Google Trends tells me that people only really began searching ‘lolly vagina’ in earnest in July 2022. Yet as long ago as 2019, we were being warned in The Metro not to put lollies in our vaginas to try and cool down. The Mirror, too, chipped in by reiterating the warnings. As did Grazia. In 2020, when most of us were busy trying not to catch the plague, the Daily Star reminded us to also remain vigilant against frostbite on our fannies. Now, as a deadly heatwave grips the UK, the links and warnings start circulating again, with new outlets chiming in to help curb what appears to be a trend of people shagging ice pops to try and stay cool in the heat. I imagine these will only increase exponentially as climate change continues to radically alter the make-up of the planet while the people in power make token gestures that aren’t even close to enough. But how useful are these warnings? Are people actually putting ice lollies in their vaginas? What are the risks? And most importantly… why can’t I fuck an ice lolly if I want to?

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First things first: when people say ‘it happens all the time!’ I cannot stress enough just how true this actually is. Perhaps I’m wildly unattractive or extremely intimidating (lol ‘perhaps’ – I have been informed on various occasions that I am both of these things, but some men choose to fuck me anyway so I’m gonna work on the assumption that they’re not just making it up for lolz) but rest assured it’s reasonably common. Please trust me on this – I’m a big slag who has been lucky enough to spend a lot of time with dick. Most people I’ve shagged for any length of time have at some point found they can’t get an erection. I am not qualified to tell you how to magically make one appear, but I can give you some suggestions on what to do if you find yourself in that situation and you struggle to move past it.

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Yesterday I asked Twitter to give me a hand with blog topics – I have a few drafts but none are quite ready, and I was in a bit of a funk and feeling meh about writing in general. Not only did they come through in a powerfully brilliant way, with tonnes of questions that I may well tackle later, but one question in particular leapt out at me and begged for a longform answer. So with apologies to those of you who asked ones I have not answered (I’ll try, I promise), today I’m going to have a crack at this one from Quinn Rhodes: where does foreplay end and sex begin?

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For some reason, when you become intimate with people, they often feel like they have a right to say critical things about the way you look. Men have often felt this way about my body over the years: making comments about my weight, the various places in which hair grows and whether I remove it, the way I dress or carry myself, my use (or rejection) of make up. As if our intimacy constitutes a contract which grants them the right to correct me. Or perhaps, more kindly, like they believe I will welcome the opportunity for self-improvement that they’ve so thoughtfully opened up. Please, for the love of infinite fuck, understand this: I will never welcome these comments. You should never say these things. Your negative comment on my body is never welcome. My body is my body. If you don’t like it, don’t fuck it: that’s the deal.  

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A long time ago on Twitter @sexlovevideo and @onqueerstreet were discussing objectification (re: the bond-coming-out-of-the-sea scene) and asking whether just flipping objectification around could be a feminist act, or whether we should avoid doing to men what the patriarchy has done to women since time immemorial (I am simplifying heavily here – read the thread and post for more). I am firmly in the former camp, let me explain why objectifying men is a feminist act and also what’s hot about fat guys. Pull up a chair and your sex toy of choice.

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