a hot boy, I’d always prefer to focus on the things that make me want to tear his pants off than tear his face off. But someone asked me to write about the negative things and so – slavishly devoted to the whims of people off of Twitter – I thought I’d have a crack. Here are my top 5 turn-offs.

1. Preening

This manifests in a number of different physical forms. As a general rule I don’t like people who are too muscular, clean-cut or well-dressed. It’s not that a solid six-pack isn’t a lovely thing to behold, or that guys in suits aren’t jaw-droppingly sexy – they are – but if you look too preened it demonstrates a commitment to That Sort Of Thing that I just can’t hope to match.

Your muscles don’t make me think ‘oooh, he works out’, but ‘shit, he’ll expect me to work out.’

2. Narrow-mindedness

This includes the obvious (racists, homophobes) as well as the not-quite-so-obvious – people who’d laugh at a friend who confessed to a foot fetish, or make their partner feel guilty about a particularly spicy sexual past. Understandably I never end up fancying these people. If your instant reaction to something different or new is to either ban it, mock it, or kill it with sticks, then we’re probably not going to get on.

3. Excessive confidence

I don’t mean someone who is just confident in their actions and their looks – these people are super-hot. I mean someone so confident they aren’t interested in other people at all.

People who act like what comes out of your mouth is just a tedious compulsory interlude between the end of their last sentence and the beginning of their next. People who say “That’s nice, now about me…” People who actively yawn if you tell an anecdote that doesn’t involve them. Don’t get me wrong – I’ve fucked my fair share of them – but I’ve now resolved not to shag anyone who’s more likely to get hard looking into a mirror than at me.

4. Excessive shyness

Socially awkward nerds, unite – shyness is not necessarily a barrier to getting laid. There’s something deeply sexy about taking a guy who is nervous and awkward and coaxing him out of his shell until he’s tying my ankles to a bedpost and calling me ‘bitch’ when he fucks me. Shyness itself is not a turn-off.

However, if you are too shy it becomes a barrier beyond which it is impossible to see. It’s not that I don’t fancy guys who are excessively shy, it’s that I am unable to tell whether I fancy them or not. If you won’t speak to me, tell me about yourself, make a stupid joke or confess to an embarrassing story, I will never know whether you’re the sort of guy I want to ride off into the sunset.

5. Nagging/neediness

“But I really want to see you tonight.”

“I notice you haven’t replied to my last email.”

“Can’t you just stay with me this weekend?”

Cards on the table, here – I’m a cold-hearted cunt. If you act casual and treat me like an overly-sexual best friend, chances are we can stay together for as long as you decide it’s fun. But if you act as if I’m the solution to all your emotional needs I’ll grow bemused and then very quickly irritated.

I love it when you want me, but I cannot bear you to need me. The bottom line is that the puppy-dog keenness that might go down well with an actual girlfriend just fills me with guilt and – occasionally, though I shudder to admit it – disgust. By nagging me to see you, email you, love you, you fool me into thinking that these are things I didn’t want to do in the first place. You stop being a person that I want to spend time with and become a task to cross off my to-do list.

In conclusion

You might have noticed that (barring elements of the first item) this isn’t just an exhaustive list of physical characteristics, like a judgmental dating site profile. The reason is probably obvious to those of you who are regular readers. Although I have a definite physical ‘type’ when it comes to men (would that dangerously hot guy from My Chemical Romance please stand up) looks aren’t that high on my ‘do I want to fuck this dude?’ checklist. It’s nice if you’re pretty, fit might be a bonus, melty dark eyes are a tasty cherry on top, but ultimately the most important things about you are the things that I can’t see.

I don’t want a pretty fuck, I want a pretty good fuck, and you don’t get to be one of those just by going to the gym and waxing your chest hair.

I haven’t done a ‘what is not wrong with you‘ post for a while, but this particular gripe has been brewing for a couple of weeks, so I thought it high time that I spat it out.

Men: I don’t give a shit about your hair. There, I said it.

There’s a creeping trend for men to start caring about their hair, and I don’t like it. Yes, it’s nice to look nice and if having a special haircut gives you a boner when you look in the mirror then by all means drop fifty quid at a posh salon. But if you’re just doing it to impress the ladies, my general advice would be not to bother.

Not because all women don’t care (some do) but because I figure that the time, effort and worry invested in something as inconsequential as the collection of keratin strands you collect on top of your head could be much better spent in other ways.

You could learn to play the piano, take up a sport, read books and newspapers – anything. And even girls who like a guy with neatly-trimmed locks will probably admit that they’d rather he were talented, funny, or interesting.

And don’t get me started on the amount of money men are now expected to fork out on hair products – gels and mousses and special shampoo – that could far better be spent on a tube fare to my house to come and fuck me like it’s Friday.

Is it OK to be bald?

I have only ever met two types of women: those who find bald guys incredibly sexy, and those who don’t give a flying fuck.

I happen to fall into the former category – bald guys are sexy as hell. There’s obviously the tactile thing, for a start – touching someone’s head is deeply sensual. Although running your fingers through someone’s curling locks can be nice, nothing quite rivals the feeling of stroking your fingers nice and hard over someone’s scalp, letting them trail down to the back of their neck as they close their eyes to revel in the comfort and lust.

Where was I?

Oh yes. Hair.

Is it OK to be ginger?

I have tried to contain my rage on this point for a long time, but the truth must out: not only is there ‘nothing wrong’ with being ginger, there is something despicably fucked-up about jokingly pretending that people with ginger hair are somehow freakish monsters.

I’ve been told there’s a historical reason for this – something to do with the English hating the Scots (oh, xenophobia, with what comedy genius will you tickle our ribs next?). But I don’t care – I don’t give a shit what pathetic reasons there might be for this half-hearted jocular bullying.

Recent conversation that I actually had with a real, human person:

Me: I would pay serious money to suck that man off.

Him: Really? But he’s so ginger.

It’s a joke – I know it’s a joke. But it’s a fucking awful one.

I knew a girl at college with the most stunning red hair – bright red, curly, down to her waist. She had pale, pale skin with soft hands, a tiny waist and nice small perky tits that you could imagine cupping in your hands while you fucked her. I digress.

The point is that she was ginger, and as so was subject to the most ridiculous jokes – boys would pretend they couldn’t ask her out because, despite her heart-melting beauty, she was ginger. In fact that reason they couldn’t ask her out was that she was searingly intelligent as well as being beautiful. But ginger is a nice default nonsensical insult for imbeciles to use when they have no genuine criticism.

In conclusion

Fuck your fucking hair. Fuck whatever sits atop your head. It’s nice to stroke or play with sometimes but if I’m assessing whether I might like you to stick your cock into me, whatever you happen to be sporting – a crop of strawberry blond curls, an Elvis quiff, a floppy One-Direction-style chop, a shining bald pate or a hat that makes you look like an arsehole – none of these things will make a significant difference.

It’s not what’s on your head that counts, but what’s in it.

This might sound callous, but I don’t care if you break up with me by text message. Same goes for email. Sod it – text the ‘letters’ section of the Metro for all I care. If you’re going to dump me, just dump me.

Yes, I’ll be sad. But I’ll be no more sad than if you – quite literally – made a meal of it. Took me out for dinner, had a long discussion prompted by occasional irritating sighs, ending with The Chat: ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t fancy you any more/we have nothing in common/I’ve met someone infinitely more likeable.’

It hasn’t been emotional

People say that the reason they wouldn’t break up via text is because it’s cold-hearted. But the problem is that few of the relationships I get into are emotional enough to require a drawn-out conclusion. Most of the ‘break-ups’ I have been involved in recently have happened either because

• he’s found a girlfriend who’d rather he didn’t fuck anyone else
• he lives outside Zone 3 and so I am far too lazy to see him regularly

And so in this context, a break-up text will do just as well as a long conversation. If he’s a boy I’m shagging he’s a boy worth shagging, so naturally I’ll be sad that I can’t fuck him any more. But I’m not going to cry my face off over a tub of Häagen Dazs – we were probably never that close.

More importantly, it takes me just five minutes to read an email, less than one minute to read a text, but it takes an entire evening to have the break up chat. A whole evening. Think of all the things I could do in an evening! While I’m listening to you tortuously apologise for ending something that was inevitably going to end anyway I could instead be dying my hair, writing another blog, livetweeting The Apprentice or – crucially – finding someone else to fuck.

There is nothing more valuable to me than time. And giving me more of it, even if it means swallowing your natural desire to project emotion onto sex, is a wonderful thing to do.

Just tell me

But the main reason I think text break-ups are fine is because very occasionally, because of the way I meet and interact with guys, I end up in a weird limbo where I’m not entirely sure if someone is still with me. In the last year I have had three guys who have broken up with me by just ceasing all communication.

Two guys stopped fucking me after a few lovely evenings which I’m reasonably sure they enjoyed. One guy stopped fucking me shortly before we were due to go away together for a weekend.

This isn’t a rant about getting dumped. I’ve been in many ‘things’ that have ended, so I don’t get particularly upset about the endings themselves.

But what I am emotional about is not knowing. Because I like to plan. I like to know. Just as I like to know how you like your blow jobs and whether you’re into spanking, I also like to know exactly where you stand on the issue of whether you are or aren’t willing to put your dick into me.

It’s not you, it’s me

And it honestly is. I think I’m alone in this, because I’ve told other people about my preference for rapid-fire, heartless relationship comms and had them weeping over my cracked and battered soul. But a text or email at least has an immediacy and honesty that I wholeheartedly respect.

You might wait for weeks for the right moment to have ‘that’ conversation and (in the case of some of my past boys) end up never having it at all. So if your mind’s truly made up, and you really really mean it, what better way to tell me than to bleep it to my phone?

Not only will you have furnished me with useful information, you’ve also saved me time. I’ll be able to read it, digest it, mourn and move on in less time than we’d have spent on pre-dinner drinks.

New Year is, apparently, a time for announcing to the world exactly what’s wrong with you.

You make resolutions so you can tell people “This year I’ll lose two stone/give up smoking/stop crywanking every Saturday night while watching films starring Jennifer Aniston.”

I wouldn’t mind that much, but there doesn’t seem to be anything to balance this out. We all know that there are some things that are wrong with us. Most of us are a bit fat, most of us have habits that are either bad for our health or irritating to our loved ones.

But we also all have certain qualities that are admirable, beautiful, or just plain cool.

Self-hatred ain’t sexy

During the first week of January, resolutions sweep through people I know like a wildfire of self-doubt. Friends who I have a very high opinion of will leap out of the woodwork and declare ‘hey, here’s my flaw – you might not have spotted it yet but it’s there.’

For the purposes of fuelling my rant, I’m going to use losing weight as an example.

Disclaimer: if you’re resolving to lose weight because your current weight causes you mobility/health problems, then not only do I 100% support you, but if you drop me an email I will give you some exciting tips on how to do it. OK, not necessarily exciting, they basically all consist of me saying ‘eat salad, then fuck vigorously’.

Most people are a bit fat, and I’ve spoken before about how guys who are a bit fat are pretty sexy. But above and beyond the aesthetic value of some hot jiggling, there’s something that comes even higher in the list of ‘things that are hot’ – not giving a shit about your weight.

Nothing is less sexy than someone moaning about their love handles. No one wants to listen to a partner telling them exactly how much weight they’ve put on, which bits of their body are the fattest, or exactly how many calories they’re limiting themselves to each day.

Feel free to make self-deprecating jokes about it, but as soon as you ‘resolve’ to ‘fix’ it, it becomes an issue. Something that your partners and friends feel they must notice, tiptoe-around, and pander to. Worst of all, it could even make them feel the need to ‘support’ you in your efforts by cooking you healthy food, or joining you in a run around the block.

A better new year’s resolution

Everyone’s got flaws – you might be a bit fat, need to ditch smoking, be an irritating cunt when drunk or, in my case, all of the above. But there are inevitably some things about you that are bloody great. You might be hilarious, generous in getting rounds in, in possession of a spectacular arse, or able to deep-throat people with aplomb.

So make new year’s resolutions if you like, but as a gesture towards the well-rounded and at-least-partially-brilliant person you inevitably are, why not pick one or two things that you definitely don’t want to change? Choose two things that are ace about you, and resolve, with all the willpower that your awesome mind can muster, to keep them exactly as they are.