Do I scare you? Do I? Go on, you can tell me. I will never, literally, bite.

An email dropped into my inbox this week linking to an article entitled “Are women intimidating to men?” and I nearly fell off my chair. I would certainly have actually fallen off my chair if I hadn’t heard this question before. If I hadn’t, on numerous occasions, been told to my actual, scary face, that I am ‘an intimidating girl.’

What makes a woman intimidating?

I’ll admit it – I’m not your average quiet type. Despite getting quakingly anxious when I have to meet new groups of people, for the most part I’m loud, opinionated, and usually ready to down two pints then give you an angry list of exactly what can fuck off.

I’m also tall, which I know doesn’t help matters. My tallness, broad shoulders, face piercings and angry frown combine to form a physical GOTN that is just as likely to blend into the background as the verbal GOTN: i.e. not.

So when people tell me I’m intimidating, I usually take it on the chin. I do not scream at them, I do not punch them, I do not launch a fly-kick at their face in the way I might if my life were directed by Quentin Tarantino. What I do is ask them: “why?”

Because more often than not their statement is only half-formed. They don’t think this dude to my right (a UKIP supporter holding forth on why immigration is a real problem for this country) or this guy to my left (a gigantic rugby player three pints into a game of pub golf) is particularly intimidating. Or at least, if they do, they have not decided to say so.

If you can tell me – to my actual face – that I’m intimidating, I am clearly not. What you really mean is: “you’re intimidating, for a woman, yet because you are a woman you cannot possibly scare me enough to prevent me from telling you.”

Women: know your limits

When I clicked on the article in question (I am not going to link to it), I expected to see a discussion of why people find women intimidating when they happen to display the same behaviour as men, possibly with commentary along the lines of ‘hey guys, equality isn’t scary, just chill the fuck out.’ But I did not find that, as you can probably tell by the steaming rage emanating from every single dot and pixel of this page.

What I found was a guide for women on how to appear less intimidating in order to get chatted up by more men. It included such advice as

“It’s a great sign if you are single and view yourself as smart, independent, happy, successful and fun. However these very traits can make you seem too intimidating for a man to approach you if you are not consciously acting open toward meeting a great guy.”

Oh, shit, sorry dudes! Did my independence scare you away? Are you twitching like a frightened rabbit because I am too fun and successful? I’d better start ‘consciously acting open’ lest my happy behaviour leads you to think I am a terrible, shrewish bitch.

It’s OK to be scared

I’m not saying it’s easy to approach someone. Talking to new people is hard, especially in an environment where your “hello” may easily (and often correctly) be interpreted as “you look like the sort of person I might want to get naked and roll around with.” You’re not a bad person because you’re intimidated by chatting people up.

But holy Christ, do I really need to point out that changing women’s behaviour is the wrong way to go about solving this problem?

Most of us are intimidated by chatting people up. But the solution is not to make the people we are chatting up less intimidating – to knock down people who are successful, funny, loud, or whatever. Because then we’d end up with a world in which all of us were quiet and demure and politely responsive and there’d be no variation in personality at all. Women would be a homogenous mass of smiling geisha, easy-to-please and inscrutable, yet never fully present or interested because they’re so busy worrying that their laughter might be too loud, their jokes too witty, or their opinions too different to your own.

Intimidating women

Are you a straight guy who’s thought to yourself that you’d love, for once, if women took the upper hand and asked the guys out? It’s not as common as I’d like it to be (although I’ve chipped in for my cause by stamping up to guys I like a few times and saying ‘fancy a fuck?’ to less success than even I expected) and if you’re a straight guy I imagine you’d like something cool like that to happen to you. But it’s rare, and for that you can thank words like ‘intimidating’, ‘bossy’, and all those subtle ways you tell us to sit down, bite our tongues, and laugh along with your jokes. Those times when you interpret “smart, independent, happy, successful and fun” as “intimidating traits” and call us scary for having the gall to be all of these things without your permission.

“Oh, but GOTN, you’re being scary right now. You’re doing that angry rant thing you do where you rip something to shreds then stand cackling at the sky like an evil feminist supervillain.”

Sure. I am ripping this ridiculous notion to shreds. But is that actually intimidating to you? Are these words so terrifying that you have to look away? That you’ll cross the street to avoid them late at night or cry yourself to sleep as you remember them? Bollocks. I’m having an opinion. I’m not wielding a samurai sword, backed up by a motorcycle gang, and – despite the wish I made when I cut my birthday cake – nor do I have an army of dragons.

Ironically, one of the things I find most intimidating is people who tell me that I’m scary in front of a large group of people, thus leaving me anxiously double-checking every statement, joke, and noise I make for the rest of the evening in case my scary self starts ruining everyone else’s fun. So, next time you meet me in a crowded bar, or even a dark alley, before you police my behaviour consider whether you are genuinely intimidated by me. Are you worried that I’ll punch you? That I’ll shout at you? That I’ll humiliate you in some way? Or, in telling me that I’m intimidating, are you actually just telling me to shut the fuck up?

Most people living in the UK will have noticed that the sun came out this weekend. I mean, even if you haven’t opened the curtains or you live in a basement you’ll have noticed that the sun’s been out, because everyone with a social media account has been commenting on the joy of being able to go outside without wrapping yourself in waterproof plastic and holding a charm to ward off floods.

Back in October, I wrote about why Autumn is sexy. Although, as a wool-wrapped goth, I’m mainly a winter person, I thought that given the mood of general sun-worship I’d do the same for summer. Here are all the hot things I’m looking forward to during that one week in mid-August when we get something resembling a warm season.

Five reasons why summer is hot

Guys get their upper arms out

That’s right, gents, your upper arms and shoulders are to me what sugar is to a five year old. The muscle definition (which most of you have even if you aren’t bulked-up gym bunnies, by the way) is temptingly squeezable. I used to have a friend who’d roll up the sleeves of his t-shirt in the summer to ensure he didn’t get a tan line halfway down his biceps. Practical and sensible, sure, but it left me melting in an oozing puddle of knicker-moistening lust.

I’m not a fan of topless guys in very public places, though. I suspect this is a by-product of living in Japan for a few years, where people frowned on public semi-nakedness in the same way as they’d frown on public defecation. Taking off your entire shirt when you’re walking down the street feels a bit aggressive to me, so I shy away from looking at men who have got everything above the waist on display.

But your shoulders? Your biceps? Those big strong arms that I imagine squeezing me around the waist or neck? I cannot get enough of them.

Playing sports in the park

Men doing things. Men doing hot things. Men running around energetically while I sit under the cool shade of a nearby tree imagining what would happen if I snuck into their changing room and held up a sign that said “I am your post-match refreshment: FEAST UPON ME!”

The physicality of park sport combined with the playful friendliness of it (I’ve rarely seen groups of hooligans chanting when there are jumpers for goalposts) makes for a deeply erotic tableau.

And just so you know, it doesn’t have to be football. In my area of London the park sport of choice is cricket. Now cricket, despite being second only to golf as the most tedious non-sport known to mankind, at least has the benefit that the players use their hands. Sexy, sexy hands.

Speedos

Do you hate Speedos? Do you disparagingly refer to them as ‘banana hammocks’ or something equally crass? Well, when I am a millionaire with my own private pool you won’t be invited to the party.

I won’t give you any bullshit about the atmosphere they evoke, or the peripheral hotness of seeing a man in these tightest of tight swimming trunks. Speedos are hot because I can see your cock: end of.

Swimming shorts are hot too, because they drape so nicely over your manly hips and arse, and look excitingly like the weight of the water could drag them down your legs at any moment. Oh, and when they get wet, guess what? I can probably see your cock.

Holiday fucking

Whether I’m stuck in a hostel, trying to have awkward sex up against a bunkbed before some backpacking strangers get back from the bar, or holed up in a cheap Spanish apartment, tipsy on sangria and lazily wanking you off before we head out for late-night tapas, holiday sex is the ultimate in ‘couldn’t give a fuck’ fun.

When I’m on holiday I don’t care in the slightest that I’m sweaty, bedraggled, blotchy, burned, or have half the Sahara and a good portion of camel hair lodged in my arse crack. Unless you’re infinitely better than I am at picking up strangers over buckets of vodka in Ibiza, holiday sex is usually sex you have with someone you’ve known for ages. Someone who is just as relaxed and de-mob happy as you are, and has more than enough time to fuck your brains out.

If you feel the same about the hotness of holiday sex and you have a spare pile of money, let me know – I’ve got an awesome idea for a travel guide listing streets, restaurants and tourist attractions in which you can surreptitiously fuck. It’s basically The Lonely Planet, but for perverts.

Delicious salty man sweat

Need I say more about this, the ultimate in filthy summer delights? Well, I can’t. Because I am too busy licking it from your neck.

In my wallet I have a coin that can’t be spent anywhere. I had six of these, once, and I can’t remember where I got them from. They look a bit like two pound pieces, but they’re designed as arcade tokens of some sort.

A long time ago I gave half of them to my boy. “These are yours,” I said. “Because you like shiny things, and because I have no idea what to do with them but they’re too satisfyingly pretty to waste, there’s something deliciously symbolic in each of us having a few.”

“OK,” he said, conveniently forgetting to add “why must you always be so weird, darling?”

Apology tokens

Later that week I got pissed. A horrible, ugly kind of pissed, the way I used to get at University when hangovers were just something that happened to other people. I made exactly the kind of fool of myself that you would expect, and that I still blush to remember. Loudly obnoxious, I made inexcusably crap jokes in front of his friends, flirted wildly with at least two of them, and said some thoughtless things to him in casual conversation that gave him a tight hurt deep in his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” I said the next morning. “I’m awful, and I will never do that again.”

“Shit, don’t worry,” he replied, because he is infinitely magnanimous and lovely like that. “Happens to the best of us.” And then he took one of my tokens.

So began a game of give-and-take. When he’d fuck up in some way, or upset me, he’d give me a token. When I fucked up, I’d hand one to him. The actual tokens were meaningless – you couldn’t buy anything with them, and they weren’t recognisable to anyone outside of our twosome. But between us they meant loads: I fucked up, I’m sorry, I love you.

It’s my fault.

Fighting and reuniting

I hate fighting. The arguments I had in past relationships were usually drawn-out affairs, in which both I and my partner would sit in spiky, accusing silence for hours, waiting for the other person to throw the next hurtful comment. When the comment came, so did the knee-jerk response, and the ground of the argument shifted from “you haven’t done the washing up” through “remember how you behaved at my friend’s wedding” to “why have you never truly loved me?” over the space of miserably bitter nights.

Because – especially for an argumentative harpy like me, who sees debate as a matter of both professional and personal pride – it’s hard to say ‘I’m wrong’. Giving ground feels not like a natural compromise between two sensible adults but like – *gulp* – losing.

Hence the tokens: it’s easier for me to give him a token than to admit a mistake. Easier to hold my hand out and ask for a token when I think he’s fucked up. It’s a way of transferring blame that doesn’t mean having to say any actual words that hurt each other.

“You’re a cunt.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“You’re wrong.”

I can just hold out my hand and hope he gives me a token. Or I can pass him one of mine, and meet his eyes, and he’ll know without me having to say it that I mean ‘fuck fuck fuck I’ve done it again and I’m so fucking sorry.’

Your fault/my fault

There’s only one token left in my wallet now, which I think means that on balance I’m a bad person. But I can’t quite be sure because this system died a long time ago. Did we just forget? Were there so many months without arguments that the system fell by the wayside? Or did he, knowing I had just that one left to hold on to, forego the chance to ‘win’ so that I wouldn’t feel too terrible?

One of the heart-achingly wonderful things about him is his power to stop arguments. As I shake and rage on my stubborn high horse, he can step forward, put out his hand and say “let’s stop fighting now.” Never “just admit you’re wrong” or “shut up and we’ll have dinner” – there’s no blame or anger, just “let’s stop fighting now.” A heartfelt desire to be held, and loved, and an understanding that although the problem remains, the fight itself is over. It means no row has to bleed over into tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

It’s one of the best things about him, and a skill that I – as a stroppy and defensive bastard – would utterly love to be able to master. It’s one of the things I boast about when I’m boring my friends with stories about how lovely he is. Relationship diplomacy at its best, and a tactic that has proven valuable during every fight we’ve ever had.

Except, inevitably, this one.

You’re not having the kind of sex you want with someone. So you talk. And you say “hey, I really like what we’re doing, but could I make a few requests? Suggestions?” And in all the happy stories and agony aunt columns we imagine a fictional partner who responds with enthusiasm and empathy and all that good stuff.

But real life isn’t always like that, more’s the pity. Here’s a guest blog from Brit Bitch Berlin about a gentleman she’s rather charmingly nicknamed Thor.

Re-Educating Thor: Sex without commitment

I had been sex-dating this guy for a few weeks, and was a bit unsure whether I was just so awed by his ripped body that I wanted to continue, or under some weird “gotta try everything once” kind of spell.

There was something about wrestling with his beautiful body, as well as perhaps enjoying the pleasure and power of wielding a butt-plug on a guy twice my size, and a decade younger, passive and bowed to my will.

However, I thought it was time to regroup, as our conversation had been limited. Very limited, till then. On the other hand, he had already enriched my vocabulary (and those of my friends, who are still reeling) by two words: butt-plug and cockslap. Did you know that you can buy butt-plugs that have diamonds inset in the heft?! And ones with a foxtail attached? Finally something for the girl who truly has everything.

Anyway, despite joyfully embracing new knowledge, I did also want to talk about boundaries and levels of intimacy. I was happy to try out new stuff with Thor and his hammer but I needed a level of intimacy that also included (for example) laughter, giggles and sensuality. I also needed to talk about contraception, because it is really tedious having to push a guy away repeatedly before he dons the plastic cape. I mean, c’mon, we are not in Kindergarten here. And unless he proposes (with a butt-plug-ring?) and swears undying fidelity, he will be wearing rubber. Ironic really that someone so into having foreign objects (made of rubber) inserted into orifices has such a problem with putting one teensy tiny flimsy layer of rubber over a small part of himself…

So having finally lured him to a public place where they served food and drink, after eyeing each other hungrily for a while, our conversation went a little bit like this:

Me: So, shall I just lay it on the line?

I would like to enjoy nights of passion with you, without being exclusive, but also with a certain level of intimacy. That means we sometimes do stuff outside the bedroom, like go out to eat, and get to know each other a little better. For me, good conversation and great food often equals good sex. Feed me well, and I will be a happy bunny between the sheets…are you getting that I am really into food?

And, I need you to use contraception always, without me having to push you into it.

Also, I don’t like it when you hit me in the face. With anything. Even if it is a soft part of your body. (OK, OK I made that bit up) Even though it doesn’t hurt. It’s not about that. It just doesn’t doesn’t turn me on. Also, when you spit on my back while you are fucking me? I don’t get it? OK your turn, what do you want?

Thor: Um well, I don’t really know…I haven’t really thought about it much. I guess I just want to relax and have a good time, without any pressure or commitment.

I felt like I was truly talking to Thor of Asgard, who had no concept of “our customs.” I guess he probably felt the same. I wish I could tell you we went back to mine and had hot sex. We didn’t. Suddenly his porn-bitch was talking back. And that was not part of the script. Oh and Asgard needed to be saved. Again.

Between you and me, I had planned to try and “make” my own personal sexual man-toy out of the raw materials at hand. It was either that, or head for Celibate-City. I failed. It’s ok. Maybe, just maybe, he will think twice before… or at least ask beforehand.

We all agree that sex is a lot of fun, and that anything consensual that makes it fun is fine. But what exactly is the POINT of a lot of these activities…? What does a man get out of, for example, cumming or spitting on a woman’s back? Isn’t it much more intense and pleasant to cum inside her whilst pleasuring her at the same time? When I was discovering my sexuality first time around, back in the 80s, men took pride in actually pleasuring you! It was about getting each other off. But now it seems like a lot of the time somehow I’m left out of all the fun. I felt like raising my hand and saying “Umm, hello, I am still here, can I have some stimulation too? Other than the visual eye candy of a man frantically wanking himself off, right in front of me??”

Call me an intellectual, but my brain needs feeding too. And not with reruns of “facefuck III”.

If you enjoyed that guest blog, you can see more of her writing at BritBitchBerlin or follow her on Twitter or Facebook. But in the meantime I’d be curious to know what you think of the above story. I think it’s a classic example of two people wanting very different things, but not realising just how different those things are until they have this conversation. I wonder if a lot of what we think is selfishness is often just a symptom of incompatible desires. If you’re a guy and you have time, I’d also love to know the answer to the question “what do you get out of cumming and/or spitting on a woman’s back?” – because, you know, I think I can guess but it would be lovely if you could explain it in a bit of detail for my personal research.*

*wanking