Let us discuss the word ‘ladylike.’ This word conjures the idea of demure high-society women nibbling on tiny sandwiches before patting daintily at their unsullied lips with napkins. Sorry, serviettes. Or whatever one calls them in order to avoid a terrible faux-pas.

The word ‘ladylike’ can, in my opinion, be applied to anyone – female or not. The key is ‘is your behaviour a type which the Victorians deemed acceptable for high-society ladies?’ These days we don’t expect anyone (male or female) to behave in the ways the Victorians deemed suitable for high-society ladies – we’d all be fainting and gagging for a pasty before you could say ‘I take my tea with lemon, Jeeves’. Hence why the word is useful, because it can be funny when applied to people who are being disgusting. Downed ten pints then puked in a gutter? Not very ladylike. Eaten an entire packet of Cadbury’s Twirl Bites then burped loud enough to disturb the neighbours? Unladylike. Shat your trousers on a rollercoaster? Likewise.

I don’t personally think the word ‘ladylike’ itself is necessarily misogynist – it’s just an outdated label that can be applied in various ways. So, as with all words – slippery little bastards at the best of times – I think a lot depends on context and intent.

Bodily functions

Unfortunately for the word ‘ladylike’, it is most frequently used in contexts which make me want to hurl large blunt objects at delightfully shattery china. It is often used for comedy, but more often used as a reminder to women that they shouldn’t admit to having any bodily functions at all.

There are two reasons I’m writing this blog. Firstly, because I overheard a conversation in a restaurant recently that went something like this:

Small girlchild: burp
Second small girlchild: giggle
Mother of aforementioned small children: Don’t do that, it’s disgusting.
Small child 1: Why?
Mother: We’re at the dinner table. Besides, it’s not very ladylike.

When I was a little girl I loved many things that I considered ‘ladylike’ – tiny china teasets, huge frilly dresses that I could spill Ribena down at parties, and (please stop laughing at the back) ballet pumps. But if someone had told me then that in order to maintain a veneer of ladylike charm I’d have to not just acquire these frilly things but also refrain from doing other things I liked – making mud pies, burping, running along the landing naked after a bath with a towel streaming behind me while I shouted “Der ner ner ner ner ner ner ner BATMAN” – I’d have hurled my cup of Ribena into their stupid narrow-minded face.

The second reason I felt compelled to mash wildly on my keyboard in barely-disguised and possibly excessive rage is that I read this interview. Take your time, have a read, and come back when you’ve reached the point that you think my head exploded.

Anyone who guessed ‘some time during the first question’ is correct. The woman being interviewed is a science writer. I’m not familiar with her work but it sounds brilliant, not least because she’s written a book about sexual arousal called ‘Bonk.’ However, rather than ask her something about all the fascinating things that she’s studied, or what drew her to the subject matter, the interviewer instead jokes that it’s not ‘ladylike’ for her to wonder what happens to the anus when it has a cellphone inside it.

I’m not saying the interviewer is an evil person and needs to be crushed, but were I to meet them in person I’d certainly be tempted to ask the startlingly obvious question: “would that have been your first question to a man?” Would the first thing they probed be whether the subject matter was a bit inappropriate or un-dainty? I doubt it.

It’s my body and I’ll piss out of it if I want to

I’ve frequently heard grown adults talking about women’s bodily functions in ways which imply that we, as women, have some sort of superhuman level of self-control which means we are never scruffy, pissed, obnoxious or irritably-bowelled. I’ve met girls who’d be horrified if they accidentally farted in front of a boyfriend, or boyfriends who would be disgusted to walk into the toilet post-shit and smell something other than roses.

Sure, burping might not be polite. Farting, swearing, talking loudly about getting fisted or accidentally pissing your knickers on the night bus: all of these things can certainly be considered rude, or gross, or inappropriate. But the idea that they’re more gross and inappropriate just because a woman is doing them is ridiculous.

Women are brilliant, I’ll grant you. But we’re no more skilled than men when it comes to being able to control our bodily functions. We’re disgusting and messy and we smell. We leak strange juices, burp when we’re windy, get rolls of fat when we sit down wearing tight jeans. We’re curious about what people put up their arses. We sweat and we swear and we get drunk and fall over. Occasionally we even shit in the woods.

So I think what I’m trying to say is that there are certain rules of politeness that I’m happy to adhere to: I won’t burp at the dinner table or do the Batman-towel thing in polite company. But I’ll only follow these rules if they apply to everyone. I’m not going to sit demurely in a corner stifling my farts if you’re allowed to trump with gay abandon in the seat next to me.

I am woman, hear me burp.

I’ve heard it said that one should never kiss and tell. But I disagree. Naturally. If this were a universal moral truth there’d be no discussion of sex other than as an abstract concept, and certainly no sex blogs for us to get wet and sticky over.

Because I am not a weapons-grade arsehole, I don’t just blunder around writing real-life sex stories without regard for the ethics: I think you can kiss and tell in a way that’s fair. In a way that not only maintains respect for your past partners but also enables you to be open about the more sordid things you’ve done with them.

What the men on the train are saying

“I was slapping her arse and everything, mate.”

As I write this, I’m sitting on a two hour train heading back to London. As on all weekend trains, the token group of obnoxious loud people (in this instance a group of twenty-something guys) have made a beeline for my carriage. On the surface it sounds like they had a pretty hot time this weekend. Yet strangely, if it weren’t for all the guttural guffaws of laughter, if I actually just listened to the words they used, it would be impossible to tell whether they enjoyed themselves or not.

This weekend they either met and shagged some women who fancied them, or made selfish sexual use of some sub-human creatures who made them want to vomit: I cannot tell which.

“She was going at me so hard. I’ve never had so much attention.”

They’re dissecting the sex they had. I believe (although you’ll appreciate I’m relaying this story third hand) that one of them got a blow job.

“I thought there’d be blood, mate, she was so gaggin'”

“You fuckin’ nasty bastard.”

At one point, at least, the two women acquiesced to their request to ‘lez off‘ so they could watch.

“They were going right at each other’s minges, mate. It was fucking disgusting.”

I know that one of these gentlemen believed a certain girl’s exertions to be too much:

“I could smell her tit sweat, man, it was rank.”

And that at least one member of the group had concerns about the effect that their sexual shenanigans might have on his reputation.

“We’re keeping this to ourselves, are we? Because it sounds like you’re telling every cunt.”

Where’s the enjoyment?

Fascinating though this conversation is, I’m hoping it’ll stop soon. Because it makes me want to tear things to shreds.

There’s nothing wrong with having a gang-bang with a few women and a selection of your most obnoxious chums. In fact, I’d say it might be one of my ideal weekends. I imagine I might play the part of the lady who was not only ‘gagging’ but also getting fairly sweaty, because I find sex is a bit more fun if you put your back into it.

But the problem here isn’t that they’re dissecting the hot time they had, it’s the fact that at no point have any of them suggested that it was something they wanted to do. Something that they enjoyed. The braying, raucous laughter hints that it must have been quite fun, but their words imply it was an unpleasant thing that just happened to them. As if, while minding their own loudmouthed business, they were suddenly jumped by a pack of ‘desperate birds’, who they kindly deigned to fuck despite the girls’ ‘grotty tattoos’ and obscene desire to fellate them.

The caricatures that they draw with their tawdry, disdainful words make the girls look awful, desperate, ugly and pathetic. The sex itself sounds miserable and grotesque.

We all have the capacity to be bastards

Of course this isn’t just a male thing. Women don’t always dissect sexual activity with a shy smile and a neutral ‘well, to each his own.’ Each and every one of us is capable of being cruel and dismissive of ex-lovers, of telling tales that paint our past fucks as grotesque and regretful accidents.

“Tiny cock.”
“Crap shag.”
“Didn’t put any effort in.”
“Smelled like a brewer’s arsehole.”

These statements might be true, of course. Not everything is perfect, and to expect all sex to come with roses, romance and volcanoes of orgasmic fluid would be naïve to the point of stupidity.

So, in order to be nice, do we just avoid talking about the bad fucks? Of course not. One of the best ways to let a new partner know that I don’t like it when guys bite me is to tell him about the time a guy kept biting me and it was horrible. Likewise if a guy asks how his cock measures up to previous partners, I’d be a fool to pretend that they were all hung like a stud donkey.

But as everyone’s parents know, and have told us all repeatedly: it’s not what you say, its the way you say it.

How not to be a dick

I know there are a couple of guys (and girls) who will read my blog (or even my book) and cringe in anticipation of a poor review. People I’ve slept with once or twice and then never again, who’ll be hoping that I don’t write something contemptuous on page 73 about their mouse-cock or post-orgasmic sobbing.

I, in turn, hope that no one will read their story and be upset. That although there might be truth spoken, there’ll be no barbs thrown unnecessarily, no casual scorn, and no ill-judged disdain for those who’ve been generous enough to bestow their fuck upon me.

For what it’s worth, I try to follow these rules:

1. Keep them anonymous.

An anonymous lover can always step forward and claim credit if they want it, but once you’ve named someone they can never erase the association.

2. Speak well of them.

You don’t need to lie, or pretend someone rocked your world when they only tickled your funny bone – you just need to treat your past fucks like real people: with emotions and flaws and the capacity to be so pierced with shame that they want to curl up and cry forever.

This second rule is the most important not just so that you can avoid making people unnecessarily miserable, but because it’ll make a big difference to any fucks you might get in the future. If, when you’re telling me about a previous shag, it sounds like you did it with a vague sense of hatred for your hapless partner, then I am spectacularly unlikely to drop my knickers and let you screw me with a similar degree of contempt. Being angry is fine, if they gave you cause to be. Being upset is OK too. But being outright disdainful? Spewing bile because someone had the audacity to have sex with you in a way that either wasn’t as you expected or that you later came to regret? That’s cruel. And it’s not them that looks bad when you do that: it’s you.

I’m a fan of honesty, but you have to be honest about everything. Don’t tell people that so-and-so was an appalling shag without explaining what it was about him that made you want to fuck him in the first place. Don’t tell people some ‘slag’ was ‘gagging’ for your cock and miss out the crucial detail that you asked her to suck it. At the very least, it should be possible for the person you’re telling to understand that the sex was something you did willingly, something you expected to enjoy.

And as for me, I know I’ve had crap sex with some people. I disappoint men on a worryingly regular basis, and I’m more than happy for them to discuss my flaws. Tell people I was lazy. Tell them I was crap. Tell them I make stupid whining noises when I come and that I pull faces like I’m competing in a gurning contest at an ugly convention. But remember that somewhere within all of these truths is a real person with feelings and desires. A person who, once upon a time, you desperately wanted to fuck.

It’s all very well for internet arseholes like me to tell you to be confident, own the world, and generally stamp around with a level of self-assurance that most people would struggle with on a good day. I know that, despite my hippy-esque assurances that you should love yourself no matter what, genuinely being happy with yourself is one of the hardest things to be.

Your rational mind can look in the mirror and go “well, I’m sort of average shape, quite tall, and reasonably tidy-looking” while your emotional mind, ignoring evidence to the contrary, goes “I’m so fucking UGLY.” Even the most confident, beautiful, almost-perfect people get these flashes. But some get it harder than others, and some have to fight it every single day.

It’s all very well assuring people that ‘you’re totally fine. You’re beautiful. Don’t be ridiculous’ when they let their insecurity out, but often the problem is so much deeper than just a simple desire for reassurance. Knowing that helps us understand people a bit better, and dodge the flippancy that I’m certainly guilty of a lot of the time.

The following guest blog is by Madison, who is a very new blogger writing excellent things over at Madisonwritessht. She got in touch to ask if she could write a guest blog on recovering from an eating disorder. And fuck me, can she write.

Madison writes:

I can’t tell if I’m getting fatter or if my mind is getting sicker.

I have never had a positive body image. I remember panicking when we had to go swimming in primary school, and being jealous of my younger sister for having a smaller body than me. I was six, and I was sick. I thought that the only way anyone would love me would be if my bones were visible and I was blemish free. Unfortunately, I still do.

It’s difficult to explain how you feel about your body with a mouthful of pizza and friends saying they want to look like you. It’s not that I ever thought I was obese, or even fat. ‘Fat’ doesn’t have the same meaning to someone suffering from an eating disorder as it does to others. Fat means disgusting, it means failure. It means you can’t get anything right, and as long as the numbers on the scale are creeping higher, you’ll never be a success.

Personally, food is a comfort. I don’t remember the last time I was actually hungry, I eat when I’m sad, bored or lonely. Food is so tightly connected with emotions that every moment of my time is spent counting calories, or searching for happiness in a bar of chocolate like a Wonka ticket. So, as a pre-teen, I did what I thought would make me look ‘normal’. I drank a litre of salted water and stuck a toothbrush down my throat. I didn’t care what anyone thought, as long as there were other people out there skinnier than me, I was fat. I’d cry myself to sleep and, for a long time, I wished I wouldn’t wake up in the morning, so I didn’t have to deal with myself. There was nothing I could do to stop puberty or my developing body, but the success in stopping my periods spurred me on. But I never lost much weight and the constant act of bingeing and purging simply left my weight fluctuating and my body wrecked. It wasn’t until I was sent to therapy as a teenager for other issues that I was able to stop the voices for a while, and put them to one side.

After accidentally losing a lot of weight during summer a year or so ago, starting at university was torture. The drinking and fast food, coupled with a new unrestricted environment caused my recovery to go downhill. I bulk bought laxatives, taking 30 pills in one go, went days without eating and exercised like a fanatic in my bedroom. I knew I was being irrational, but an eating disorder is an addiction, and I didn’t see a way out. I just wanted to be confident, and to like something about myself. For a short while I had a boyfriend, and after he broke up with me for stupidly arbitrary reasons I didn’t sleep for two days, bingeing, convinced that he would have stayed with me if I’d been thinner.

These days, I’m in recovery. Or at least I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to regulate my eating pattern and think about myself positively. I’m scared about disappointing people if I let myself fall again, but even making myself a bowl of pasta is terrifying. The worst part is, I’m almost 20 and I feel like I’m broken. I’m just looking forward to the day when someone will tell me ‘you’re beautiful’ and the voice inside me won’t erase their words.

This week was Eating Disorders Awareness week, arranged by the charity beat. They offer help and support if you’re affected, or know someone who is.

We’re all squeamish about certain things – some people hate the sight of blood, others can’t cope with injections, or the possibility of disease, or unclean kitchen worktops. There’s nothing wrong with a certain amount of squeamishness, but I’m surprised at the number of people I’ve met who are – to one degree or another – squeamish about sex.

Sex, by its nature, is quite messy. Even at the most basic level (quick missionary hump for the purposes of procreation) both of you have to emit certain juices and fluids: sweat, jizz, quim – even saliva, if you’re feeling particularly romantic.

And so, unless you have a lot of equipment and a shedload of wet wipes to hand, when you fuck you’ll get dirty.

Ultra-clean sex and a tip for Dommes

If you want to avoid all possible sexual juices, the only way I can think of is to cover your partner head-to toe in a plastic sheet (ensuring that he has a suitable mouth to breathe through but, crucially, maintains a safe distance so that you can’t kiss each other) then stick his cock through a carefully-cut hole in the middle (protip: cut hole before cock is anywhere nearby), slip a condom on him, and hump away. Not particularly sexy, but it essentially eliminates almost all skin-to-skin contact. Were I a dominant lady I would certainly consider using this during sub play – you can have this idea for free.

However, although it’s excellent for people who have a fetish for sterile sex, it’s not great for those of us who revel in the smells and juices and general slipperiness of the whole scenario. To be honest, it’s not great for any of us if we don’t happen to have plastic sheeting in our sex toy drawer.

The point I’m trying to make is that we have to go to extremes to make sex un-messy, so any squeamishness we have about the exchange of particular fluids necessarily needs to be laid to one side if we want to really get on and enjoy things.

Let’s talk about menstruation

Number one (that number, for new readers, denotes the first guy I slept with) did not like shagging while I was ‘on.’ A couple of tentative attempts while I was bleeding lightly went OK, but an energetic, doggy-style hump during my heavier days proved disastrous.

Once he’d come, he pulled his dick out and made a slightly high-pitched squealing noise.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you OK? Oh Jesus, are you having a miscarriage?”
“I’m fine – what’s up?”
“You’re bleeding!”
“Of course I’m bleeding, I’m on my period.”
“But this is worse than that.”
“No it’s not.”
“It’s… it’s… it’s got chunks in.”

I calmed him down with tea, a cuddle, and a long explanation of the fact that yes, sometimes it has chunks in. We never did it again, and I spent a good few years avoiding sex during my period, worrying that the guys I shagged would react with similar horror upon discovery that menstruation isn’t just the occasional leaking of a thimbleful of blue water, but often a gushing onslaught of not just blood but genuine, honest-to-goodness gore.

It’s totally fine to be utterly disgusting

So what changed my mind? Because, of course, my mind has been changed: I’d no more refuse sex during my period these days than I’d give up wanking for lent. Period horny is the horniest type of horny. About halfway through my red week I’m jiggling my knee and rubbing my thighs together and picking the bumpiest seat on the bus. What changed my mind about relieving this urge the old-fashioned cock-based way (as opposed to the ‘frantic clit-rubbing under a duvet’ way) was a couple of other guys I met.

Poor number one was quite naïve about periods, and a few other things for that matter – he didn’t like the idea of kissing me after a blow job (unless I’d brushed my teeth) or even giving me head.  But his horror at the more slippery aspects of sex was by no means a benchmark for how every guy would feel. Although I have met guys since who aren’t keen on period sex, or oral, or indeed anything that might require a deep clean afterwards, I’ve met far more who could give less than an iota of a fuck.

In fact, for adult men, ‘on’ fucking has proved to be much the same as ‘off’ fucking, only with a towel put down to catch the drippiest bits. One guy went so far as to remove my tampon with his teeth during a particularly feisty session. I appreciate this. I don’t have a particular fetish for sex that’s blood-drenched – apart from anything else I simply don’t have the time or inclination to soak that many bedsheets. But I love the ‘I don’t give a fuck about your menstruation’ attitude that means I can stop panicking that the guy will get his dick covered and run out of the room squealing ‘why can’t you just be clean and sweet-smelling like the girls on telly?’

So if you’re squeamish, especially if you’re a teenage boy with limited knowledge of the mysterious workings of the female uterus – I understand. But I’d love it if you could lay a bit of your squeamishness to one side when you’re stripping down and getting naked with someone. What prompted me to write about this was a bit of browsing on ’embarrassing bodies’ forums, and other related sites. There are a hell of a lot of young girls and boys howling desperately into the online wilderness: ‘am I weird?’ ‘am I wrong?’ ‘am I grotesque and disgusting?’

The answer is almost certainly no, but it can be bloody hard to hear that answer sometimes. The sixteen year old version of me would have given anything to experience the genuine liberation that comes from realising that these juices I leaked and these noises I made and these weird spots that insisted on growing in seemingly random places on my body and subsequently leaking juices of their own: these things were pretty normal. Let’s embrace the leaking, juicy, weird bits of ourselves, love the leaking, juicy bits about other people, and commit to having some thoroughly messy sex.

Addendum, because I know I’ll get emails: if your period is especially painful, or you’re experiencing a significant change in blood loss and/or consistency, speak to a doctor.