When men are sexist, the least I can do is tell them not to be. I should say ‘nope’ or ‘fuck off’ or ‘are you shitting me?’ – sexist men deserve challenging responses. The last thing they deserve is for me to play along. Smile and nod and say ‘haha yes’, before sidling away and then kicking myself later. That’s the last thing they deserve, but it’s sometimes what I do.

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Summer beauty tips direct from my horrible subconscious. 

Step right up, it’s summer! And my my, it’s a scorcher! You’ll be looking forward to going to the park with your friends, won’t you? Having a nice pint in a beer garden, or heading down to the beach? Before you do, though, there’s a bit of admin to get sorted. Firstly: shave your fucking legs.

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“SHORTS,” my brain screams, irritatingly. “LOOK. MEN WEARING SEXY SHORTS.” Try as I might to shut it up, it refuses to be silenced on the most important issue of the day. “LOOK,” it insists, even as I try to distract myself by remembering my times tables, “THERE ARE SEXY LEGS ALL OVER THE PLACE. SHORTS. LOOK AT THE SEXY SHORTS.” So I comply. I drink it in. And I melt with lust.

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Apparently I am an ‘influencer.’ When I write about sex toys, some of you buy them. When I recommend books or articles, you click the links and read and share. You support me on Patreon to help me make audio porn. You incredible, beautiful, wonderful people: you sometimes take my advice. So if influence is currency, I’d like to spend it today. All of it. On one thing: persuading you to vote.

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When bad things happen, we text the people we love. We send Facebook messages, DMs and emails. We shout ‘are you OK?’ and we stand biting our nails in the kitchen as we call those who matter to us most.

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