I’m a terrible wanking hypocrite.

I write this in the desperate hope that some of you will send me pictures of your cock, and while imagining others partaking in the most creative, beautiful boywanking, yet I myself am the blandest wanker you’ll ever hope to meet.

First I unzip my trousers…

Sometimes people email me to tell me their sexy details – how they wank, where they come, what they do to bring themselves to a frothing, jizz-splattered conclusion. It’s fantastic to hear, but almost always followed by a question I dread: “what do you do when you’re looking at these pictures?”

It’s a perfectly fair question, but I hate answering it because my answer will probably bore you to death. When I’m alone, I’m not that creative: no frills, no embellishments, no hanging upside-down from a doorframe with one hand tied behind my back and half a carrot up my arse – I just… well… I rub my clit until I come.

Dull, I know. People want more – filth and fantasy and girljuice spraying over a terrifying collection of sex toys. But I can’t lie – I wank boringly. I am a boring wanker.

The thing is, although it’s incredibly tedious to relate, it’s not that tedious to do. Rubbing my clit until I come is one of the most exciting things I can do without either leaving my flat or setting fire to it.

Wanking with sex toys

The one small concession I have to proper creative wanking is a rabbit. I don’t care that it’s a cliché – I love it to death.

Much as I hate to give credit to Ann Summers – the sex shop that sells clothes so hideous and flimsy that it’s physically impossible to actually have sex in them – the rabbit is spectacular. Of all the objects in the known universe, this is the one that has been best designed to make me jizz myself.

While I’m on a roll with this, I’ll answer the question thousands of men have asked: yes, it is better than your cock. Countless light-years better. Obviously. Millions of years of evolution cannot hope to compete with the sexual engineering genius that has produced this, the most powerful cunt-fucking equipment I have ever had the pleasure of sampling.

But it’s not the same

And yet, although it’s infinitely better than your cock, it is still not actually better than having sex with you. On the grounds that… well… it’s made of fucking plastic and won’t bring me a beer afterwards. On the grounds that it doesn’t make that delightful moaning sound or ask me for a blow job, or spank me until I weep.

And likewise, no matter how good the rabbit is (and did I mention that IT REALLY FUCKING IS?) it still doesn’t beat just rubbing my clit until I come. I rarely ever use the rabbit when I’m on my own. Although it’s ruthlessly efficient in helping me to knock out an orgasm in the time it takes most people to whip off their socks, it’s never going to be my favourite.

Perhaps it’s laziness – it is, after all, all the way over there in that drawer. Contentment? More likely – I have a routine and habit, and desire for the familiar. I know exactly what I like, how to do it, and exactly how quickly it will get me off.

I just… you know… quite like rubbing my clit until I come.

For Valentine’s Day I want a blow job.

Yep, today I would like a nice, hard, deep-throating blow job. The sloppy kind – dribble and spit and choking – that ends with you coming violently all over my face until your spunk dribbles down my chin and I can use the excess to draw a heart shape on the bedsheets.

And I want to give you flowers. A beautiful, big, hay-fever-inducing bouquet of them. Roses, tulips, lilies, anything frothy and soft and romantic. All tied up with a big fat pink ribbon that you can put in your hair afterwards or keep in a special memories box to remind you of the day when girlonthenet displayed some vague semblance of emotion. An expensive bouquet, too, so your Mum knows I’m a good financial bet for your future.

OMFG SEXISM

I don’t usually give much of a shit about casual sexism in couples – if two people, within a loving committed relationship, choose to conform to old-fashioned gender roles then I’m not one to stop them.

My problem comes when every single goddamn article or advert decides that we should all be doing the same thing. Usually we question this sexist dickery – we raise a wry smile at the dude in the cleaning products advert who’s crap at wiping the kitchen surfaces, or the woman who uses the expensive beauty product because it’s imperative that women defy the laws of physics by refusing to visibly age. We question it. We laugh at them.

And yet on Valentine’s Day for some reason our questioning attitude is hurled out of the window. Sexist? Aw, it’s just romantic. It’s just how couples are.

He should be panicking the day before.

She should be getting excited.

He should be saving his pennies.

She should be dropping hints about roses, chocolates, her favourite restaurant.

The racier, cheekier brands will lace their adverts with hints of euphemism. Maybe, just maybe, if you buy your girlfriend something grotesquely pink and painfully expensive she might just suck your cock. You lucky bastard.

A quick note about gays

It’s worth noting that I am not immune from presumptive twattery myself – I frequently write as if I’m talking about boy/girl couplings. This is deliberate – it’s because apart from the odd squirm with a ladyfriend or two, that’s mostly what I know.

But that’s not to say that we should automatically exclude what happens to be a fairly sizeable portion of the population from enjoying these couple-centred celebrations. Whether you love it or loathe it, Valentine’s Day is for everyone. And insisting on prescribing Valentine’s Day behaviour like only heterosexual couples exist gives a skewed and laughably ancient view of the world.

Gender roles and Valentine’s Day

Where was I? Ah yes – we’re not all 1950s chocolate-box dream couples.

It shouldn’t need to be said, to be honest, but I’m going to say it anyway, because some narrow-minded cardboard-cut-out cunts still think I should be crossing my fingers in the hope that someone gives me chocolates. I like chocolates, I do. I have also gone a bit melty inside on the very few occasions when boys have bought me flowers. Likewise I enjoy champagne, Lego and being wanked off by a boy while I watch porn I’ve nicked from the internet.

But some people still think that the sign of a successful relationship is one where the guy does all the work. Where he feels compelled to spend money making his woman feel special, and that if he jumps through these specially-defined hoops then maybe she’ll repay him by giving him sexual favours that she wouldn’t have given otherwise because she’s that fucking feminine that she must keep her sexuality under wraps so as to avoid breaking a fingernail or displaying some semblance of human frailty or something.

Women don’t just want chocolate, and men don’t just want sex.

Perhaps she wants a fucking Scalectrix. Perhaps he wants a nice long bubble bath and a box of chocolates. Perhaps both of them just want to fuck in an alleyway then head to a late-night bondage bar.

Perhaps – just perhaps – all your roses and cards and adverts and irritating 1950’s Goodwife bullshit can fuck off back to the ad agency that spawned them, because neither of the members of our fictitious happy couple give a flying tossfuck about romance at all.

Love is like being tied to a rock that you also sort of want to have sex with.

It’s like being repeatedly punched in the face, but by something quite nice, like a pillow or a bowl of trifle.

Despite all of my best efforts not to fall into this pitiful trap, I am in love with a boy.

Being in love changes people

Love seems to make my friends do odd things, like deliberately go on tedious, all-inclusive holidays. Like buying joint-owned kitchen equipment and cooking things with butternut squash in.

Likewise love makes me do weird things, like spout inexplicable platitudes about his possessions. Like cancel an evening’s drinking so I can stay in on a Saturday night with his big arms wrapped around me. Like writing a blog which – let’s be honest – you couldn’t crack one off to if you tried.

Love makes me think more about a boy than about things that matter – like my career.  

It makes me lazy. All I ever want to do is sit with him, on him, by him, until my bills go unpaid and my washing up starts to evolve new breeds of bacteria. Until the sun goes down and the world is destroyed and everything I’ve worked for crumbles to dust.

I love love

Don’t get me wrong – there are up sides. He is, as you’d expect, especially spectacular. Of all the boys who have stamped their footprints into my ice-cold heart, his are some of the very few that I want to put my own feet in and go “Ooh, look, big. GIGGLE.”

He’s beautiful when he lights cigarettes, when he’s biting my nipples or bringing me coffee. He’s funny and fun and good and gentle and filthy and kind and calm. He makes me relax and he makes me laugh and he fucks me like it’s the end of the world.

He’s the one whose friends I’ll meet. Whose house I’ll stay at. All the other boys get fucked and moved on, but he’s the only one who gets to spend the night. He’s the one who can stroke my face without making me hiss, and he gets to call me pretty without me vomiting copiously all over his living-room floor.

I hate love

But ultimately the great stuff is desperately overshadowed by the bad. Love is a fucking bastard. It makes me irrational and needy. It tempts me into shit decisions. Problems I’d previously have stamped on become reasons to run to him for a hug. Challenges stay unchallenged, because he makes them easy to forget.

I don’t want to love him – I love me – normal me. I love the me who can tell boys to fuck off when I’m busy, who has enough motivation to pull myself together when I’m miserable and do good things when I’m not. Love can make me blind to a lot of things, but I’m not yet blind to what I could achieve if I weren’t sitting so comfortably in his arms.

How do you solve a problem like a hormonal imbalance?

For a long time my solution was to break up with guys if I thought things were getting emotional. But things have gone too far this time. I cannot decide to not be in love because I am in love, and so I am irrational.

How can I not see him when I need to see him? How can I not love him when, at just the moment I think I’ve steeled myself to tell him I’m off, he says something that makes me laugh like I’ve had a lobotomy? When just the idea of his shoes lying jumbled by the kitchen door makes me grin with possessive, deranged pride?

I love his shoes.

His shoes.

I am ridiculous and I love his shoes.

If you’re expecting some sort of conclusion or words of wisdom after the above torrent of out-of-character arational loved-up bullshit then you’re probably a fucking idiot. But I’ll forgive you. If you’re powerfully idiotic then you may well be in love yourself. Unfortunately for all of us there’s no known cure, but to relieve the symptoms I can thoroughly recommend wanking and gin.