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?

That time a boy smacked me

The year is 2011 and I am off my face at the shots bar – oh, look at that, another story that starts with me being drunk in da club at university. Anyway, there I am, bopping along to whatever Rihanna song was big that year, waiting to order a shot of tequila and a shot of Sours, when this boy, Sean, appears behind me.


I had been getting with Romanian Boy on and off since the beginning of first year. He was a nice boy with a complicated girlfriend issue and I’d kiss him every time they broke up. Don’t say anything; I already know. A year and a half of this later and a couple of weeks before aforementioned shots bar night, we were making out in da club when I told him, ‘No, I don’t want to go back to your grimey house and have sex in your hot tub‘. Fair enough, right? After trying to convince me I was making the wrong decision, he so tactfully said, ‘Fine; I’m seeing someone else anyway‘.

literally my expression

I yelled at him, turned around, and walked away. I thought I handled the situation fairly well. Nothing I said was unwarranted; he had most definitely been a massive bellend. I searched all three floors of the club for my friends so I could vent to them. They were not happy with Romanian Boy’s behaviour.

Steph and Sarah decided that they needed to have words with him. Despite my many objections, my overly protective friends hunted down the slimey boy and waded through his group of friends to give him a good ol’ bollocking whilst I stood on the sidelines feeling awkward as fuck. From what she says, Steph’s chat with the kid was relatively calm and non-confrontational. He even apologised to me. Somehow, though, his housemates, Sean and James, had managed to get themselves involved. Sean had been fairly pally with me, but he was sleazy and I was having none of it. After the third, ‘don’t touch me‘, things escalated all over the place. I can’t really tell you exactly what happened, or how, or why, because I’m not entirely sure what did happen, or how, or why. But, boy, did things escalate. Everyone was yelling at each other, there was pushing and shoving and copious amounts of name calling, and Romanian Boy standing there in the midst of it all, with the meekest ‘what the fuck have I done’ look painted across his face.

So, back to the shots bar. Sean is behind me and behaving like a child. He makes not so subtle jokes about Romanian Boy and pulls my hair like we’re seven years old. Then he pulls my skirt up. All  the way up over my bum and fanny. Control pants on show and everything. WHAT. THE. FUCK. I lose my shit. We’re not friends. It’s not banter; it’s harassment. I try to smack him in my rage but there’s so little space to turn around and lift my arms I end up clumsily hitting his nose instead. He sneezes about 6 times and we laugh, order our drinks and go our separate ways.

Two minutes later, I suddenly feel liquid streaming down my forehead and through my hair. Again, I lose my shit. I walk over to Sean, James and Romanian Boy and confront them on the matter. Sarah sees that shit is going down and tries to help me. James throws drinks at both of us. Things escalate. Sean and James shove me. James smacks me across the face. Sean grabs hold of both my arms and backs me up against the wall, telling me to calm down. I glare at Romanian Boy who is standing there like the most spineless little bitch I have ever seen. I am not strong compared to these boys. A random girl sees what is happening and tells them to leave me alone and asks if I am okay. She then goes to get a bouncer. James gets kicked out and barred for 12 months.

Sometimes boys hit girls. I’m not talking about domestic violence or spousal abuse (which goes both ways), but these random and unnecessary fights that tend to happen when you’re out. This story would look completely different if everyone involved was female. When I tell the story, all the emphasis is on the fact that a boy hit me. If it was a girl, it would be less of a story and more, ‘this psycho bitch slapped me for no reason; what a cunt’. If it was a girl who had hit a boy, it would probably be the same kind of ‘pyscho bitch’ sentiment and even less of a story. Why is that?

I don’t have a soapbox to stand on, just a question – why is it still so socially and culturally taboo for a boy to hit a girl? Maybe my understanding of equality is different, or maybe I didn’t pay enough attention during my Anthropology of Gender module, but, isn’t it a bit hypocritical? Feminism is about equality, right? We fight for equal rights when it comes to education, jobs, money and our sexuality; we argue that our biology and physiology isn’t a hindrance to us. So, why is it that we can smack a boy, but he’s not allowed to react to it physically?

Because this is the internet, I feel like I need to add a disclaimer – obviously, violence is never the answer and I am not in any way condoning it. I don’t think that boys should be allowed to hit girls, because, generally, they are stronger. Is that ‘sexist’ to say? In my experience, it’s just the truth. It’s likely I’ve just spouted a load of shit, and now all the militant fourth wave feminists are coming to tie my tubes, but I thought it was an interesting thought, at least. What do you think?

This is purposely provocative and controversial, but, are you still a feminist if you’re outraged that a boy has hit you, and your outrage is at the fact that he is a boy?