Category Archives: Unsolicited advice
How to initiate sex with your partner
When I was young I thought sex was probably quite a rare occurrence. From what I’d seen on TV and in films, it looked like sex within a straight, long-term relationship involved a fair amount of rigmarole. You have to shave your legs, wash your hair, put on makeup and look seductive. If you’re a dude you’ll probably have to do a different kind of groundwork: snuggling in front of a film, and inching your arm along the back of the couch painstakingly slowly until it finally comes to rest on one of your partner’s breasts.
I’ve never seen a TV couple start fucking the way we usually do.
“Do you want to shag? We haven’t done it for a while.”
Or seduce each other with the kind of lines you can only get away with if you know the answer will be ‘why not?’
“Do you want to touch my freshly-shaven cunt?”
The 3 best dating tips I’ve ever been given
People ask me for advice sometimes, and I find this a bit terrifying because ultimately I am just a bumbling nobhead, who stumbles through life trying to work out how to look like a grown up without anyone noticing that actually I am a ball of bluster and panic. I expect some of you feel like this too, but because I am human I think that I have it much worse: that I am surrounded by functioning adults who have brains and wisdom and the ability to fill out mortgage paperwork, while I still struggle with the concept of having to throw milk away when it starts to get smelly.
So when you ask me for advice, know that I am doing one of two things:
1. Making it up, based on ‘what I reckon’, and given that I often come home half-drunk and ‘reckon’ I should lie face-down on the carpet until my partner covers me with a blanket, my reckonings are unlikely to be particularly insightful.
2. I give advice that other people have given me before, which struck me as wise and thoughtful and far better than anything I could say.
Today I am doing the latter, and I present to you the 3 best dating tips I’ve ever been given.
Dating tip 1: say yes
A long time ago I had a horrible break up. I did that thing where you hide in your flat in your pants, crying to old episodes of Scrubs and eating cheese until you almost stop liking cheese. It was pretty serious. My life was never going to be good again and everything was awful and I couldn’t see myself doing anything at all because he wasn’t by my side.
Then my Mum called.
She told me to pull myself together and stop moping and all those comforting things that Mums are supposed to say. She told me I was beautiful and that I’d find someone else in no time if I wanted to, but that I didn’t need a man to complete me and yada yada etc. I cried some more, because all of this stuff was just clichéd and obvious bullshit which was instantly swallowed by the pit of my misery. I wanted something practical. Something useful. Something I could go out and do rather than just repeat to myself as a wishy-washy happiness mantra.
“Say yes,” she explained.
“Yes?”
“Yes. Say yes to every single thing you’re invited to from now on. Evenings in the pub, trips to the theatre, weekends away – everything.”
“Why? To meet someone else?”
“Don’t be a tosser,” she replied. “You do it because it will make you that ‘fun’ person: the one who always says yes. The one who gets excited about life and wants to join in with things. The one who’s always got something exciting on the go.”
“Will it win him back?” I asked, like a pathetic loser.
“Who gives a shit? You’ll be too busy rock-climbing or something.”
So I did: I said yes to everything. And so followed one of the most enjoyable three months of my life. I was skint, of course – all this socialising gave my wallet a thorough hammering – but by God I was having fun. A few weeks after she gave me this advice I was having dirty tent sex with a hot guy, and drinking vodka with strangers on a beach. Thanks, Mum.
Dating tip 2: approach people you fancy
We focus so much on how to ‘capture’ the man or woman of our dreams, and how to entice other people, that frequently we forget that the whole point is that we should like each other. I’ve heard a few variations on this piece of advice before, but none so brilliantly put as that posted by @ArchedEyebrowBR yesterday. In her post – online dating tips for the fat babe – she laid down some pretty significant wisdom that I think is relevant to everyone:
Don’t be at the mercy of everyone else: ask out the people you fancy, not the people you think will fancy you.
Hell yes. Something I have repeatedly and miserably failed at for most of my adult life, in part because I see so many things that give me pause for thought. He won’t like me – I’m too tall. He’ll probably think I’m too common. He goes for blondes.
Why is this stuff in my brain? It didn’t fall in there by accident – it’s there because I’ve had experience with similar guys that has led me to be wary of a particular reaction. It’s also partly down to the media constantly telling us what we need to be like, and down to my youth, during encounters at school which made me believe that like should stick to like. Goth kids with goth kids, fat kids with fat kids, clever kids with clever kids, and God forbid you should have a boyfriend who plays rugby when you’re a glasses-wearing sportphobe.
Anyway. Sometimes this stuff will be true – sometimes the person you fancy really will turn you down because you’re too tall, or whatever. But that is because they may well be a douchebag. And how much fucking better to know that you’re picking from a pool of people you have a genuine attraction to, than ‘settling’ for someone you think you might be able to get because you’ve always been told you can only have one thing?
Imagine if you were vegetarian and you’d been told that the buffet was 90% meat. You arrive at the venue expecting to be fobbed off with some crappy spinach and ricotta bullshit and a measly side-salad. Then you discover, to your delight, that the meat is actually cheese and you can have your pick of anything on the table.
ArchedEyebrow has literally just announced that, but for dating – tuck in.
Dating tip 3: you will never be happy ever after
Please don’t think ‘oh God what a depressing tip to end on’ – this is actually one of the most positive and uplifting pieces of advice I have ever been given, and it applies to LIFE as well as dating, because dating is basically part of life and is not some special expert subject on which only people who tell you to ‘play hard to get’ are qualified to comment.
This advice was given to me by the amazing Justin Hancock, who is wise. He was explaining mindfulness to me, and talking about being present in the moment. I’m not an expert on mindfulness, but this bit really struck home (I’m paraphrasing):
We often think of happiness as this big end goal – like we’ll get to a point in our lives and we’ll be happy. We’ll have a nice home, family, job, whatever, and by that point we’ll have reached peak happiness. Then we get sad about something and think OH NO I’VE RUINED IT and WHY CAN’T I JUST BE HAPPY. But it’s normal: happiness comes and goes, and we’ll never reach this ‘peak happiness forever’ – it’s a myth.
Actually, happiness is always a temporary thing. It’d be weird if it was just a climbing scale and, at a certain point, we reached a state of irreversible bliss. Even when we achieve our ‘dream jobs’ we’re not stagnant – we’re usually not content to just turn up from 9-5 and work to rule every day for the rest of our lives: we have ups and downs, fights with colleagues, deadlines that are unreasonable or realistic, new ambitions or needs or desires.
Likewise with dating: you can meet someone you love so much you want to lick their used socks and snuggle so hard into them that your face becomes melded to the crook of their neck, and still you won’t be happy forever. That person will eventually piss you off, and you’ll piss them off, or you’ll have to go for Christmas lunch with their parents or something and you’ll be miserable because their dad makes shit gravy and doesn’t do the sprouts properly.
The point is, no one will ever be happy ever after. Knowing that makes me much happier today.
Win a Doxy massager – the love of my life
Earlier this year someone gave me a Doxy massager. I had never had a wand toy before, and had imagined that it would be a bit like any other vibrator, just a bit more powerful and with a much bigger head.
I was wrong beyond all possible belief.
The Doxy is to sex toys what the microwave was to home cooking. What the printing press was to education. What Galileo was to the motherfucking Sun. It is a seismic revolution in my pants.
When my dude first used it on me I went from ‘curious’ to ‘tearing down the walls’ within about three seconds. Yelping, gargling, moaning and shouting ‘jjjggg ammm ffffkkk’ until the neighbours must have thought we were performing some sort of terrifying Satanic ritual.
Nowadays, having owned this clit-battering pleasure-sceptre for around six months, I am torn between wanting to chain it to my person so it never leaves my sight, and hurling it into a chasm because hand wanking will never be the same again. I’ve opted for the former, because if I lost this toy my life would be empty and miserable and I would probably never love again.
Given my excessive enthusiasm for Doxy both here and on Twitter, this competition has clearly been a long time in coming (unlike myself, when armed with one). If you want to win one of these amazing fuckwands, you can enter via the widget below, and at 8pm on the 29th September I’ll pick a winner, and the ace people at Doxy will send one out to you.
You just need to give them your address, and let them know what kind of plug you need (Doxy comes with UK, Euro, Aussie and USA (works in Japan too) plugs) and what colour you’d like – I recommend purple because it’s the BEST, but it comes in black, white and pink too. Ts and Cs are in the widget, but you’ll be delighted to know that you don’t have to be UK based to enter this. If you’re from anywhere mentioned above, you’re more than welcome to enter.
And if you can’t wait, or if you don’t win the comp, you can buy a Doxy direct from my awesome sponsors at sextoys.co.uk, and get 10% off if you type ‘GOTN10’ at the checkout. So there we go – click below to enter the comp, and maybe win a Doxy.
Not mine, though – you can pry that out of my cold, dead fingers.
In case you’re not familiar with it, here are some FAQs about the Doxy:
How does the Doxy massager compare to the Hitachi Magic Wand?
I have no idea, because I’ve never had a Hitachi. But Erika Moen of Oh Joy Sex Toy has! Spoiler alert: the Doxy wins. Obviously.
I have a dick. Can I have a Doxy massager?
Sure – ANYONE can have one. Although I have a feeling you won’t get the same sensations as I did if you don’t have a clitoris. Have a go though, or just try to win it and then give it to someone you know who does have a clitoris, and is keen to try it.
I’d like to buy a Doxy massager for my female partner but I am worried that she will love it more than me. Any thoughts?
I feel your pain, and I understand that some people might be worried that a sex toy so awesome could usurp their own value.
Me: You don’t get jealous of my @doxymassager, do you? Him: No, but could you at least turn it off while we have this conversation?
— Girl on the Net (@girlonthenet) September 3, 2014
But please don’t sweat it. I love my Doxy more than I love my right hand, but naturally it’s never going to fulfil the place that gentlemen hold in my heart (and knickers). In fact, if you apply the Doxy to your partner’s clitoris while you guys are banging, the resultant twitching cuntspasms may well cause you to fall in love with it too.
Isn’t it a bit TOO powerful?
I… I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.
Well, like, don’t the vibrations make your vulva feel a bit numb?
Not for me personally, but I cannot vouch for your vulva. If powerful stuff sends you a bit numb and tingly, I’d advise using Doxy on the lower settings. I usually have it at about 7 or 8, and I often use the ‘pulse’ mode, which goes from soft to intense in a cool pattern. Like this: “vrrrrrrrrrrrrrVRRRRRRvvvvrrrrrrr” but I have seen a fair few other reviews from people who say they prefer to use it on the lower settings – there’s quite a range. But I like my Doxy like I like my men: loud and powerful and next to my bed at all times. Or something.
I don’t suppose you have any audio clips of you using the Doxy, do you? For ‘research’?
Sure thing. Here are some audio clips of me using the Doxy massager.
Do you have a picture of a really hot lady using a Doxy massager?
Why yes I do. She also appears to be partaking in the kind of self-bondage with tight corsets that I have a bit of a thing for myself.
Sex toy Blue Peter, and DIY bondage
“What’s that?” I ask him, pointing to a bundle of canvas ropes, some big metal clips, and a hand crank that makes a delicious ‘rrrrk’ sound when you ratchet it along the fabric. My immediate thoughts turn to DIY bondage…
The sign of commitment
My parents want me to get married. My grandparents want me to get married. When the marriage is over and done with (or, in most cases, before it’s even been floated as an idea) they will all want me to have children. To produce tiny copies of myself and my other half, then send them out into the world to follow in their mother’s footsteps/continue the family line/whatever it is that people expect children to do.
But although these things are unarguably signs that you’re committed to your relationship, there are other things that – to me – indicate commitment in a different way, yet are rarely celebrated or treated as exciting.
A long time ago I moved in with my partner – an ex. When I told my family, I had a mixed range of reactions, from ‘congratulations!’ to ‘are you sure? It’s a pretty big commitment.’ The latter, bizarrely, was from people who’d previously asked me when they’d hear wedding bells. I had another relative who said ‘why are we celebrating this? You’re basically just housemates – it’s not exactly commitment, is it?’
Weddings versus other commitment
I love a good wedding – they’re desperately romantic. I like turning up on the day and smiling alongside the happy couple in cheesy photos, throwing confetti and drinking booze and getting a bit weepy over the speeches. Cracking stuff. Best of all I love hearing the pride in friends’ voices when they start saying “my husband” or “my wife”. Marriage is pretty cool, for those who want to do it.
In terms of marriage as commitment, though, I think it gets far too much of the credit. Sure, it’s a commitment: a public declaration of your togetherness and all that. But as a tediously practical nobhead, I can’t help but think that ‘marriage’ gets a lot of the commitment glory that should realistically be given to other, less romantic, things.
I’m talking about mortgages, mostly.
For many reasons, I have some fairly strong ideas about money and equality and independence in relationships. When I say ‘fairly strong ideas’ what I mean is if you even think about suggesting that I live off my partner’s wages, or that my credit card bills don’t matter because he could pay them with his savings if I really struggled, I am liable to burst into sanctimonious ranting.
Independence means a lot to me. My money is my money and his money is his, and that is the way it has always been. I’ve struggle to ‘share’ in the traditional, ‘committed’ sense of the word: joint bank accounts, paying bills without splitting to the final penny, not counting up who’s added six bags of Malteasers to the Ocado order, that kind of thing.
Money as a sign of commitment
So when I say I don’t want to get married, it’s not because I have a fundamental problem with marriage, or that I’m pissing on your happy day if that stuff works for you. I’m not even saying I’ll never get married – if I were with someone who gave a massive and deal-breaking shit about it, I’d say an enthusiastic ‘I do’ to keep him happy. What I am saying, though, is that if you want a real test of whether I’m committed to a relationship, don’t ask for my hand: ask for a joint bank account.
Ask me for a mortgage. Buy a sofa we’ll sit on together. Offer to pay some of my debts then wave a hand and say ‘whenever’ when I ask how I’ll pay you back. Romance wise, it isn’t a patch on standing up in front of your loved ones and pledging to ‘love, honour and whatever it is they say instead of ‘obey’ these days’, but it gives me the warm and fuzzy feelings nonetheless.
These activities make me gooey because they’ve previously made me so afraid. If I throw my money in with yours – save jointly for a holiday, buy a house, or split the cost of getting the bathroom re-tiled, then… what if we break up? The knowledge that if this relationship goes down the toilet we’re left not just splitting book collections but setting up standing orders for repayment terrifies me. Would he charge me interest? Would I be left with a bill?
These fears and more mean that I’ve probably taken my fear of financial commitment a bit far. What started as ‘rent is split 50:50’ has become ‘I would rather watch you eat take-out on your own than eat a portion of a meal I can’t afford.’ In any relationship, my partner and I have paid for our own things, kept our own money, and always – always – split the bill.
Which means that, while my relatives might still be nagging for marriage, I can hug myself with the warm fuzzy feelings that come from looking at mortgage rates together. I can see romance in him chipping in to help re-tile the bathroom.
It’s not that romantic on the surface, but I’ll happily say ‘I love you’ with a spreadsheet.