Women: what will you do first – have that glittering career you’ve always dreamed of, or get babies quick-sharp before your maternal need reaches a shrieking climax and you’re left yearning for the children that will make your life complete?

Kirstie Allsopp has been in some pretty hot water today over comments she made about life choices. She pointed out (quite rightly) that if you have a womb and ovaries, your chances of using those to make a baby drop sharply after a certain age. That’s obviously common sense. Unfortunately, she then used that to say that if she had a daughter she’d advise her not to go to University early in life (i.e. shortly after 18) and instead focus on having a family and saving studying and a career for later.

She’s taken a lot of crap for saying this, and has taken a lot of agreement, too: from people who did have children young, or those who wish they had.

Here’s the problem: Kirstie gave what is essentially some good advice. If you want kids in a certain way (and if you’re able to have them in that way), you have to plan relatively early. Unfortunately, this good advice was presented in a way that rested on a huge number of assumptions. It’s not the advice that’s bad, it’s what it rests on.

She has, in no particular order, assumed that:

– All women want the same things (career and babies).

– All women are biologically capable of having children and will want to have biological offspring.

– A career is always a choice, as opposed to something many people do because they need to put food on the table.

– Women shoulder the responsibility for the propagation of the human race.

Can women ‘have it all’?

I’d be less angry about comments on careers and children if it weren’t for the fact that it is always presented as a choice that women – and only women – need to make. Incidentally, as I stand up loudly and proudly and state that ‘not all women’ want to have babies, to correct this incredibly common assumption, I look forward to the men who recently commented on my ‘sex entitlement’ blog to join in with me, correcting those gender assumptions they so hated when they believed them to be directed at dudes.

Sarcastic asides over, men are never asked ‘hey, are you sure you want to have this career now? Shouldn’t you have kids first?’ Of course no one ever asks men this, because society has an inherent aversion to male child-rearing, and feels that kids are the sole preserve of women. This puts massive undue responsibility on women, and leaves men standing on the sidelines being patronised by strangers when they take over the duty of ‘babysitting’ their own children. Not to mention it makes women like me really bloody angry when they keep having to answer the same tickbox list of questions.

Conversations about my potential future offspring fall into two broad categories:

a) relevant and interesting conversations (these are the ones I have with my partner, where we discuss our thoughts on The Future)

b) totally unnecessary, irrelevant and intrusive conversations (the ones I have with every other twat who thinks they know better than me what I think)

The latter type usually consists of a friend or family member telling me in syrupy tones that one day I’ll just wake up and – BAM – suddenly I will want a baby so hard I will be unsure how I can ever have wanted anything else in my life. They tell me that having children is the best thing that ever happened to them and that, ergo, it would be the best thing to ever happen to me. It might be, I don’t know. I’m not a fucking psychic. All I know is that right now – right this instant – I don’t want one. And you nagging me about it is unlikely to make me start ovulating. So, if you’re one of those people who likes to tell people to have kids, pay attention.

Five things people need to stop telling me about children

1. You’ll change your mind one day.

I’ve been fairly open about the fact that I don’t really want children. I may well change my mind one day: I’m a human, and we have a habit of doing that. But you don’t get to tell me that unless you have actually lived inside my head. That’s not only impossible but undesirable – it’s a terribly sordid place.

2. It’s the only real purpose for us in life!

By ‘us’ do you mean ‘people’? Because sure, it is a purpose of the human race to survive. And we, as a species, need to make sure we don’t die out any time soon. But there’s a huge leap to be made between ‘survival of the species’ and ‘my individual choices.’ If I’m one of the last people on Earth this argument might hold weight, but given that there are around 6 billion of us, I don’t think my uterus is the vital pivot on which our survival depends.  I no more have a moral responsibility to breed than I have a moral responsibility not to die.

3. Your biological clock is ticking…

I’m getting older, if that’s what you mean, but I’m fascinated as to how you have such an in-depth insight into the state of my reproductive system. For all you know it might not work. For all you know I might not have one.

4. Oh, you must hate children then.

They’re OK, I suppose. They are like adults, only smaller and they say hilarious stupid things sometimes, and also if you have a child you have an excuse to do things like play with the Brio train sets in the Early Learning Centre without being asked to leave. I bloody love some kids (usually ones I am related to, or particularly well-behaved offspring of my friends) but there are many kids who are – let’s face it – twats.

I don’t ‘hate’ or ‘love’ kids. As with adults, I will form my opinion on them based on discussion with the individual in question, and possibly a Frozen singalong. Only then can you get the true measure of a person.

5. Don’t you think it’s a bit selfish to choose your work over children?

No. Nor is it selfish to choose travel, hobbies, or sitting on the sofa staring blankly into space for forty years. All of these things are legitimate life choices, no more or less selfish than the decision to have children. You know why? Because I haven’t had children yet. That’s the beauty of it! If I did have children then certainly I’d be pretty selfish if I ignored them in favour of writing angry blogs and eating ice-cream at 11 am on a Monday for no reason. Given that I don’t have them, my choices can only be selfish or unselfish in relation to how they affect the people I know: people who actually exist right now, as opposed to some possible future person who may never even come into being.

So there you go. Some thoughts on kids. If, like me, you are a 30-year-old cis woman and people are constantly nagging you about your biological clock, feel free to shout this in their face until they stop talking to you.

Kids: have ’em, don’t have ’em, dither over your decision for years before you make it – it’s none of my fucking business.

We all know that communicating about sex is vital. Whether it’s sending a hot email with your filthy plans for the evening, or asking your partner just how hard they want to be spanked, sex cannot possibly be fun unless you know which bits the other person likes.

And yet for some reason people laugh when I ask the burning questions.

Are you sad that you can’t fit your whole fist in me?

Is it nice if I keep sucking for a bit after you’ve come?

Do the ‘blow-job-imitating cock sheaths actually feel like a blow job?

For some reason I am known as one who irritates – even pesters – gentlemen I fuck about the deep details of their opinions on anything to do with sex.

What’s the best porn you’ve ever seen?

Have you ever warmed up a melon and then fucked it?

Or their bodies…

When you hold your dick to stop yourself pissing, does the semi mean you stop needing to go, or just that you can’t go?

Do you like the taste of your own spunk?

Can you tell the difference between this [wanks off with right hand] and this [wanks off with left hand]?

The truth is that, while a lot of these questions are there because I’m just tingling with curiosity…

Is it more fun to jizz loads in volume, or to jizz with force and power?

What’s better: coming inside me or coming on my tits?

Many of them are there because the very act of him answering turns me on. Watching his eyes glaze over as he considers the implications – the details – of each question I ask makes my blood run hot and my mind run into overdrive.

If I rub my cunt on your feet while I’m sucking you, does that put you off your own orgasm?

When we first got together, did you used to wank about me?

Do you still wank about me?

As I ask about it, I like to think about him doing it. And I know that while he may not share my fantasies, he’s more than happy to play along with them for a few minutes – to give me that delicious sense of sexual hope that comes from his temporary uncertainty about the answer.

Would you suck another dude off and let me watch?

Do you prefer to come on my tits or my arse?

What’s the most wanks you have ever had in a day?

And I know it can sometimes be trying…

No, but hypothetically, if you were going to suck another dude off and let me watch, which dude would you pick?

Or clumsy…

If you could get a hand job from anyone, would you rather someone with huge hands so they could envelop your cock, or tiny hands to make your cock look massive?

Or downright bizarre…

If we were having sex, and I turned into a zombie halfway through, would you keep going?

But I love asking questions – I love it. I love that despite the oddness of my pillow-talk investigations, he takes this shit seriously. No matter what I ask. Whether it’s weird hypotheticals…

Any kind of sex you want with just one person, or only blow jobs forever but from as many people as you like?

Would you rather never wank again but get shagged once a month, or never shag again but can wank as often as you like?

If I transported you back in time, blindfolded, to different sexual encounters, could you tell who you were fucking just based on the shape and feel of their cunt round your dick?

Ridiculous scenarios…

If you saw me in an Amsterdam window, how much would you pay for a shag?

What’s five Euros in British money?

Tittilating possibilities…

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever shoved up your arse?

Which of these x-rated Tumblr gifs is your favourite?

Tentative suggestions…

Your opinion on spunk bubbles?

Could you come just from me doing… this? [does ‘this’]

Or genuine concerns…

Do I taste different at different times of the month?

Have you ever woken up when I’ve been wanking next to you in bed?

I love the questions – I love the chat. From the sublime, through the terrifying, to the so-ridiculous-he-can-barely-give-an-answer. Because it’s not the questions themselves that matter – it’s the fact that I’m asking them. That I’m saying “hey, I’m really interested in this. I’m interested in you. Now please tell me everything you can about your penis.”

I know it gets irritating sometimes, and when it’s late at night and we’re lying in bed, and I have his dick in my hand, often the last thing he wants to do is engage in a surreal sexual game show.

Pizza or buttsex? Blowjobs or throatfucks? Nancy Botwin or Danaerys Targaryen?

But he answers. Because he knows that the best way to give me a window into his desires is to give me the rapid-fire answers to sexual questions. If you asked me what I like sexually I could write two thousand words that passably reflect what goes on in my head: the thrusting, aching, wet desire that covers all the things I truly love. He, on the other hand, would sit in front of a blank page for half an hour and eventually scrawl “tits” before throwing it into the bin. But neither of us would come close to really nailing the nuanced and subtle things that push us into arousal.

He answers my questions because the answers paint the picture that neither of us can fully do with words. Because alongside zombies, time-travel, spunk-force and Amsterdam windows, what I’m actually asking is:

What do you like?

And that’s my favourite question of all.

 

Note: All of these are genuine questions I have asked my boyfriend at one point or another. He helped me write the list for this blog post, and there were about a hundred more that didn’t make the final cut. If you have any questions you’d ask your partner, chuck them in the comments and let’s see if we can get different people answering them!

Earlier this week, something bizarre and horrible popped up in my facebook feed: the Metro’s list of “27 things men do in bed that women hate.” That link goes via DoNotLink, so shouldn’t give them traffic.

The article in question lists 27 things which women hate men doing in bed. Normally I’d expect an article like this to raise my hackles because it would probably tick off a few things that I bloody LOVE guys doing in bed but which don’t happen to float everyone’s boat. It’d be the universal generalisations that get me, and I’d probably give it a quick mention in passing, before stamping off to get enraged at HuffPo’s shit dating advice or something.

On this occasion, however, it was far worse than that.

Normally I’d write an angry, sweary rant about how appalling it is in the hope I could whip enough people up into outrage that they’d kick off about it. But I’m very tired and very ill and far too late to make a significant difference with this, so I’m kicking myself. A couple of people asked me to write it up, though, and I feel like perhaps a voice or two shouting into the ether might help a tiny bit in getting the message across that this is totally unacceptable, so here goes.

 The following content comes with a massive trigger warning.

Things not to do in bed because they’re annoying

There are some things in the article I agree with – things that guys have done with me in the past, and I can understand why they might be irritating to some. These include such side-splitting classics as:

“When you’re on top and they’re just staring at you and it’s like, ahhh what face do I pull?”

and

“Trying to remove underwear with their teeth.”

I’m quite partial to the latter, but I can see why it grates on people. I’ll still quibble about the idea that all men should stop doing it ever, but in principle there’s nothing appalling about this. Unfortunately, in its other tips, this Metro list takes a turn for the much more fucking appalling.

Things not to do in bed because they’re assault

These are all direct quotes from the article, sold alongside the points above. Sold as ‘irritating’ behaviour at worst. Presented as tricks that women have cottoned on to, and which they laugh about with their mates while wishing you’d just cut it out:

“Pulling your hair so hard you scream and your eyes water.”

“Being so aggressive with their hands during foreplay that they pretty much give you internal bleeding and bruising.”

What. The. Fuck.

These things are not annoying, as the article presents them. They are assault.

Now, as one who engages in BDSM activity a lot, it would be remiss of me not to mention that I play like this quite frequently. I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that within the context of a trusting relationship, in which I am consenting, and in which my partner fully understands what I love him to do, neither of those specific physical actions is bad per se. However – and it’s a ‘however’ written in such gigantic flashing lights that you can see it from the fucking moon – this is not stuff that it is ever OK to just surprise your partner with. And, like any other sexual behaviour, it is never ever OK to keep doing it after your partner has indicated they don’t like it.

If you accidentally pull someone’s hair too hard: that sucks. If you deliberately pull someone’s hair so hard that their eyes water, if it is something that they explicitly hate and especially – as is heavily implied by the title of the article – you do it repeatedly?  Then that is assault, and you are an appalling, horrible gutter-scraping of a person.

You know this already, of course, but Metro clearly doesn’t, because it gets worse.

Things not to do in bed because they’re rape

“Casually trying to have anal sex without asking and without lube. It does not just slip in there.”

Yeah, that says what you think it says. Again, here’s the thing: I’m up for my partner having a go (although not without lube – he understands the laws of physics and realises that friction there isn’t sexy at all), but only because I have fucking told him I am. He understands what I like and what I don’t, roughly when I like it (and how), and because we have had lots of conversations before about the fact that I bloody love it when he slips my knickers down and lubes me up.

Most importantly, he knows all the signs I give that mean I’m not up for it on a particular occasion. The only reason I can trust him to play in the way we both enjoy, and the one reason I trust him to fuck me in the arse, is because on countless occasions in the past he has recognised my stop signs, abided by them, and put his fucking dick away.

There’s a subtle and nuanced debate to be had about safewords, hard play, bondage, and power exchange. I love having that debate with people here all the time. But this, Metro, is nothing like that fucking debate. It is an overt list of things that women have told you they hate, and I think in that instance you have a responsibility to present ‘unwanted sex’ not as an irritation or a frustration but as what it very plainly is – rape.

Things not to do in bed that you might not have realised were offensive

Here’s a more subtle one: can you spot it? Having listed the many different ways in which guys can ‘annoyingly’ assault girls, they throw this ‘annoying habit’ in:

“When they just stop, and it’s like, “hello? Did you hear me orgasm?” No.”

This is something women find annoying. Fair enough: it is a bit annoying. But the implication here is that men should stop doing that, and I’m afraid to say that is just not an OK thing to ask of someone. Why? Well, the speaker is essentially saying that it’s not OK to stop during sex if your partner hasn’t come yet. Still not sure why that’s dodgy? Let’s gender-flip this bad boy:

“Man, I was having sex with my girlfriend the other day and she stopped halfway through. I hadn’t come. How annoying. Obviously she’s obliged not to stop before I’ve come.”

Unfortunately, no matter how annoying it is not to come during sex, and how selfish it might be if a regular partner doesn’t put in the requisite effort to make you come, they are never obliged to continue having sex with you. No matter what their gender. No matter whether you’ve orgasmed yet. No matter how close you might be. Anyone has the right to withdraw their consent at any time. I shouldn’t have to say this.

Things not to write in the paper because they’re irresponsible

The Metro claims that the points on their list came when they ‘threw the question out to facebook.’ I’ve looked at their facebook page and can find no trace of them asking this question, so I’m a bit curious as to whether they asked, then deleted the answers. But that’s by the by.

The fact is that if you ask people what they ‘hate’ their partner doing in bed, and you’re fishing for amusing anecdotes, you have a responsibility not to lump assault in with those roll-in-the-aisle gags. You’ll make it look like it is merely an inconvenience – something that just happens to people, and to which the best response is a giggle, an eye-roll, or a quick click of the ‘share this article’ button.

The vast majority of men aren’t ignorant of these issues, but in publishing this you might make some men think it’s OK to surprise their partner with anal that she expressly doesn’t want. You might give more people the idea that their partner has an obligation to make them come. And you may well give women the impression that they should just put up with physical assault, and cross their fingers in the hope that their scum partner happens to chance across a Buzzfeed-style list of sex tips and eventually check his shit behaviour.

If you want some more informed advice on these issues, visit Rape Crisis, or any of these places that give support for men and boys.

This is a weird one because I’m writing it while the subject is in the next room. Sitting in his pyjamas, frowning at the mysterious black box of web code while he does magical things with his fingers that make the internet happen.

When we’re together, we watch TV. We paint walls, we count pennies, we laugh. And, of course, we fuck.

He’s good at touching me. He touches me all the time – playful slaps on the arse when we’re making dinner, a casual grope while we catch up on Game of Thrones, kisses and sly strokes that end with his hand down the back of my knickers, warm and soft against my arse.

If I wanted to, I could walk through into the next room to touch him right now. But I won’t.

I’m crap at affection

Despite being a filthy girl, keen to be used and abused, I’m not so great at touching. While I’ll happily sit and stroke someone for a while, or get comfy in the crook of their shoulder as we watch TV, I reject casual affection the way you’d swat away a mosquito.

Fuck off, I’m busy.
Don’t touch me, I’m eating.
Cooking.
Doing the washing up.
Just… get your hands off me. I feel trapped.

Because I associate hugs and affection with a certain kind of choking panic, I anticipate that every hug I enter into could end up siphoning five minutes of otherwise productive time out of my day. I’m an idiot, of course – if affection and touching were as terrifying as my knee-jerk reaction tells me it is I wouldn’t have spent half my life in bed with guys who make me cry with orgasmic joy.

And yet I look for escape routes. I watch the clock over his shoulder. I forget that, actually, I do really enjoy this when I can just shut my brain up for five minutes and settle into it.

The hotness helps my brain do exactly that. A cuddle for the sake of a cuddle brings on trembling and twitching – an unnecessary and irrational this-isn’t-getting-the-bills-paid panic. But a sly hand down the back of my jeans, cupping one of my arse cheeks and pushing two fingers’ worth of knickers into the crack of my crotch? That’s distracting. That’s fun. That’s the button I need pushed before I can sigh relief and hug back with enthusiasm.

An absence of affection

As I say, I could touch him now if I wanted to. I could wander into the next room, strip to my underwear, and slide his laptop off his knee. I could straddle and fuck him on the squeaky sofa, pushing my nipples into his face and reveling in his delighted moans.

But I’m not going to do that, because the anxiety tells me that I shouldn’t be fucking, I should be working, and affection can wait until later. It can probably wait until tonight, when we’ve both clocked off. Sadly then I might not be in the same hungry-horny mood: the waves will have subsided and I’ll be back to pushing him away, twitching at his deliciously warm hands teasing my cunt while I’m trying to cook dinner. At the time I won’t regret it – I’ll see myself as the sensible one, She Who Shan’t Be Distracted, who Gets Things Done.

It doesn’t really matter today, when he’s nearby, but when this blog goes live on Sunday, I’ll be far away. Creeping hands and playful slaps will be replaced with curt texts and joky emails, and all the ‘Miss you’s and ‘Love you’s that I forget to say when he’s around. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it also makes the brain realise what an incomparable prick it can be when it has everything at its fingertips.

I won’t be able to walk through to the next room to touch him. I won’t be able to bury my face in his stomach and tell him he’s delicious. I’ll feel, but be pathetically unable to articulate, just how fucking stupid I am for knocking him back day after day. His hands won’t be on me, and I’ll have all the time and space and independence I am usually crying out for.

And because I’ll have it, I will hate it. And I will miss him.