Sometimes I want to arouse you. Sometimes I want to rant at you. I always want to entertain you. But occasionally I want to disgust you.

Partly because I think it’s important to highlight the fucking weird things we all do sometimes, because it makes everyone else feel a bit less weird about themselves. Partly because we’re constantly – constantly – told that experimenting with our bodies or enjoying them is dirty and bad and wrong (especially if we’re women).

But mostly because so much of what we think about sex is based on knee-jerk reactions, and when our knee-jerk reaction is one of disgust it’s worth examining why we feel disgusted. Is there a rational reason for it? Or is it, like that dildo made from human ashes, just something we condemn because our gut tells us we should?

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I know that ‘two things’ often turns into a mini-rant about bad dating advice, but that’s because there is so much bad dating advice out there, it’s really difficult to ignore. This week there’s one thing which I think we can use as a universal marker of bad dating advice. But on the up-side – there’s also a very personal, in-depth post about adult bullying, which is well worth a read.

And if you do ever spot things you’d like me to highlight here, please do leave a comment.

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Confession: I have never successfully used a pair of love eggs. I say ‘successfully’ because I have used love eggs, I have just never managed to get one iota of joy out of them.

It’s easy to write about sex toys I love – glass dildos or massagers or butt plugs or what have you. It’s trickier to rant about the things you hate, because it isn’t particularly sexy. But this love egg incident is the most Easter-y story I have, so pull up a bag of mini eggs and bear witness to my sex toy downfall.

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You’ve probably heard of Holly Brockwell – she has no children, and she doesn’t want them. She’s been trying (and trying and trying and trying) to get sterilised. Recently, after countless doctors appointments, refusals, referrals, more refusals and referrals, she was finally granted her wish, and is on the list for sterilisation.

Obviously, I am pretty damn impressed with Holly’s determination, particularly in light of the reactions to her decision. I’ve been watching the story with increasing horror as the ridiculous, patronising and tedious comments roll in: you’ll change your mind one day, aren’t you being selfish, who’ll look after you in your old age…

But the one I want to deal with here is this one:

Imagine actually believing this pic.twitter.com/Es2qFiwW0G

— Holly Brockwell (@holly) March 24, 2016

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Top of the list of ‘things I never expected to write’: butt plugs for men. Why? Well, because we all have butts, and the things which plug them will plug them the same no matter what your gender. In the course of my everyday life, I’d be as likely to utter the phrase ‘male butt plugs’ as I would to walk up to a Starbucks counter and order a ‘female caramel latte.’

And yet…

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