6 reasons not to fuck him on the first date

#1   You actually quite like him. 3/5 times he will not message you because you fucked him on the first date. 2/5 times he will message you, but only to fuck again. And 1/5 times, he’ll message you because he actually quite likes you, too. That’s real maths.

#2   You’re sad and/or mad because of another boy, and tend to make rash choices instead of confronting your feelings. Lashing out your fanny is not the answer; you will feel bad about it the next day.

#3   You’re worried about other people calling you a ‘slut’. If you’re a grown ass woman and you are potentially not doing something because you’re scared of what other people are going to brand you, you are not grown enough to be doing it.

#4   You think you’re a ‘slut’. Just don’t do it. You won’t feel good about it.

#5   You’re doing it for validation. We’ve all been there. Done it because we can. Because our skinny jeans took 3 minutes to get over our thighs that morning. Because he wanted to fuck us anyway. Having sex with a man because he calls you ‘hot’ and ‘sexy’ will not make you feel hot and sexy the next morning. You need to be a confident woman who loves and owns herself and her body first.

#6   You’re shit-faced. Almost irrelevant because you won’t really remember at the time, will you? But if you are intoxicated to the point at which you won’t remember what decision you made or why you made it, you should probably refrain from allowing strangers to enter you. If he’s a good guy, he won’t have sex with you in such a state anyway.

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Flirting with Fannies

A couple of weeks ago, I was so bored of boys that I switched my Tinder ‘discovery preference’ to females. No prior thought was put into the decision; I just did it. So, although I’ve never done more than kiss a girl, I do think they’re amazing. Girls are just better to look at. They have a way of being simultaneously delicate and strong, chaste and coquettish, and you can empathise with them in a way that you can’t with men. 

I think I went in to it with romanticised expectations of connecting on deeper levels and actually being able to have conversations with like-minded women, as opposed to wading through the shit that men tend to spew. I was wrong. So wrong.

Here are some things that I have learnt grossly generalised about the lady loving ladies of Tinder –

  • They are not afraid to show you their boobs, two messages in.
  • They are not afraid to ask to see your boobs, two messages in.
  • They love straight girls. Direct quote – ‘I love straight girls‘.
  • Asian girls are always shocked to find another Asian girl. Every. Single. Time.
  • They like to ask if you’ve ‘been with a lot of guys‘. 
  • They want to show you ‘how to lick pussy‘. Apparently it’s different when a girl does it.
  • They have no problem getting naked on those stupid Tinder ‘moments’ that ALL your matches can see for 24 hours. 
  • They want to sext. All. The. Time.
  • Tattoos and piercings are a big thing. 
  • 80% are super sporty.

Here is what I learnt about myself from flirting with fannies –

  • I am 100% more likely to show my boobs to a girl than a boy. Because that’s what happened.
  • I literally think eyebrows are everything. But I already knew that.
  • I’m essentially attracted to hotter versions of myself. Basically, Esmeralda.

This is what I think I look like when I put coloured contacts in. If only.

  • I have no problem telling anyone that I want to sit on their face.
  • I think sexting is really dull.
  • I would rather look at boobs than a dick pic.
  • I would rather look at a dick pic than a pussy pic.
  • Other people’s vaginas make me wonder about my own. 

Considering that two boys are currently trying to ask me out on dates and all the girls only want to talk about putting their tongues in unmentionable places, as opposed to actually doing it, girl-on-girl action does not seem to be on the cards. For now, at least. Disappointing, or what?

Ladies, have you experienced other girls on some kind of dating platform? Fellas, does your experience of girls differ greatly?

Getting It On Gracelessly

Sex scenes in movies are always so perfect. Their clothes come off perfectly. They fit together perfectly. They change positions perfectly. Even the sounds to come out of their perfectly agape mouths are perfect.

Fucking bullshit.

Sex never happens like that. Everyone knows that leggings and skinny jeans are a bitch to get off. Someone always gets kicked in the head when switching positions, and someone’s always making a face  or saying something stupid that makes you want to smother them with a pillow.

Sometimes things just go wrong during sex. Sometimes it’s horrendous, sometimes it’s awkward, sometimes it’s kind of hilarious, and sometimes it’s just a sweaty amalgamation of the three. We’re only human, after all.

Here are some situations you just have to laugh through..

When a guy notices that your boobs are different sizes. So, I’m aware that most women have slightly different breast sizes, and that that’s completely normal, but I feel like mine are noticeably asymmetrical. As you always tend to be your own worst critic, I thought – even though the gap in my bra was real – maybe I was overplaying the difference in my mind, and just left it. It was never really something I thought about when getting naked with someone else, either, as no one ever mentioned it. Until they did. One night in my final year of university, I went home with this fucking moronic ginger boy who had had a thing for me for, like, a year. Things happened as they usually do. I later found out he may have been a virgin; this didn’t surprise me. The kid acted like I was the pot of gold at the end of his fucking rainbow. In reality, I’m more like a plastic cup full of pennies, so ginger virgin definitely made sense. Anyway, as I just lay there letting him do what he wanted until an appropriate amount of time had passed so that I could kick him out, he cupped both my boobs in his hands and said, ‘They’re different sizes. This one’s bigger; this one’s my favourite.‘ WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THAT?! There was nothing to do but laugh and agree and try to change the conversation. It didn’t happen again until a month or so ago when the Tinder Ginger did basically the exact same thing. I have come to the conclusion that gingers see boobs so rarely that they really fucking pay attention.

When you vom on a guy’s dick. This is mortifying, but fucking hilarious in retrospect. It’s my favourite story that I just never tell because I was so drunk it’s like it happened in a dream, and so I never remember it. Now listen, when I say ‘so drunk’, I don’t mean ‘can’t walk in my heels and offering blowjobs for McDonald’s’ kind of drunk. I mean it was definitely taking advantage of my state to go home with me. However, because we knew each other well, no one really thought anything of it even though they knew we shouldn’t have been shagging. Long story short, I think I passed out in the middle of proceedings, and when I came to, he was sitting on my torso, moving his cock towards my mouth. What a fucking gentleman. My memory fades out here, but from what I can gather, being the drunk slut I was, I gladly opened my big mouth and welcomed him in. Big mistake. The next thing I know, he’s wiping me down with a towel and I’m standing there saying, ‘Well that’s never happened before.‘ I wish I remembered actually being sick because it’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever done – if you don’t agree, by the way, you really have no business being here – but I think my brain at the time classified it as traumatic and instantly blocked it out. In reality, it must have been a combination of the angle and the fact that I was too drunk to even have a raisin pass down my throat, but I like to think that my body just knew that the whole situation was wrong and decided to violently reject him.

When a guy refuses to go down on you. I have never had to ask for head before in my life. That’s not to say that it’s happened during every sexual encounter, but I’ve never felt like it definitely needed to be added to the roster enough to warrant asking for it. Additionally, I’m not much of a talker. You’re not going to get any verbal feedback from me no matter how much you ask for it. So, when this boy had his head between my thighs one night and JUST WASN’T DOING IT, I was so frustrated that when he asked, ‘What can I do?‘ I so meekly replied, ‘Can you put your mouth on it?‘ I die a little inside just thinking about it. So, when he looked up at me and said no, I just didn’t know what to do. I felt so awkward and exposed that my automatic response was to close my legs, forgetting that his head was still there. I think he thought I was trying to force feed him. Awkward. When I text Emily about it the next day, she told me that her friend yelled at a bloke who had refused to do it until he felt so bad that he just did it anyway – I like to think I handled it better than that, at least.

When a guy refuses to let you go down on him. I don’t tend to wait to be asked; I just do it. I’m kind like that. And I just so happen to be excellent at it so why not show off the skill set?  So, when this kid stopped me RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE, and said he ‘wasn’t feeling it‘, I was devastated. That may seem melodramatic, but it hit my confidence so hard that the first thing I did the next morning was text my friend saying, ‘Want a blozza? I got stopped mid-suck and feel inadequate‘. Obviously he did, and we ended up shagging later that night. I, however, did not feel the slightest bit better about myself even though I got the reaction that I wanted. The next time I saw the initial guy, though, he asked for head and loved it. And all was right with the world.

When you laugh in someone’s mouth. The first time I got with W, we were lying on his bed watching movies. They were my choices, so I think I was significantly more into them than he was; he talked the whole way through The Big Lebowski, and decided that Megamind was the perfect time to keep trying to get it on. I’ve seen both a shit tonne of times so basically know exactly what’s going on at any given moment and can anticipate what’s to come. So, there we were making out during this delightful children’s movie when my favourite line comes up – ‘Ollo‘. Because Megamind can’t say ‘hello‘. I burst out laughing in his mouth. Yes, I’m about 5 years old. He literally jumped away from me to the other side of the bed, whilst I carried on laughing. This was the second time we’d met. I think I semi-apologised, but more just explained that it was a fucking hilarious line. He edged towards me and said, ‘Don’t do that again. That was so awkward.’ 11 months later and it’s still my favourite memory with him.

Have you experienced any of these situations? What awkward things have you encountered during sexy times?

Oops!…I Did It Again

First off, can I just say – two song title titles in a row? I should be writing for Grey’s Anatomy.

So, if you remember, I was supposedly using this ginger kid I met on Tinder. I say supposedly because I really don’t think I was, but let me lay all this drama llama out there and you can decide for yourself..

I know I said I had no interest in seeing him again, but, as was inevitable, he did ask if I wanted to do something on Friday night – the ‘something’ obviously being sexy time. As I am incapable of making [good] decisions, I asked a selection of friends what I should do. Basically, they all said ‘NO’. Consequently, I said ‘yes’. I messaged TG back to finalise plans and to casually let him know that I wouldn’t be staying over. I don’t think he was overly happy with that as he asked, ‘oh, was it the cuddling?’ but he accepted it regardless.

The evening rolled around, I threw on a jumper and leggings (classic combo) and headed over to his. We drank some wine, had some sex, and he walked me to the bus stop.

What a freaking lovely evening. I didn’t feel like I had used him at all. Everyone else had been wrong. I was right, like always. Fuck the haterz etc.

So, after going to bed feeling satisfied, I woke up the next morning in agony. Literally, is there anything worse than a bruised vagina? It hurt to put pants on. It hurt to walk around. It hurt to pee. It hurt to just fucking sit down. Prince Harry had well and truly fucked me.

Obviously I then complained about it to everyone, basically to announce that I got laid again – like The Lonely Island but just a touch more subtle

Needless to say, not one soul offered me any sympathy. So, after being called a slut and getting told that I used the poor ginger again, I, like the trooper I am, used my banged up fanny as an excuse to lay on the sofa and watch reruns of Sex and the City all day.

Naturally, five hours passed by and I was late to start getting ready for my friend’s birthday shindig. I cried to my best friend over whatsapp about how none of my clothes felt comfortable and then eventually settled on leggings and a blouse – classic me.

Drinks and dancing was super fun, but once I realised that I would miss the last rail replacement bus and decided that I was completely against taking the night bus home, I messaged Ben and asked what he was doing. Not unto my surprise, he had all the time in the world for me and after a quick ‘but you’ll have to stay over’ caveat, I was on my way.

Look, I know how this sounds, but I really wasn’t just using his place as a means to avoid the nightbus (but if you knew how rapey my walk home is, you’d totally understand). The night went as you’d expect it to go, though I’m not sure that was wise considering the state of my vagina at the time. I did disclose the situation at hand when he collected me from the station – he seemed far too overjoyed at the thought of me opting to stay over just for cuddles –  so he was fairly careful with me, but it was still pretty rough going.

Sex aside, he’s nice to talk to and we do get on. But, alas, the kid, at some point during the night, administered what I like to call ‘the kiss of death’. HE KISSED ME ON THE FOREHEAD. THE FOREHEAD, GUYS. So, obviously that meant he had to go.

I’ve yet to meet someone who truly understands my hatred for this ungodly act. They get that it’s weird when boys you’ve just met in da club do it (trust me, it happens), and that it is a very affectionate thing to do, but, overall, most people think it’s actually really nice.

They are wrong.

It’s actually just really inappropriate. Forehead kisses are for real love. Forehead kisses are what I give my little cousins when I’m standing behind them and brushing their hair away from their little faces. Forehead kisses are what my grandparents give me. Forehead kisses are what I imagine my future husband will give me when I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in our kitchen and he’s just stolen my mug of coffee. Forehead kisses are not for booty calls. It’s just too much.

Couple this with the incessant need to cuddle, and it was game over for Tinder Ginger. We obviously just needed and wanted different things. Maybe it’s harsh, but I think it’s fair. And, because I’m a bitch, I obviously didn’t say this to him and  just ignored his subsequent messages instead. Whoops.

Although I still think that I didn’t use him, some of you may have re-evaluated your opinions! What do you think – did I use the kid?

You know that I could use somebody..

So, last night, after watching the new Made In Chelsea (yes, I watch it; no, I’m not ashamed of that) I was telling a friend how the show essentially leaves me with no faith in men. This quickly turned into a bit of a ‘men are shit’ moan as I started watching John Tucker Must Die afterwards. Though he was technically not wrong to counter with positing that women can also be pretty shit, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear and our conversation went something like this:

Me – True, except I don’t know any shady girls. But 90% of boys I know are shit to girls

W – True. 90% of girls I know use men

Me – I don’t use men

W – Tinder Ginger?

I matched Tinder Ginger (TG) a couple of weeks ago, and, after a few days of talking, he decided to strike whilst the iron was hot and ask to meet up. So, we pencilled in plans for the following week. However, whilst I was slightly tipsy and out with my friends that Friday, I messaged him and asked what he was up to. Long story short – we met up, went for a drink, and went back to his.

I don’t think I need to tell you what occurred back at his, but I will; SEX. Sex occurred. Sex occurred after four months of not occurring.

I didn’t need to clarify that for you, did I? Who wouldn’t understand that that was essentially the plan from the get go? What boy doesn’t take a drunk girl asking ‘wanna do something?’ on a Friday night to mean ‘wanna fuck?’

With that in mind, here’s the rest of the conversation with W:

Me – I don’t think I used him. He knew what that was

W – So? Knowing doesn’t stop it being using

Me – Not if it’s mutual

W – You Tindered him for just sex. That’s by definition using. You used him. You knew it was just sex. He clearly didn’t as he’s still talking to you

Me – No one meets on Tinder and has sex straight away and thinks it’s more than just sex

W – He does

Me – Nah, it’s friendly

W – Is this how you get all your friends?

I maintain that I didn’t use the boy because there’s no way he didn’t know what that whole dalliance was about, and I think that knowing does stop it from being using. I didn’t lie to him or deceive him in any way. He understood what I wanted and complied accordingly. Also, he had a fucking great time. A better time than me, even. I know because I kept count.

TG was actually a really nice guy – a 26 year old graphic designer who not only somehow found the patience to listen to his crazy one night stand talk about her love of penguins in children’s books, but also knew the books, and their authors and illustrators. We got along really well, minus his incessant need to cuddle, and I ended up staying ’til half past one the next day. But it was what it was, and I didn’t really expect to hear from him again.

After I left his house, I went to meet W for lunch (in my same clothes – so classy, I know), and in the twenty minutes it took me to get to Carnaby Street, I knew that I didn’t really have any intention of seeing him again. I’d gotten what I set out to get and so I was over it.

Okay, so I suppose if you want to be a pedantic little bitch about it, I may have used him. If you’re not a cunt, however, you’ll see that the negative connotations of ‘using someone’ don’t really apply here and no gingers were harmed in the quenching of my thirst.

What do you think? Did I use the kid? Or is it just part of the nature of adult sexual relationships?

‘I don’t know you won’t put me in a suitcase..’

Let’s be honest; the internet can be pretty fucking shady. You never know what’s really going on or who you’re really talking to. We’ve all seen Catfish; relative anonymity is a powerful tool. So, when it comes to internet dating, or meeting anyone from any kind of social media platform, really, you can never be too careful. I grew up in a fairly protective household, and although I thought my parents overdid it, their weariness of strangers has definitely rubbed off on me. You don’t know who’s sitting behind the keyboard; everyone is a potential rapist or murderer.

Save for when I was 15 and would talk to strangers over MSN and MySpace, I had no real experience in talking to people I didn’t know until my friends and I all got ourselves on Tinder last summer. My initial impressions weren’t great, as the first message I received was:

You look like you’re a naughty girl.

Needless to say, he was promptly blocked. Slightly more wary, I continued to sift through the abundance of unappealing boys with no chat until I came across one who was basically my twin. We got along like a house on fire, and ended up talking consistently for days. After a few days, he started to mention that we should meet up, which, of course, scared me shitless. I’d already sort of eliminated the Catfish worry, as we’d obviously already exchanged Snapchats by then, and I had indeed confirmed that he was the same boy in his pictures. To be honest, though, as Tinder profiles are connected to Facebook profiles, I’m not overly worried about someone not physically being the same person. Sure, he may be the brown haired boy in the suit, but so was Patrick Bateman.

YOU WOULD NEVER KNOW

After endless excuses, I finally admitted that I was just plain ol’ scared – that I didn’t know he wouldn’t put me in a suitcase. He thought I was being irrational, I was as serious as I’d ever been. That week, a girl in her mid-twenties had been found in a suitcase near where I live, and her murderer has only just been found guilty. Stories like this, sadly, come around far too often – you really never can be too careful. Before you start, I obviously don’t mean to trivialise what happened to this poor girl. It’s just that sometimes you can’t just say, ‘sorry, I’m scared you’ll rape and murder me’. Like I said, the internet is pretty fucking shady, and you can never be too careful. So, without further ado, here are some of the results of the ‘suitcase line’..

W – The first time I threw this worry out there, the first time I ever met anyone off of the internet, was with W. When I first met him at a pub around the corner from the library, he whatsapped me saying, ‘I’ll be the one with the suitcase’ – I laughed, but it didn’t put me at ease. Two days later, when I ended up in his bedroom, he pointed out everything that he would be able to fit me in if he chopped me up. I felt at ease when it dawned on me that boys may also have reservations when it comes to going home with strangers – as we were falling asleep he mumbled, ‘don’t steal my shit while I’m sleeping’. Classic.

J – Click the link for some context on this kid; it’ll help infinite amounts. To summarise, though, J was essentially a massive toff and, unsurprisingly, was not amused by my suitcase fears. Obviously he was just boring. When he met me at the station and we started walking towards the pub, he said that he had considered picking me up in his car because it was raining. He then went on to explain that he didn’t because he knew I wouldn’t be cool with getting into a stranger’s car, especially as his car has tinted windows and looks a little bit rapey. As he saw my brow start to furrow, he quickly let out a nervous, ‘and there’s a suitcase in the back’. My mouth literally dropped. I decided he was kidding. So, after a brief return to his house for more drinks and ‘privacy’, I let him give me a lift back to the station. I tentatively opened the front passenger side door to the rape car and peered around the front seat. Lo and behold, there it was – a big arse suitcase. I got in the car regardless as I figured that if he was going to murder me, he would have done it already. I ignore his messages now.

P – This kid was undoubtedly the cutest. He had a youngish face and seemed really sweet, which obviously meant I needed to be extra careful. He laughed off the suitcase line with an, ‘I only have a duffel’ and I was hooked. He added me on Facebook to put me at ease and off I went to meet him for sex drinks. Drinks went swimmingly – he was boyishly charming and I was endearingly awkward – so we moved the party back to his. He had told me that night that he was in the process of moving house, so I expected to walk into a mess of a flat. However, what I found myself in was far, far worse. The place was barren. BARREN. There was literally nothing there but the furniture that came with the place. The fridge was unplugged. There were no toiletries in the bathroom. THERE WERE NO SHEETS ON THE BED. I knew it; he was going to murder me. This was the most suitcasey situation, ever. I questioned him endlessly. Was this even his flat?! Eventually he threw me on the bed and had his way with me. His innocent little face was a lie. He fucked like Christian Bale in American Psycho (minus the mirror). I stopped waiting for a suitcase and started anticipating a fucking chainsaw. As you can see, though, I survived to tell the tale.

There have been other miscellaneous responses – I get a lot of, ‘could you fit in a suitcase?’ Sorry, are you implying that I’m huge? Some boys play along, some boys think it’s insensitive – so it’s also kind of a way to gauge how fucking dull they are, too. Essentially, though, my point is that you should always be safe. Always meet in public places and always let someone know where you are. Don’t let anyone put you in a situation where you feel uncomfortable or at risk. They WILL try to do this; I am genuinely shocked by the amount of boys that think I will just turn up on their doorstep without having properly vetted them first. Men are morons.

What’s in a name? That which we call a whore…

When I was at school, I used to flirt with the barista at my local Starbucks to get free syrups and espresso shots, as well as the occasional lemon and poppy seed muffin.

Sometimes, when I’m out in da club, I make ‘the eyes’ at random men so as to milk them for free drinks.

Last summer, I gave my friend a blow job in exchange for him purchasing me an ice cream.

Which one of these sounds the worst to you? No, you’re wrong. Try again.

Trading actual sexual favours for material edible goods may seem like the most slutty and whore like thing to do here, but, if you think about it, it’s really the most honest and forthright. Are you thinking about it? Do you get it? Let me explain –

So, it was the first week of September and London was going through some kind of disgusting heat wave. I’m talking old men with their moobs out on the tube, sweaty fannies gasping for air, everything smelling like balls, and thunder thighs everywhere chafing in full force kind of disgusting. It was grim. To make matters worse, W and I were holed up in a classroom on campus, slowly losing the will to live. He was revising for an exam and I was line editing my thesis. LINE EDITING. Do you honestly know of anything worse?! As the day wore on and we started to become more and more unfocused, he started to subtly suggest that we have sex. But, alas, I was on my period. IN THAT HEAT. Like I said – slowly losing the will to live. Now, we all know that in boys’ minds, period week = blowjob week, so it’s no big surprise where the discussion quickly headed. Due to aforementioned heat and leaky vagina, I wasn’t in the most selfless of moods – so we started to barter.

Did I want a coffee? No. Did I want an IOU? No. Did I want a gin ‘n’ tonic? No. Did I want to just make a mess and have sex anyway? No. Did I want an ice cream? Fuck yes.

It was literally that simple. We got under the desk and got to it. 8 minutes later I was skipping down the stairs, excited to wrap my tongue around something far sweeter.

We both knew exactly what was going on. We knew exactly what we were giving, and we knew exactly what we were getting in return. No miscommunication. No misdirection. No bullshit.

What’s so bad about that?

We’ve all been – or encountered – the girl who bats her lashes, flashes a smile and somehow ends up with a double vodka and lemonade in her hand. We all know that look on the guy’s face when the girl walks away – that really sad cross between bewildered and defeated. It’s kind of pathetic. Having said that, men shouldn’t be so fucking naive. It is highly unlikely that the girl way hotter than you is actually interested in what your mother said on the phone this morning or how you deal with your receding hairline. You need a reality slap. Moreover, no one likes girls who do this! Obviously I’m okay with it, though, as I do tend to do it from time to time; only when I’m really drunk, though, and my conscience has been rendered to that of a free loading slut. I feel bad in the morning, if that means anything.

Anyway, as you can see, this kind of situation is full of deception and manipulation, people not knowing where they stand, and people getting let down. Now, that’s bad.

If you hadn’t realised, I like to be candid. It makes life infinitely easier, and, let’s face it, more entertaining. So I propose this – next time you want something, ask for it. Don’t lie and cheat your way to it. Ask for it straight up and then haggle your way to it. This is literally how civilisations are built. Anth 101 – Gift Exchange, bitches.

I know, I know; you’re sceptical and you still think I’m a whore. Frankly, I think I undersold myself.