Category Archives: Unsolicited advice
Weird sex dreams: what do they mean?
This blog post is going to contain some sexual references that are bizarre, offensive and downright troubling, including incest and bestiality.
Point one: people who tell you in detail about their dreams are generally pretty boring.
Point two: because of this, people who tell you about their dreams are usually intensely apologetic about it. The conversation normally begins “I know it’s annoying to talk about dreams but…”
That ‘but’ is pretty important, because it usually means ‘but I want to get something off my chest/need you to make me feel better/am worried that I am horribly abnormal because of this odd thing that kicked off in my brain.’
So. While I have very low tolerance for people who tell me that last night they flew to a castle made of marshmallows and Eamonn Holmes gave them a spoon with which to eat it, when people want to tell me their weird sex dreams, I am usually all ears. Why? Because I have weird sex dreams too.
Diary extract: Utterly exhausting love
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve learned anything since I was at school, when I used to fall madly in love with any guy who showed a vague interest, before desperately wishing I knew how to act on it.
Then I remember how it was, and that being young was difficult, stressful, and quite, quite absurd.
I haven’t arranged a guest blog for this week – sorry about that. In lieu, please enjoy this extract from my own diary, circa 1998. In it, I am trying to explain the complex emotional dynamic in my group of slightly nerdy, oh-so-romantic friends.
One Weird Trick To Blow Their Mind In Bed
I thought there were none. I thought there were no bed-located tricks that were universal. I assumed that all humans, due to our unique-like-snowflake sexual preferences and genital configuration and kinks and quirks and loves: I thought there would be no universal Trick To Blow Their Mind In Bed.
But if there were one, and I’m not necessarily saying there is, then it might be this:
“But I thought he was a nice guy?!”
This post – which includes frank discussion of rape and sexual assault, fyi – has been swirling round in my head for a while. I almost wrote it a few weeks ago, when student George Lawlor feigned horror at being asked to go to consent classes and held up a sign saying ‘this is not what a rapist looks like.’ Then I almost wrote it again after watching the BBC3 programme ‘Is this rape?’ Now a number of porn performers have come forward about James Deen and – because I think it’s important to support people who speak out – I figured now’s as good a time as any. I believe them, obviously. Please read their stories:
I don’t want to put words into their mouths or make any assumptions about their experience, which is why I’ve put all these links at the beginning of the post so you can read, and offer your own support however you like.
From now on the rest of this post is not specifically about any individual – just our response to hearing someone’s personal story of rape or assault. Specifically, it’s about this phrase:
“But I thought he was a nice guy?!”
It comes back to the George Lawlor thing: ‘This is not what a rapist looks like.’ Let me tell you about some nice guys I have known.
Teenage kicks versus having sex in your thirties
As a certified grumpy bastard, I can tell you that it’s always much easier to be negative than positive. As someone with access to web stats I can also tell you that if you want to get clicks, and you’re not writing porn, you’re always better to be critical than optimistic. I’m throwing all that out of the window today, though, because of a conversation I had the other day that went a little something like this:
“Know what’s brilliant?”
“What?”
“We could have sex now if we wanted to.”
“I’m not really in the mood, but…”
“Ah, but you don’t have to want to, you just have to appreciate how cool it is that we totally could if we wanted to.”
Sometimes I go through miserable phases when I look down at my body and think ‘huh, there are some things that have happened here that are basically irreversible.’ I worry about stretchmarks or consider the fact that I’m no longer able to do the things I did when I was eighteen. I may still be able to get my ankles behind my head to brace against the bedposts, but I’ll no longer do it without a groan of effort. I can bend over sexily, but I’ll say ‘oof’ when I get up. Cramp is not so much an occasional visitor as a permanent unwanted house guest.
But, while it’s easy (and certainly more clickbait-friendly) to snark about the negatives, it’s also worth remembering the benefits of having sex in your thirties. This post is about giving credit to all the things I often take for granted…