In my house, Game of Thrones is affectionately referred to as “Tits n Dragons.” I don’t need to explain why, but what I am going to talk about is my shameless delight in unexpected moments of TV filth.

As a child of the nineties, I used to stay up late on Friday night, willing my family to go to bed early so I could dangerwank to Eurotrash. The joy of Eurotrash was that masturbating to it was genuinely challenging. One minute you’d be watching latex-clad dominatrixes beating the living daylights out of eager men in a Bavarian castle, the next you’d be confronted with a grotesque montage of custard pies shaped like disease-ridden genitals. You had to time it right.

But Eurotrash was primarily watched by horny folk like me who could guarantee that if they tuned in they’d be turned on by one thing or another. Because it was so obviously a wankers’ programme, when it delivered on the promise of nakedness, I tingled with horniness but never excitement.

Best surprise TV filth

There were shows, though, that managed to draw you in with an exciting and non-sexual plot, then hit you with the gift of out-of-the-blue shagging, and I treasured those moments far more than my deliberately sought-out wank material. Just as chocolate tastes better if someone’s brought it as a nice surprise than if you binge-buy packs of Wispas in Tesco then scoff them all on your own, surprise TV filth is ten times more delicious if it’s unexpected.

What prompted these thoughts? Well, most recently it happened during my very belated introduction to Weeds, specifically the episode where Nancy Botwin gets spanked by a drug kingpin. The sudden rush of horny meant I didn’t really focus on what was happening for the next five minutes. Weeds is full of these filthy moments, and even relatively tame action (Silas Botwin removing his shirt, bending over, or just… you know… existing) can make my eyes glaze over and my cunt start to throb.

There are loads of great TV shows that do this: Game of Thrones (obviously not that much of a surprise, it’s so expected there’s even a supercut of All The Sex Scenes), Misfits (which I’ve mentioned lustily before), and that moment in The Wire when Stringer Bell pulls the zip down on Donette’s tracksuit. If you have any other recommendations of shows with great plot and occasional filth, please do leave them in the comments. I am a conoisseur of this shit.

God bless Moll Flanders

Like most pervy quirks, though, this joy began when I was young and hormonal, and was prompted by Moll Flanders – a BBC drama series from the mid-nineties, starring Alex Kingston as ‘the wickedest woman in England.’ I can’t remember what she did that was so wicked, but I can remember that she fucked an awful lot of people. Beautifully.

The scene that sticks with me involves Moll selling sex to upper-class gentlemen. Having fallen on hard times, Moll sets out to make some money. In the crucial scene, she’s sitting in the lap of an old guy in the back of a horse-drawn carriage, wearing period costume. Her corset is unlaced, and she’s facing away from the guy in question, wearing a stony, bored expression as she fucks him in solid rhythm. His excited shouts, her total apathy, and the desperate glee of the other guy in the cab watching them was all a bit much for my eager young mind. I shivered with an almost painful kick of lust, felt the rush of wetness in my knickers, and prayed silently for some alone time so I could process the image properly.

I clearly haven’t processed it properly because the scene still pops up regularly in my fantasies. That exact scene. Two guys, period costumes, and a bored fuck from Moll Flanders.

Does this video still exist, you ask? Well, I did a bit of research and I’m delighted to say it does. I’m clearly not the only one who found Alex Kingston incomparably captivating as the luscious, horny Moll, and had endless masturbation fantasies over apathetic fucks with horny be-costumed people. I can be confident in saying this, because the video I found isn’t in a BBC archive or on some British TV lovers’ BitTorrent site somewhere: it’s full-on Moll Flanders sex compilation on xhamster. The scene I’m referring to is about 3:40 in. You’re welcome.

This blog is a bit jumbled compared to my other ones, for which I can only apologise. There’s no coherent thread of argument, no full-on filthy story, and no real point to this other than to let you into the hodgepodge, pervy jumble-sale that is my own mind. Ladies and gentlemen of the telly, I salute you: keep up the good work. If I could make one tiny suggestion, it’d be lovely to see a few more cocks. And ladies and gentlemen who don’t make telly, just let me know which box set I should crack open when Weeds is done.

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.