Update 2020: this post was written long ago, before I understood how Julie Burchill’s views really fed into the toxic debate on trans rights. I would not write the same thing today. 

What causes hate? Loads of situational things, of course. You might hate someone because they slept with your partner, because they blew up your car or used up the last bit of milk in the fridge and failed to replace it.

On a more significant and terrifying level you might hate someone because they’re different: blacker, gayer, differently-gendered, or because there’s some other quality about them that you just can’t get your head around. They’re different, and they do things differently to you and they’re swanning around this world just refusing to even make an effort to be a little bit the same as you, to fit in. How dare they.

At the root of it I think the vast majority of this hatred is caused by a failure to understand – to actually try and put yourself in someone else’s shoes and empathise with their situation. We’re suffering a massive fuckoff crisis of empathy, and it’s causing us to rip each other to shreds.

Let’s talk about privilege

I’m pretty bloody privileged: I’m a white, middle-class British girl with a job and a flat and shoes and a fridge full of Cadbury’s Twirl bites and at least four real-life friends. I’ve grown up with a family who are fucking spectacular and supportive and I’m more than aware that the shelter of my background and upbringing means I’ll never fully understand the troubles that other people, who haven’t been born with all the breaks I have, go through.

But I can try, yeah? I can give it a fucking go. I can listen to people’s stories and experiences and I can frown at the people who shout them down and I can try – try – to empathise. I may not be able to fully comprehend, because of my privilege. But I can listen, and I can try.

Let’s talk about words

I once wrote a blog post about female urinals that included the line ‘women don’t have penises’. As soon as I tweeted it someone tweeted back saying ‘hey, how about you cut out the nasty transphobia in your second paragraph, yeah?’

My reaction was a stunned, gobsmacked, horrified ‘what the fuck?!’ I re-read the blog and I couldn’t see anything that would lead people to think that I was phobic or hateful towards transgendered people. So you know what I did? Rather than call her a prick, or tell her to fuck off and leave me alone, I asked what she meant.

She explained: ‘some women, you know, do have penises. Gender vs sex.’ That made sense, so I asked her what I should change it to and she suggested ‘most women don’t have penises.’ The change wasn’t exactly a fucking revolution, but it made this person, and potentially others, a bit more comfortable with what I was writing, and also made me a bit more careful about the language I used from then on. I’m not asking for a medal, by the way – this is quite literally the least I can do to not be a dick.

In return, though, when I’d changed the piece, the lady in question apologised. Not for asking me to change it, but for her initial comment that had made it sound like I did it deliberately. Saying (and I’m paraphrasing, because I don’t have the tweet to hand) ‘sorry, I just see this stuff all the time, appreciate you changing it and realise you didn’t do it on purpose.’

And, pathetic though I sound, that made my sodding day. Her recognition that I’m not deliberately a bastard, just a clumsy arse, meant a lot.

Let’s talk about Julie Burchill

Earlier this week Suzanne Moore wrote an article that included an insensitive comment about ‘Brazilian transsexuals.’ Then some people picked her up on it. Then some more people hounded her for it. She defended her comments. They asked her to apologise. She left Twitter. Then professional controversialist Julie Burchill waded in with something so hateful that it made me wonder why the fuck any of us even bothers getting out of bed in the morning.

There are failures of empathy going on all over the place here – Moore’s initial lack of empathy and understanding for trans women who, you know, have enough shit to deal with without being casually mocked in the New Statesman. When she was picked up on her comments by people who tried to engage, and explain exactly what was wrong with the original comment, she failed to understand why they might be justifiably angry. Later on, some more vocal tweeters joined in, then seemed surprised that Moore might be upset at having had quite terrifying abuse hurled at her. Finally, Julie Burchill rounded the whole episode off neatly by demonstrating where a complete lack of empathy ultimately leads: to hatred.

Let’s just fucking talk, OK?

Privileged or not, we all have the capacity to understand and to try and empathise. But we cannot do that if we cannot talk to each other, and listen to what others have to say.

Sometimes I’ll say things you disagree with. Sometimes I’ll use words you don’t like. Sometimes (and this may be one of those times) you’ll want to hurl your laptop out of the window in frustration at the way I have callously dismissed or ignored something that’s precious to you.

But I promise you this: I will never deliberately say hateful, horrible things that ignore my privilege and make life harder for you. I will always try to empathise and – if you correct me – I’ll try to clarify what I’m saying, or apologise if I’m wrong. If you tell me about my mistakes I can correct and clarify. If you call me a hateful psycho bitch-whore, I’ll never fucking learn.

I’m just a girl, standing in front of an angry internet, asking you all to be a bit more understanding. That goes for the writers as well as the commenters and all of the people who retweet us and keep us afloat. Because as soon as we lose that capacity to understand, to try and empathise with other people’s feelings and troubles and mistakes, we’ll all turn into Julie fucking Burchill.

 

Someone once told me that sex without orgasm is completely pointless – like a party without booze. My response was that there are many different kinds of party.

Sex without an orgasm is like wine without cheese. Celery without hoummous. A massive fuckoff slab of cake without a cup of coffee to wash it down – these things might be better when they come together, but they’re undeniably fun to have even without the extra.

I don’t always come when I’m fucking. Likewise, believe it or not, guys don’t always come when they’re fucking either.

Almost every single thing we see and hear about sex tells us a story that begins with a male erection and ends with a male orgasm. From biology classes at school which focused on fucking as a disgusting yet crucial baby-spawning activity to the mainstream porn films which fade out about five seconds after someone’s jizzed on someone else’s tits/face/arse/knickers/feet. In fact, porn is a classic example – the fact that male porn stars who fail to ejaculate are nudged to one side by willing and jizz-ready ‘stunt cocks’ shows that we generally view orgasm (or rather – male orgasm) as a rather crucial part of sex.

How do you know when you’ve stopped?

I suppose the key reason we believe this is that a spunk-stream in your eye acts as a handy visual and physical point at which to show the coupling had ended. Like a full stop. It’s as good a point as any in which to roll over and fall asleep, because it’s trickier for men to keep going after they’ve come.

But although feeling someone’s prick twitching a couple of spoonfuls of jizz into your aching cunt is by all means a nice way to end sex, that doesn’t mean it’s the only way.

In the past I’ve had sex sessions aborted (or aborted them myself) because:

a) he’s just too fucking knackered to come. At which point I will either render blowjobs or solitude, depending on how pissed off he looks.

b) I’m too twitchy to continue. It’s often the case that if I come a few times in a row, my thigh muscles start contracting like some phantom clit-genie has attached electrodes to me, and my cunt freaks out. At this point any further sexual contact is a bit like being tickled, and not conducive to further fun.

c) my cunt is sore. No guy has ever been upset to stop for this reason – usually because he doesn’t want to inflict genuinely uncomfortable pain, but partly because it’s a well-earned badge of honour.

d) he just can’t come. Whether the mood’s not right or he’s fucking too soon after a wank or he caught a glimpse of my face in the wrong light and I looked startlingly like his sister – there have been a fair few occasions when a guy has just stopped and decided we’d be better off playing Scrabble for a wee while until he gets hard again.

In these instances, one or other party often feels the need to apologise. I’ve heard occasional apologies and, slightly rarer, admissions that ‘I’m awful’ and ‘you must be so angry with me.’

This is not in any way a sexy thing. Giving it ten minutes then guiding my head back down to your dick is a sexy thing. Growling in my ear that you’ll take your frustrations out on me later is a sexy thing. Spanking me to let me know that you’re displeased is a sexy thing. Begging my forgiveness? Not so much.

My orgasms aren’t 100% crucial either

Likewise, whether I come or not is not an issue at the forefront of my mind when you’re pounding seven shades of fuck into me. It’s something that will probably happen, because I’m lucky enough to find it relatively easy to come when I’m being fucked. But that’s not to say that if it doesn’t happen I’m going to cry in a corner until you see the hurt you’ve caused me – I doubt that would stand me in good stead for the next time I wanted to sit on your dick.

If I’m honest, I’m far more likely to actually come – you know, for real – if you chill the fuck out about it. I’d prefer a quick, messy, satisfying, grunting, orgasmless fuck which leaves us both grinning like teenagers in a sex shop than a long, drawn out shag during which I can feel you thinking ‘why won’t GOTN come? What’s wrong with her? What am I doing wrong? Oh Christ I hope she comes soon I’ve got cramp and my dick’s going limp and please please please just come on my fucking cock you fussy bitch’, at the end of which I might end up coming but only out of a weary desire to get things over with and put you out of your misery.

Disappointing parties

My opinion might be freakishly abnormal, though – I occasionally find I that it is. Being unable to enter other people’s minds I am depressingly restricted to judging solely based on what I think and what other people have said to me.

There might be people out there for whom sex without orgasm is a horrible, horrible thing. For them, sex without orgasm may well be like a party without booze, and they may think both of those scenarios sound completely pointless.

But for me there are many different types of party, and many different types of fuck.
Having sex without an orgasm isn’t pointless, odd, or even particularly unusual. It’s actually reasonably common – whether through a difficulty orgasming during sex, through tiredness or, most frequently in my experience, because I occasionally find it hilarious to edge a guy until he almost comes then leave him writhing in erect discomfort for a couple of hours until he begs me to suck him dry.

It’s not a party without booze, it’s a party which ends early: still fun while it lasts, and at least when it’s done you can rub one out in the kitchen.

On Friday night I did a bad thing. In case you’re expecting domination, sadism and sexy pain, I should warn you right now that this isn’t going to be that sort of blog.

In the pub on Friday, around five or six pints into an eight pint night, a funny conversation I was having with a friend was interrupted by a reasonably attractive, smiley gentleman. He cut in, with a cute, ‘can I get to know you’, response to something I’d been saying. He was sweet, and friendly, and nice, and making an honest attempt to chat me up.

And I shot him down.

Not just a ‘not right now’ shoot down, or an ‘I have a boyfriend’ shoot down. I didn’t even crack out the cold stare that I’ve seen others give to this kind of approach when they’re not in the mood to be spoken to. I shot him down with a cruel, cruel comeback. Something that both my drunken mind and my drunken friend agreed was hilarious and witty, but which my sober mind wants to suck straight back into my evil, rude, insulting face.

Chatting people up is hard

I’m obviously not going to shag every passing drunk who says ‘hello’, but I’ve always sworn that if someone approached me politely they’d get politeness back.

Why? Well, it takes a fuck of a lot of courage to approach someone you don’t know. A guy who talks to me in a pub is not so much wearing his heart on his sleeve as offering his dick up on a platter: ‘do you want this? Is this good enough for you? Do I gain your acceptance and approval?’

I come out in shivers of nervousness and terror just remembering times when I’ve done the same.

And I have, by the way – done the same. I’m no fan of being the chatter-up rather than the chattee, but I’ll do it when I really fancy someone, because I don’t want to be reliant on them making the first move. Girl friends of mine have told me that I should refrain from stamping up to men reeking of vodka and slurring “You’re brilliant. Can I buy you a drink?” and wait instead for them to approach me. But bollocks to that.

I don’t want to hang shyly in a corner of a pub, batting my eyelashes and clutching my outdated gender stereotypes while the man of my dreams sits fucklessly by the bar. I also know that the sort of men I like (shy, nerdy ones) are often unwilling to approach me because they’ve seen their more confident friends on the receiving end of unnecessarily harsh rejections.

Bottom line: I understand why people are terrified of chatting someone up, because I am also terrified. But I do it to avoid being stuck in a sexless limbo. Horrible though approaching is, asking someone if they fancy a shag and receiving a ‘no’ is still marginally better than going home alone to crywank under the duvet.

I don’t want to fuck an arsehole

But ultimately, the most important reason why politeness should always win out in chat-up scenarios is because being rude makes you wholly unfuckable.

Even if the person chatting you up isn’t necessarily one you fancy, someone you do fancy could well be nearby. And I don’t know many people who’d want to sleep with the sort of shitbag arrogant cunt who would immediately dismiss someone.

Moreover, that hot stranger standing nearby might be thinking about talking to you. He or she might be preparing a line, working up the courage, eagerly anticipating the chance to talk to you. If they hear you telling someone else to utterly and unequivocally fuck off, they’re unlikely to leap eagerly into the conversation and offer their own dignity up for you to shred.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry

And so my penance for doing this – for being just the sort of cold-hearted arrogant twat that I despise – is to relive the moment as I write this blog entry, and cringe in miserable shame. I can’t make things better, but I can apologise, so if you’re reading this, sweet 20-something blond boy in the long grey jacket: I’m so fucking sorry.

I’m sorry I was cruel. I’m sorry I’m a shit. And I’m sorry that you might just think twice before you talk to a girl again. I didn’t just break my chat-up rules, I broke the only rule that ever really matters: whatever life throws at you, try not to be a dick.