All Posts – Page 355
On how to get a threesome without being a total dick
Contrary to what a rather depressing number of people believe, the best way to get a threesome is not to nag your partner repeatedly then call them a spoilsport because they don’t want to have one. No one’s an expert in how to do this, but here are my top five tips that (hopefully) will give you a better idea of how to go about it.
On the smell of your vagina
Listen up, ladies, you stink! It’s awful. Did you know that you constantly exude vaginal juices? Have you ever taken the time to just… smell yourself? Sheesh, it’s gross.
We wouldn’t mind, but this repulsive stench isn’t something you confine to the comfort of your own pathetic hovel, you’re out there amongst us in society – at the bus stop, in the office, on the tube – leaking.
You disgust us.
The considerate amongst you will by now be thinking: ‘What’s the solution? How can I prevent the unsavoury odour of my womanhood from penetrating the delicate nostrils of a general public which – completely understandably – thinks I am foul?’
Well, you need to clean yourself up, for a start. Not only should you shower every morning and wash those natural cunty juices away with a special vaginal soap, but ideally you will be aware of your potential to stink during every single waking minute of your day.
Showering in the office can be impractical, but luckily for you we have a solution. A solution to that disgusting thing that your body does. A solution that means vaginal cleanliness is not just something you need to worry about when you’re in the shower – it’s something you’re free to worry about whenever you get within sniffing distance of another human being.
Congratulations, you can ‘woo-hoo your froo froo’ with delightfully scented wipes.
And by ‘woo-hoo your froo-froo’ we mean ‘wipe your cunt.’
You, yes – you. Wipe your cunt, you disgusting bitch.
Or if you – like us – think it’s horrible and can’t bear to touch it, try spraying it with something.
There’s only one thing more abhorrent than the smell of a woman’s vagina, and that’s the smell of a woman’s menstruating vagina. Just the very idea of it has me dry-heaving. So for crying out loud if you’re on your period, have the common decency to buy some scented tampons.
Please don’t buy this shit
It is completely natural to smell of something. It is natural for your vagina to leak, and it is natural for your vagina to smell like… well, a vagina. It isn’t minty-fresh, it isn’t strawberry-flavoured and it certainly isn’t a fucking flower. But every single day marketing people will try and persuade you that it should be sweet-smelling, inoffensive, and as unnoticeable as possible.
So, from the centre of my brain right down to my post-wank musky-scented cunt – I implore you not to buy this shit.
This is important – so important – because over the next ten years this will only get worse. This post was prompted by creepy adverts that appeared in London asking women to buy products that are ‘woo hoo for my froo-froo’ – a noxious spray of marketing pisswank that doesn’t even have the courage to call a vagina ‘a vagina’.
In the future we’ll be asked not just to wax as much hair off our bodies as possible, wear makeup, conform to a certain shape, and have our tits lifted when we have the temerity to age, we’ll also be expected to panic constantly about whether our cunt smells like cunt. And woe betide us if it does.
So don’t buy this shit. Tell your friends not to buy this shit. And most of all, please remind your teenaged daughters why they don’t need to buy this shit. Because over their long lifetimes their cunts will ooze gallons of discharge and girlwank. If they grow up thinking that this is a ‘hygiene problem’ that requires a ‘solution’ we condemn them to an impossible task – making sure that, for as much of the day as possible, their cunts smell like anything but cunt.
It’s miserable, guilt-laden bullshit created by people who want your money. They are not providing a ‘solution’ to your ‘hygiene problem’, they are inventing a problem and a new way for you to feel small, then offering to take your money to make the pain go away.
In case you think I’m being too harsh, in case you’re thinking ‘yes, but some women want this’ – fine. Some women might. I’m not going to dictate whether you should or shouldn’t wipe your cunt with expensively-packaged rags. But what I am saying – no, screaming wildly as I smash my head into the keyboard – is this:
Do it if you want to, but don’t ever let anyone persuade you that you need to.
On jealousy
Let it henceforth be known that you may do anything you like with my friends, or my casual fucks. If they consent to it then you may touch them, kiss them and shag them in whatever depraved manner and in whatever tantric position gives the most pleasure to the two of you at the time.
But if you touch the boy I love I will tear you into a billion pieces. I will scatter those pieces across the globe, then spend the rest of my life retracing my steps so that I can stamp on each individual one of them until you are ground into a shower of dust.
Jealousy isn’t as bad as we think
The key argument against jealousy is that it implies ownership. I don’t think that’s true. Ownership of a certain kind is good – whether your relationship is open or monogamous there’s a delicious thrill in being able to say “he’s mine.”
It doesn’t mean that you own that person completely, and feeling jealous does not in fact give you any rights at all over the other person. But part of mutual love is giving a tiny bit of yourself up to the other person. And being jealous is your way of saying “I give a shit about this. This is significant.”
But there’s a world of difference between being a bit possessive – “I want you all to myself you scrummy pile of gorgeousness” – and being so jealous that it becomes destructive – “I don’t want you to see your best friend any more because I’m worried that you fancy them.”
Jealousy is still really fucking bad
The key problem with jealousy is that it is arational. There’s nothing inherently green-eyed-and-evil about getting angry with your monogamous partner for snogging someone else – they broke your agreement, so you have a right to be angry. Your possession of this person extends up to (but not beyond) an expectation that they don’t have sexual contact with anyone else.
The problem with real, steaming, burning jealousy is that it is prompted by things that – to a rational observer – are not a cause for rage at all. Some wholly innocent events have our inner Iago stampeding out from the recesses of our brain screaming “I like not that!”
The receipt of a flirty text. A look interpreted as meaningful. A feeling that your partner’s too close to a certain person. A desire – a need – to know not just what they want to tell you but all the private things in their head as well.
And some people feel this more than others – some have a tendency to quiz their partners, go through pockets and trample on their privacy to get at whatever their gut tells them must be the truth. So as kind, understanding humans we need to try and comprehend why our partners feel this way. I’m not talking about giving in and letting them strip-search you because you were late home from work, but having patience and being willing to discuss the issue can – in my experience – do a hell of a lot to assuage the arational anger that is jealousy.
You’re probably better than I am
I am a terribly jealous person. I’ve destroyed nights out because I worried that boys weren’t paying me enough attention. I’ve ranted about that bitch from their work who won’t stop flirting. I’ve – oh God, my blood runs cold to write the words down – I’ve read a boy’s emails.
As expected, none of these things did me any good. Because at the end of the day, although it’s nice to know you’re wanted, no one’s partner ever said “hey, do that cute thing where you interrogate me about my close friends again, before reading my text messages behind my back.”
So just as we have a responsibility to be faithful (whatever ‘faithful’ means within your relationships), and a responsibility to be understanding when our partners occasionally swerve into unnecessary jealous rages, those of us who do tend towards jealousy also have a responsibility to be rational.
Our partners have chosen us, and that’s really significant – they’re not going to un-choose us in a hurry. And the majority of people are more likely to stumble into an innocent situation that causes one’s jealousy to flare up than they are to casually fuck a passing stranger. Boring, I know, but it’s the rational truth.
So, in relationships as elsewhere in life, we need to ignore our emotions occasionally and examine things with a rational head. Consider whether an innocent explanation is more likely. Step away from our partner’s phone and avoid reading their texts. We need to listen to our brain rather than the seething rage in our gut. When our inner Iago says “I like not that” we need to tell him to fuck off.
On bad things my mind does when it’s unoccupied
Suffering from painful and embarrassing writer’s block, I set to Twitter to ask people what they wanted to read. Rather unsurprisingly, the answer was ‘porn’. But some people specifically requested a fantasy. A wise choice – there’s only so much of my own sordid sexual experience that anyone can take. So for only the second time in however-long-I’ve-been-doing-this, here’s an untrue story.
On sex accidents
Sex isn’t always hearts, flowers, champagne and sky-high orgasms. To be honest sometimes it’s not even hot fumbling, high fives and a faceful of spunk. Often what might have been an excellent fuck is ruined by one of the two things that our race is miserably prone to:
- the laws of physics
- biological incompetence
To celebrate those fucks that go wrong, here are three true stories of bad things that have happened to me during sex:
1. Unbalanced
When people think of university they might think of dissertations, hippie students, or excessive masturbation in the library. I, on the other hand, am reminded of the exceptionally narrow beds in my first year halls of residence.
During my first year, I conscripted an eager boy to join me in testing just how much we could get up to on one of these beds, as a rebellion against the miserable cunt who designed them to deter any sex whatsoever.
We were only foiled once, during our first drunken attempt at buttsex. At the moment of climax my boy slapped my arse, slammed his dick home nice and hard and declared in a sexy, ecstatic moan: “I’m going to come in your ass.”
The good news is that he sort of did. The bad news: as my leg slipped from the side of the bed, the rest of his jizz sprayed elsewhere as he tumbled onto the bedroom floor, chipping a tooth on the way down.
Moral of the story: even during climax, concentrate.
2. Sex toys
I love sex toys – give me something new and shiny and I’m more than happy to stick it in my cunt to see how it feels. Once a guy bought some ben wa balls. Not normal balls – these were rubber-coated, and textured with short, soft spikes. Interesting.
At least, they were interesting for the first five minutes or so until he pulled on the string holding them together. Instead of cooing with delight, I was left on the bed screaming ‘what the fuck?!’ as I realised that only one of the balls had come out with the string – the other was left inside me.
Luckily for me, I didn’t have to go to hospital to have it removed. It’s surprising what you can fish out of a vagina if you happen to have a teaspoon to hand.
Moral of this story: Don’t buy cheap sex toys off the internet.
3. Dark alleys
Fairly recently, I met an incredibly young-looking gentleman with whom I got quite pissed. After the initial pleasantries and gin, we retired to a nearby alleyway where I gave him an enthusiastic and fairly sloppy blow job. After a pleasant – if frantic – five minutes I picked up my bag, squeezed out of the narrow alley, and we went our separate ways.
No sooner had I parted from him than I smelt something horrible. Awful. I had no idea where it might have come from, but it seemed to be following me. After thoroughly checking the bottom of my shoes, my jeans, and any other conceivable area, I eventually realised that the smell was dog shit. Not just a bit – a lot. A Great Dane’s worth – all over my fucking bag.
After ditching the bag in the nearest bin, I sat miserably on the train home, wanting to vomit over the lingering scent in my nostrils. But above all I was praying desperately that the guy I’d just sucked off hadn’t noticed, and mistakenly thought the excitement of giving him head had led me to shit myself.
Moral of this story: Clean up after your fucking dog.