Let us discuss the word ‘ladylike.’ This word conjures the idea of demure high-society women nibbling on tiny sandwiches before patting daintily at their unsullied lips with napkins. Sorry, serviettes. Or whatever one calls them in order to avoid a terrible faux-pas.

The word ‘ladylike’ can, in my opinion, be applied to anyone – female or not. The key is ‘is your behaviour a type which the Victorians deemed acceptable for high-society ladies?’ These days we don’t expect anyone (male or female) to behave in the ways the Victorians deemed suitable for high-society ladies – we’d all be fainting and gagging for a pasty before you could say ‘I take my tea with lemon, Jeeves’. Hence why the word is useful, because it can be funny when applied to people who are being disgusting. Downed ten pints then puked in a gutter? Not very ladylike. Eaten an entire packet of Cadbury’s Twirl Bites then burped loud enough to disturb the neighbours? Unladylike. Shat your trousers on a rollercoaster? Likewise.

I don’t personally think the word ‘ladylike’ itself is necessarily misogynist – it’s just an outdated label that can be applied in various ways. So, as with all words – slippery little bastards at the best of times – I think a lot depends on context and intent.

Bodily functions

Unfortunately for the word ‘ladylike’, it is most frequently used in contexts which make me want to hurl large blunt objects at delightfully shattery china. It is often used for comedy, but more often used as a reminder to women that they shouldn’t admit to having any bodily functions at all.

There are two reasons I’m writing this blog. Firstly, because I overheard a conversation in a restaurant recently that went something like this:

Small girlchild: burp
Second small girlchild: giggle
Mother of aforementioned small children: Don’t do that, it’s disgusting.
Small child 1: Why?
Mother: We’re at the dinner table. Besides, it’s not very ladylike.

When I was a little girl I loved many things that I considered ‘ladylike’ – tiny china teasets, huge frilly dresses that I could spill Ribena down at parties, and (please stop laughing at the back) ballet pumps. But if someone had told me then that in order to maintain a veneer of ladylike charm I’d have to not just acquire these frilly things but also refrain from doing other things I liked – making mud pies, burping, running along the landing naked after a bath with a towel streaming behind me while I shouted “Der ner ner ner ner ner ner ner BATMAN” – I’d have hurled my cup of Ribena into their stupid narrow-minded face.

The second reason I felt compelled to mash wildly on my keyboard in barely-disguised and possibly excessive rage is that I read this interview. Take your time, have a read, and come back when you’ve reached the point that you think my head exploded.

Anyone who guessed ‘some time during the first question’ is correct. The woman being interviewed is a science writer. I’m not familiar with her work but it sounds brilliant, not least because she’s written a book about sexual arousal called ‘Bonk.’ However, rather than ask her something about all the fascinating things that she’s studied, or what drew her to the subject matter, the interviewer instead jokes that it’s not ‘ladylike’ for her to wonder what happens to the anus when it has a cellphone inside it.

I’m not saying the interviewer is an evil person and needs to be crushed, but were I to meet them in person I’d certainly be tempted to ask the startlingly obvious question: “would that have been your first question to a man?” Would the first thing they probed be whether the subject matter was a bit inappropriate or un-dainty? I doubt it.

It’s my body and I’ll piss out of it if I want to

I’ve frequently heard grown adults talking about women’s bodily functions in ways which imply that we, as women, have some sort of superhuman level of self-control which means we are never scruffy, pissed, obnoxious or irritably-bowelled. I’ve met girls who’d be horrified if they accidentally farted in front of a boyfriend, or boyfriends who would be disgusted to walk into the toilet post-shit and smell something other than roses.

Sure, burping might not be polite. Farting, swearing, talking loudly about getting fisted or accidentally pissing your knickers on the night bus: all of these things can certainly be considered rude, or gross, or inappropriate. But the idea that they’re more gross and inappropriate just because a woman is doing them is ridiculous.

Women are brilliant, I’ll grant you. But we’re no more skilled than men when it comes to being able to control our bodily functions. We’re disgusting and messy and we smell. We leak strange juices, burp when we’re windy, get rolls of fat when we sit down wearing tight jeans. We’re curious about what people put up their arses. We sweat and we swear and we get drunk and fall over. Occasionally we even shit in the woods.

So I think what I’m trying to say is that there are certain rules of politeness that I’m happy to adhere to: I won’t burp at the dinner table or do the Batman-towel thing in polite company. But I’ll only follow these rules if they apply to everyone. I’m not going to sit demurely in a corner stifling my farts if you’re allowed to trump with gay abandon in the seat next to me.

I am woman, hear me burp.

I’ve heard it said that one should never kiss and tell. But I disagree. Naturally. If this were a universal moral truth there’d be no discussion of sex other than as an abstract concept, and certainly no sex blogs for us to get wet and sticky over.

Because I am not a weapons-grade arsehole, I don’t just blunder around writing real-life sex stories without regard for the ethics: I think you can kiss and tell in a way that’s fair. In a way that not only maintains respect for your past partners but also enables you to be open about the more sordid things you’ve done with them.

What the men on the train are saying

“I was slapping her arse and everything, mate.”

As I write this, I’m sitting on a two hour train heading back to London. As on all weekend trains, the token group of obnoxious loud people (in this instance a group of twenty-something guys) have made a beeline for my carriage. On the surface it sounds like they had a pretty hot time this weekend. Yet strangely, if it weren’t for all the guttural guffaws of laughter, if I actually just listened to the words they used, it would be impossible to tell whether they enjoyed themselves or not.

This weekend they either met and shagged some women who fancied them, or made selfish sexual use of some sub-human creatures who made them want to vomit: I cannot tell which.

“She was going at me so hard. I’ve never had so much attention.”

They’re dissecting the sex they had. I believe (although you’ll appreciate I’m relaying this story third hand) that one of them got a blow job.

“I thought there’d be blood, mate, she was so gaggin'”

“You fuckin’ nasty bastard.”

At one point, at least, the two women acquiesced to their request to ‘lez off‘ so they could watch.

“They were going right at each other’s minges, mate. It was fucking disgusting.”

I know that one of these gentlemen believed a certain girl’s exertions to be too much:

“I could smell her tit sweat, man, it was rank.”

And that at least one member of the group had concerns about the effect that their sexual shenanigans might have on his reputation.

“We’re keeping this to ourselves, are we? Because it sounds like you’re telling every cunt.”

Where’s the enjoyment?

Fascinating though this conversation is, I’m hoping it’ll stop soon. Because it makes me want to tear things to shreds.

There’s nothing wrong with having a gang-bang with a few women and a selection of your most obnoxious chums. In fact, I’d say it might be one of my ideal weekends. I imagine I might play the part of the lady who was not only ‘gagging’ but also getting fairly sweaty, because I find sex is a bit more fun if you put your back into it.

But the problem here isn’t that they’re dissecting the hot time they had, it’s the fact that at no point have any of them suggested that it was something they wanted to do. Something that they enjoyed. The braying, raucous laughter hints that it must have been quite fun, but their words imply it was an unpleasant thing that just happened to them. As if, while minding their own loudmouthed business, they were suddenly jumped by a pack of ‘desperate birds’, who they kindly deigned to fuck despite the girls’ ‘grotty tattoos’ and obscene desire to fellate them.

The caricatures that they draw with their tawdry, disdainful words make the girls look awful, desperate, ugly and pathetic. The sex itself sounds miserable and grotesque.

We all have the capacity to be bastards

Of course this isn’t just a male thing. Women don’t always dissect sexual activity with a shy smile and a neutral ‘well, to each his own.’ Each and every one of us is capable of being cruel and dismissive of ex-lovers, of telling tales that paint our past fucks as grotesque and regretful accidents.

“Tiny cock.”
“Crap shag.”
“Didn’t put any effort in.”
“Smelled like a brewer’s arsehole.”

These statements might be true, of course. Not everything is perfect, and to expect all sex to come with roses, romance and volcanoes of orgasmic fluid would be naïve to the point of stupidity.

So, in order to be nice, do we just avoid talking about the bad fucks? Of course not. One of the best ways to let a new partner know that I don’t like it when guys bite me is to tell him about the time a guy kept biting me and it was horrible. Likewise if a guy asks how his cock measures up to previous partners, I’d be a fool to pretend that they were all hung like a stud donkey.

But as everyone’s parents know, and have told us all repeatedly: it’s not what you say, its the way you say it.

How not to be a dick

I know there are a couple of guys (and girls) who will read my blog (or even my book) and cringe in anticipation of a poor review. People I’ve slept with once or twice and then never again, who’ll be hoping that I don’t write something contemptuous on page 73 about their mouse-cock or post-orgasmic sobbing.

I, in turn, hope that no one will read their story and be upset. That although there might be truth spoken, there’ll be no barbs thrown unnecessarily, no casual scorn, and no ill-judged disdain for those who’ve been generous enough to bestow their fuck upon me.

For what it’s worth, I try to follow these rules:

1. Keep them anonymous.

An anonymous lover can always step forward and claim credit if they want it, but once you’ve named someone they can never erase the association.

2. Speak well of them.

You don’t need to lie, or pretend someone rocked your world when they only tickled your funny bone – you just need to treat your past fucks like real people: with emotions and flaws and the capacity to be so pierced with shame that they want to curl up and cry forever.

This second rule is the most important not just so that you can avoid making people unnecessarily miserable, but because it’ll make a big difference to any fucks you might get in the future. If, when you’re telling me about a previous shag, it sounds like you did it with a vague sense of hatred for your hapless partner, then I am spectacularly unlikely to drop my knickers and let you screw me with a similar degree of contempt. Being angry is fine, if they gave you cause to be. Being upset is OK too. But being outright disdainful? Spewing bile because someone had the audacity to have sex with you in a way that either wasn’t as you expected or that you later came to regret? That’s cruel. And it’s not them that looks bad when you do that: it’s you.

I’m a fan of honesty, but you have to be honest about everything. Don’t tell people that so-and-so was an appalling shag without explaining what it was about him that made you want to fuck him in the first place. Don’t tell people some ‘slag’ was ‘gagging’ for your cock and miss out the crucial detail that you asked her to suck it. At the very least, it should be possible for the person you’re telling to understand that the sex was something you did willingly, something you expected to enjoy.

And as for me, I know I’ve had crap sex with some people. I disappoint men on a worryingly regular basis, and I’m more than happy for them to discuss my flaws. Tell people I was lazy. Tell them I was crap. Tell them I make stupid whining noises when I come and that I pull faces like I’m competing in a gurning contest at an ugly convention. But remember that somewhere within all of these truths is a real person with feelings and desires. A person who, once upon a time, you desperately wanted to fuck.

I am becoming a little bit uncomfortable with my apparent lack of sexual accessories.

There are some things you can’t really do without the equipment: pegging is tricky without the strap-on, you’d either end up humping lacklustrely at a rather bored gentleman or doing him an injury with something homemade and as unsexy as it is unsafe. But the vast majority of filth can be improvised – why spend £100 on a hand-cut leather tawse when you could just beat your loved-one with a flip-flop? You can buy them from the pound shop, and the sound is eminently more satisfying.

What’s more (and I feel I might have to hand in my sex blogger membership card at this point) the toys I do have spend far more time at the back of a cupboard than up against my cervix.

Reviewing sex toys

I’ve held off on doing it for this long, and every time a company approaches me asking me to review something or put an affiliate link on my site I’ve said no. Not because I’m a snob (if you can make money by slapping ads on your blog then you have my blessing and a fair bit of my envy as well) but because I can’t work out how to do it in a way that would be even vaguely entertaining for either my readers or, quite frankly, myself.

First someone has to send me a sex toy (which requires me to either give them my address or have a designated friend who is willing to accept daily dildos through the post), then I have to put it in my cunt, then I have to write approximately 600 words about it. No matter how skilled I am, I’m not sure I could muster 600 words about what is essentially just a wank. Most of my sex toy reviews would end up something along these lines:

“I put it in my cunt for a bit and it made me come. Would have been better if it wasn’t pink. 6/10”

Alternatively, I have to persuade a boy that rather than pull my knickers down and fuck me up against the mirror in the hallway, he instead has to ravish me with something provided by a friendly PR company, and dissect the whole experience ten minutes later. There might be giggly fun involved if it’s a particularly crap review, but I think the very act of reviewing something would give it a disadvantage: just as jokes stop being funny when they’re explained, being fucked with a ten-inch dildo would be far less sexy if you have to take mental notes.

What’s in your sex toy cupboard?

But when people ask me what my favourite sex toy is, or the sort of sex toys I’m drawn to, I have to admit to feeling a bit ashamed. A bit inadequate. Like I’m not a proper pervert because I don’t have drawers full of the things just waiting to be jizzed on at a moment’s notice.

I have a fairly decent box of tricks: buttplugs, sheaths, a couple of vibrators, a few hitting things, a strap-on, an amazing pair of nipple clamps with a heavy chain running between the two, an assortment of tools such as pliers that I leave in my toy drawer purely to scare the shit out of people. But the fact that I own these things proves nothing other than that at some point I bought them. I’m far less likely to use even my favourite toys than I am to just sit on a guy’s dick.

And yet people ask – how many do you have? Or ‘what do you have?’ Or ‘why don’t you do reviews?’ and I feel embarrassed. Like I’m not a real pervert unless my letterbox is clogged with suspiciously-shaped parcels. Some perverts like the parcels. Some people are more excited by a shag when they can use their kit and experiment with new ways to beat, whip, shock or fuck someone. And that is both admirable and hot. It’s just not me.

A tiny cynical part of my brain wonders if one of the driving forces behind the fact that we’re becoming more open about sex (which I think we are, hooray!) is that there are now far more ways to make money out of it. From making and selling sex toys to writing a dirty book or throwing wild parties which, for the bargain price of fifty quid, you can attend dressed only in your pants.

There’s nothing wrong with this, of course. Making money is good, sex is good, giving people a way to make money by providing things people can insert into themselves is good. But it, like everything else sexual, isn’t universal. For every toy-hungry pervert with a drawer full of wonders there’s someone like me looking blankly at my pitiful collection of underused dildos and wondering just what, exactly, I’m doing wrong.

So for those of you who are like me, who haven’t got a great collection and don’t crave the latest things, here’s the answer: you’re doing nothing wrong. You’re just doing something differently.