Tag Archives: what is not wrong with you
Two things: porn censors and sex advice
Two things this week – a couple of things you should check out in the world of sex news. The first is an incredible (or incredibly awful) job as a porn censor for the UK Government, the second is a book of sex advice that I have been reading and thoroughly enjoying…
People who have fallen asleep on me during sex
Have you ever been in the middle of something super hot only to have the person who was enthusiastically moaning two minutes earlier suddenly let out a snore? Congratulations, you’re definitely not alone. Between 40-50% of people I surveyed have fallen asleep during sex.
How do I know if you’re my boyfriend?
Relationships are often full of uncertainty. We meet someone we like, we fall for them, and we wonder – what exactly are they to me? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Fuck buddy? Lover? Person-I’m-dating-temporarily? The good people – the ones who are decent and kind and open and trustworthy – will either know what you are or they’ll help you work it out. You’ll have those giggling deep conversations over a bottle of wine or a pot of coffee at 8 am, and you’ll say:
“What are we, exactly? Lovers, fuck buddies, boyfriends or…?”
Guest blog: what’s wrong with my vagina?
Today’s guest blog is the third in a series by Scarlet Ladies Talk – aka Sarah Beilfuss and Jannette Davies. They run events and workshops to help women explore and discuss their bodies and sex lives, and one of the things they focus on is bodily autonomy: learning to love your body just how it is. In their latest post, Sarah Beilfuss is tackling ‘designer vaginas’, and asking the question: just what exactly is wrong with my vagina?
Sex and sertraline part 2: fucking on SSRIs
This blog post – part 2 in a series of… hmm… I’m not sure how many yet – talks about some mental health stuff, including Dark Thoughts and general misery. If that’s likely to disturb you please don’t read on.
When you’re mad, you’re allowed to say the word ‘mad’ – at least in your own head. You’re allowed to tell yourself: ‘don’t think like that, it’s mad. That’s what got you here in the first place.’ When you’re mad, you’re taught to examine your thoughts carefully – writing them down if necessary – so you can pick over the alien carcass of insanity that your brain has spat out. Pulling the meat (‘I’m worried I can’t have sex’) from the bones that you’re meant to identify and discard (‘If I can’t have sex I may as well die’).
I am being medicated into compliance.