There’s a lot of bullshit spoken about lots of things, and never is the quantity of bullshit larger than when it comes swiftly behind a statement that ‘all’ people of a certain type are a certain way, or have certain problems. Sure, catch-all statements are often a handy shortcut, but the more you try to crowbar into that statement the greater the chance of it stinking like a dungheap.

So, in light of Some Things I Have Seen On The Internet Recently, I feel compelled to highlight a few things about feminists. Specifically, things that – while true of some of us – are categorically not true of all of us. Here are some things that ‘all feminists’ are not:

Subject to unrelenting abuse

Some people are showered with quite horrific and appalling abuse on the internet. One of the many things that ignites the ire of a miserable and hate-filled human is a woman who not only has some opinions but has the temerity to actually say them out loud. Why, it’s enough to make them want to commit a criminal offence on Twitter. This behaviour is, naturally, disgusting.

However, I’m worried that the total shitstorm of the last few days, while fantastic at highlighting what is a genuine problem for many people, has been painted by the media as a problem for ‘feminists’ (as evidenced by the fact that articles on the topic nearly all seem to refer to a ‘feminist journalist’ or ‘feminist MP’, as if a feminist is a surprising and unusual thing to be). People behaving appallingly to each other is not just a problem for feminists – it’s a problem for our entire society. Moreover, although many of the most prominent victims of Twitter threats are loudly and proudly feminist, there are many people who receive this kind of abuse who are not.

Additionally, I want to point out that although being a loud, stampy feminist might mean you’re more likely to be targeted by a subset of antisocial cockwipes, you aren’t guaranteed to get this treatment just because you are a feminist. Why is it important to say this? Two reasons:

– I don’t like the implication that you could make the abuse stop by just calming your feminist views down a bit, or shutting the hell up.

– I don’t want to think that there are people who’ll be too scared to talk about their opinions because a few unconscionable cunts fire all-caps hate-tweets at prominent women.

You might get shit: you might not. I just want you to know that it’s not guaranteed, and it’s not something you can prevent just by not having an opinion. On to the next thing ‘all feminists’ are not:

Women

Some of my best feminist friends are men, and all that. More importantly, these feminist men fall into the same camps as the people in the previous category: some of them get awful abuse and threats on the internet, others don’t. There is no way of predicting or preventing this stuff on an individual basis. Whatever your views on how we, either technologically or as a society (or both) deal with the problem of online harassment, there’s never a way that you, as an individual, can prevent this.

Fighting all of the time

Another thing ‘all feminists’ aren’t doing. There’s a big discussion going on about how we deal with internet harassment. I’m undecided on the best solution because – as with most complex issues – there is nothing that leaps to the front of my mind and screams “BUT THIS IS SO OBVIOUS AND HAS LITERALLY NO DRAWBACKS.” Naturally, there’s debate – sometimes heated. However, it depresses me that the nuanced, carefully thought through arguments from a number of intelligent people have been boiled down into either ‘feminists are fighting with each other over a Twitter button’ or, even more worryingly ‘feminists are fighting everyone else over a Twitter button.’

It’s a fucking debate – we’re all supposed to be fighting. And I think, when this many people are involved, you can reliably say that this isn’t a ‘feminist’ issue – it’s a ‘people’ issue.

The same

As evidenced by the fact that a feminist can be male or female, pro- or anti-Twitter button, troll, trolled or indifferent, it’s fairly safe to say we’re not all the same. I appreciate that ‘feminist’ is a handy catch-all for some issues, but this definitely isn’t one of them.

It’s a people issue. It’s not a niche interest or campaign that we can cheer on from the sidelines but ultimately will never affect us: it’s about how we as a society behave towards each other, and we all – feminist or not – need to get stuck in.

People disagree with me on lots of things. Like all people, I am occasionally offensive, often unknowledgeable, and far too frequently wrong. But one of the things people disagree with most often is the words I choose to use.

Language is an intensely powerful thing when it comes to sex. One person’s ‘hot’ is another’s ‘horrible’, with the result that despite having polite disagreements on sexual politics, one of the most heated rows I have is over my preference for ‘cunt’ over ‘pussy’.

I think it’s one of the biggest challenges for erotic writing. You don’t want to go too bland and be unable to conjure anything hotter than his ‘length’ penetrating her ‘sex’. Likewise you don’t want to go so hardcore that you put off readers who’ve warmed themselves up during the written foreplay, then fling your book/blog to one side if you get too gynaecological.

How much does a fuck cost?

My favourite sex words and swear words are the ones that have power – the ones that sound punchy and strong, and evoke that same passion as the kick you get in the bottom of your stomach when someone you fancy says something hot. Fuck, cock, prick, cunt. I know they’re not for everyone, but I think you can tell a lot about a writer by the words that they favour. So, I did a few quick calculations.

My book (which is currently on a 99p deal at Amazon, and that means it’s also cheap in the US too – at the time of writing this it’s $1.51) is 95,000 words long. It contains 499 instances of the word ‘fuck’. This includes words like ‘fucking’ and ‘fucked’, and to be fair some of those will be used in a non-sexual context, so fuck that for useful science.

More pertinently, there are 342 counts of the word ‘sex’. I think sex is a generic enough word that if you’re reading a sex book, you expect it to appear quite frequently. Perhaps slightly less expected is that there are 23 bastards, including one ‘weapons-grade bastard’. When looking into verbs, there’s one instance of ‘splattering’ that involves magnolia paint, as opposed to one of the more obvious substances:

Better, perhaps, as an indication of what I like, here’s a penis chart:

And one for the cunts:

There’s no real conclusion to this other than that I’m sweary and I like it. I think words that are traditionally considered ‘offensive’ are hotter when you’re talking (or writing) dirty. Not because there’s an extra frisson of excitement contributed by the fact that they’re usually taboo – there are plenty of other things that are taboo which we leave firmly out of the bedroom. No, I think their power comes from the same thing that got them on the ‘taboo’ list in the first place – namely the plosive, punchy, staccato kick when you say them. They’re frowned upon because they’re often used with power, in hatred. They’re hot because they’re used with power, in love.

Some people agree with me about that sexy kick, where others prefer softer, mellower words with their wanking. As with everything sexual, to each his own. But I hope this has given you some explanation (if never an actual excuse) for why I swear so frequently. Like the groaning of horny men or the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin, without which I can’t enjoy a dirty video, swearwords are the soundtrack to the porn that I write. Without them I couldn’t get aroused.

To close, I’ll answer my original question: how much does a ‘fuck’ cost? It makes up 0.5% of the words contained in my book, so at a current bargain price of 99p in the Kindle Summer Sale, one fuck will cost you around half a penny. In the US, it’ll cost you 0.8 cents. Cheap as fuck.

You’re all brilliant. I mean it – you’re gold-plated, top-of-the-range fantastic and I love you all. A month ago I asked people to have a go at describing their orgasms, in the form of some sort of competition (I haven’t decided the prize yet but trust me it will be highly desirable and worth at least a tenner).

There are still two days left to enter, so if you want to have a go, please leave a comment below describing your own orgasm (or do it on your own blog and send me a link so I can link to you, or email it to me if you’re shy), and I’ll include it in the final roundup. We’ll give people a chance to vote/comment on the final roundup then I’ll pick an overall winner. Finally, we will throw a street party in their honour (or, more likely, just have a bit of a love-in on the social network of their choice) and I’ll send them an awesome prize. Join in – you know you want to.

Describe your orgasm entries – round two

Rosa’s entry is an excellent place to start…

“I start to become really sensitive and twitch beneath my own hand, and I don’t know if I can handle such an intense sensation. It feels as though I am about to die, or come alive, or explode.” You can read the rest of the comment here.

Mal explains how hers almost always come from penetration…

“It begins as a series of long, sharp prickles around the clitoris, or as this unbearable hot sensation in my g spot and then, if it’s a gentle orgasm, feathers out delicately and I sigh and enjoy it with a soft smile.” Read more to see why she feels like she’s falling off a cliff.

The always-excellent N.Likes hits the ‘moment’ nail on the head:

“The first sensation was of a momentary vacuum of pressure – it was like that moment when you’re on a swing set and you reach the absolute peak of your arc: the swing isn’t going up any more, but it isn’t falling yet – it’s just hanging, suspended, momentarily immune from gravity or momentum.” His full description is worth a very thorough read.

Self-described ‘penis user’ (I love this phrase) Nick gives an incredibly vivid picture of how ejaculation feels:

“If you want to know what it feels like to ejaculate the best image I can give is to think of blowing bubbles into milkshake through a straw. That delightful welling up and out with occasions where you blow too hard and get it down your dress.” He then goes on to explain what makes the magic happen.

Ian’s got the build-up down beautifully:

“Something inside that makes me more sensitive, that makes every movement filled with a little more joy, and in amongst that an urge for something more: to increase the pressure, to keep increasing it, with each increase feeling better and better, until you reach the point where the only thing that would feel better than holding this delicious pleasure is releasing it.” Read the rest of his comment here.

Simon took a slightly different route and tried to describe a female orgasm:

“Those quiverings and tightenings deep within

The warm tingling that you can notice down below

As the hornier you get, the more this heat spreads

Imagining a fire burning deep inside you” His entry was submitted via email, but you can read the full thing here.

Inspired? Enter the orgasm competition

There’s still time to enter – I’ll close the comp for entries at midnight on the 26th of July. Leave a comment below, post your entry on your own blog, or email it to me hellogirlonthenet at gmail dot com and I’ll add it anonymously.

David Cameron must take action on the tidal wave of filth that is flooding our homes and polluting our children’s minds. I’m talking, of course, about books.

Look at them, sat there on the shelf, looking innocent. Some of them might be educational and useful but if my nephew (an actual child, for the love of Christ) entered my house and asked to borrow a book, there’s a fairly strong possibility that he might stumble across something that would warp his tiny mind.

I had a quick look on my bookshelf and found quite a lot there that warrants inspection:

“’What if I gave you a spanking?’ she teased, still fingering my pussy as she used her free hand to hitch my skirt up around my waist and smack my pert, round rump.”

To be fair, that’s in a book called ‘Sex & Submission – 20 erotic stories.’ That sits right up on the high shelf so that children can’t get to it. But dammit – can I trust myself not to leave it lying around on a coffee table or even (because it’s not that great) in the recycling bin?

“And quick as a shot, holding me with my back turned to him and my breeches pulled down, he sets to frigging and rattling himself, presses against me, and spurts his fuck upon my beshitted behind, the while driving his tongue into my mouth.”

That’s not suitable for children, right? It’s from the longest nightmare I’ve ever read – 120 Days of Sodom by the Marquis de Sade. Unfortunately, it’s also a literary classic, and I’d bet cash money that a 16-year-old would have little trouble buying it from a bookshop right now.

As I head deeper into my shelves, I discover more descriptions of the sexual act.

“I stretched him out on my bed and lowered myself on to him but within seconds his hips were arching upwards and his face was contorted…”

That one’s by Marian Keyes – the Mystery of Mercy Close. I’d never have thought it of her – she seems so nice. In my ‘horror’ section I find myself having to bin most of the Stephen Kings, which is a shame because I loved them when I was fourteen, and even livened up a year 10 English essay with the quote “he spat semen onto the bedspread in a convulsion” (from Cujo, if you’re interested).

Stephen’s gone now, though. What’s next? Ah, this looks pretty sexual:

“They make entry sex look dead easy in films – one person gets in between the legs of the other and easily slides into them – but it’s not as easy as it looks. If you’re doing it for the first time then it’s a good idea to masturbate each other for a bit first. You could also insert a wet finger inside your partner.”

Sex, again, but here is a sex book written specifically for young teens (Sex Explained by Bish, it’s excellent) – it’s not porn, it’s educational and supportive and encouraging and all the things that an excellent sexual education should be. But if we’re just looking for sex books, it’s probably going to end up with the Marquis.

Here’s something from a book I wrote with my own fair hands:

“I shouldn’t have prayed for a dribble, really, because eventually a dribble came out. A tiny, less-than-thimbleful of piss trickled slowly onto his waiting face, and he grinned.
‘Is that it?’
I wanted the ground to open up, swallow me, and then send vengeful demons out to punch him in his smug, not-quite-piss-covered face.”

There’s even a bit in it later about threesomes. I sicken me, I really do.

How do we solve a problem like a desire for erotic material?

The only solution for this is strong and immediate action from the government: ask everyone whether they have any disgusting books that might need to be hidden behind lock and key, and provide those who admit to such filth with lockable bookshelvcs.

Mandatory training for book shop staff, charity shop staff and those people who sit at the desks in hostels with a ‘free book exchange’ shelf. Scour every bookshop for signs of depravity, and insist on those books being placed high out of reach. This will serve the dual purpose of making them hard for children to obtain while also making those adults who enjoy ‘that sort of thing’ have to work a bit harder to get at it.

When you say ‘porn’…?

I cannot bear the thought of someone stumbling across this blog having utterly misplaced their sense of irony, nuance or context, so here’s what I’m saying:

• At no point has anyone successfully defined ‘porn’, or what exact material Cameron’s proposed block will affect.
• Even if we can draw a distinct and clear line between ‘porn’ and ‘not porn’, it’ll be impossible to make sure a filter gets it right every time.
• Porn is not just found on the internet.

It’s in bookshops, on TV, in magazines, in films, stored in our mobile phones, video cameras and above all in our heads. Porn can be disgusting, uplifting, beautiful and scuzzy.

To claim that porn is ‘bad’ is like claiming that food is ‘delicious’. Let’s not let people get away with trying to ban an entire genre of stuff on the flimsy basis that a bit of it is nasty.

Think of the children

I implore you all to think of the children. Not just the little ones you have now but the grown-up ones you’ll have in ten, twenty years time. At the beginning of the current porn furore David Cameron issued a statement that said:

“The safety of our children is at stake – nothing matters more than that.”

Well, that sounds like a nice platitude. But I think our children’s liberty matters too. Don’t get me wrong – we should do everything reasonably possible to keep children safe, but we also need to be aware of the impact that some of our actions have on their liberties and personal freedoms.

Because one day those children will grow up. And just as we want to bequeath them a world in which the environment isn’t fucked, in which the NHS hasn’t been sold off, and in which they have a welfare state to support them should they fall on tough times, likewise we want them to have free and open access to the internet.

Given how much love our society claims to have for children, it’s odd that we rarely give them credit for having opinions, needs, and intelligence of their own. Children aren’t just passive information-hoovers, sucking up what we feed them and no more. They are not all victims-in-waiting. They don’t sit around until the age of 18 waiting for us to tell them what to think and say. They are miniature versions of humans, with their own thoughts, desires, needs and opinions.

And when they grow up they won’t thank us for having taken a red pen to half of the internet.

As ever, I’m giving directions.

“Straight on here,” as we hit the roundabout, and he follows. A quick check in his rear view mirror to see whether anyone’s behind us. They’re not – it’s dark, late, and a much quieter road to the ones we’re used to. He lays a hand on my thigh, pushing my skirt up, never once taking his eyes off the road.

I love watching guys drive

Despite being so old that my fascination with it is bizarre, I find driving incredibly sexy. Not when I do it, of course. On the rare occasions I get behind the wheel it’s less of a journey than a slow, arduous panic-attack from A to B.

But the teenage girl I wish I still was loves watching boys drive.

The physicality of it is hot, naturally. Driving involves lots of showing-off of hands, one of the sexiest physical features. Gripping and releasing the handbrake, curving a hand around the gearstick, gently flicking accelerators and letting the wheel slide smoothly through their palms.

Not to mention that driving, much like playing Xbox, is an activity that requires so much concentration I am barely a distraction in the corner of his eye.

Most importantly, the driver is always the most powerful person in the car. The one who chooses the music, decides when you can stop, tells you to stop mucking about. The driver is the person who decides to pull over.

We’ll get back to that sexy bit now, shall we?

He flicked the indicator when he spotted a layby – behind a row of waist-high bushes, just enough for some vague cover but not quite enough to make me feel wholly comfortable. He parked the car and undid his seatbelt, reaching over for mine at the same time.

I grinned, and looked up at him in the way I imagined I would if I were genuinely nervous. I shifted in my seat, pulling my skirt up further so my naked cunt touched the seat.

“You’re a good girl,” he said, and pulled my face towards him. He was grinning too, not quite happy enough to take the power seriously.

“Do you want to show me your cunt?”

Yes. Always. I lifted my skirt higher and he pulled me forward, pushing my head into his lap with his right hand (his steering wheel hand) while his left snaked down my back and behind to squeeze me. I fumbled with his belt, feeling him rock solid through his trousers, straining to push through the zip.

“Good,” he gave me a hand with the zip, squeezing himself tight as I leant forward to suck him. “Good girl.”

Again, that power, the feeling of his hands all over me. The click as he moved his seat back to give me more room to work on him, to suck him. He wasn’t making me, but he wasn’t asking me either. This stop was just an extra bit of the journey, something he got to decide, in the same way as he’d decide the route or choose when we stopped for a piss.

Bucking slightly against the seat, he gripped the back of my head with controlled hands as he twitched mouthfuls of spunk into the back of my throat.

On the way back, we were quiet. My occasional directions half-whispered as I tasted him in my mouth, and the giggling teenager in the back of my mind squirmed with pride.

“My boyfriend’s hot. My boyfriend drives.”