Sinful Sunday is a fun sex blogger meme whereby people take one photo and post it on Sunday – the photo has to be erotic in some way (although you don’t necessarily have to be naked). It can be of something you love, or of you, or whatever. But basically what happens is loads of people post really interesting, hot, personalised snaps that sum up what ‘erotic’ means to them, and I love it. I really wanted to join in, so I had a bash. Here’s how yesterday evening should have gone:

“Hey, I want to take a cool picture for this sex blogger meme because I’m trying to join in with memes and stuff at the moment.”

“Ooh, that sounds fun.”

“It is. I have to be sexy.”

“OK, take your pants off.”

“But I also have to be comfortable.”

“OK, I’ll get you a coat.”

Cue hours of fun while we got a bit fucked up, got semi naked, and took loads of snaps that fit the criteria of being ‘erotic’, without necessarily having to be explicit or naked, then another happy hour while we scrolled through the pictures and picked the best one to publish here.

That’s not what happened, though.

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Today’s blog post is brought to you by the letters S. L. U and T.

Let’s talk dirty, and then let’s talk about whether ‘dirty’ is an appropriate word to use when describing something that is – at best – morally neutral. One of the constant struggles of being a lefty (weep for me) is that I frequently embrace things in the bedroom which would, in real life, horrify me. Words like ‘slut’ and ‘bitch’ used in the street? Fuck you and goodnight. Used in the bedroom? Get fucking in me right now.

I like to be degraded, and used, and treated as if I’m nothing. And in the process of that, guys I’m with often use words which are pretty powerful weapons. Words can be incredibly hot, and incredibly offensive, and sometimes both these things at once.

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Yesterday I read an article by a ‘broody feminist‘ I wasn’t, initially, sure what one of these was, so I clicked through wondering if it might be a new faction of feminism about which I could have an opinion (I think I probably fall into the category of ‘Opinionated feminists‘, or somewhere on the venn diagram where they cross over with ‘Drunk feminists’ and ‘Feminists who like crisps’). It turns out that a ‘broody feminist’ is just a feminist who wants children. The author, Charlotte Gill, explains that:

“as feminism has progressed, saying you want babies has become deeply unfashionable – synonymous with “I have no career ambition.” On the other hand, a child-free existence has been painted as progressive and exciting, sold successfully by celebrities like Jennifer Aniston and Kylie Minogue.”

Which is interesting, because it’s not really true. Sure, it is very slowly becoming more acceptable for women to say ‘I don’t want kids’, and we’re no longer treated like we’re the gruesome offspring of the Childcatcher and Cruella DeVille. But I think calling it ‘fashionable’ is quite a leap – given Daily Mail headlines that screech at us about our biological clocks, and misguided advice by people like Kirstie Allsopp about how we should all have a baby or two before we try and get a degree. I won’t spend too long on the truth or otherwise of the argument, because I’m sure you know that while many people are fighting to emphasise that you don’t have to choose to procreate, there’s still an assumption that you will. There’s definitely not, as Charlotte seems to be arguing, a dominant feminist view that parenthood is a Bad Choice for everyone.

If I could wave a magic wand that changed our narrative around children, I wouldn’t be arguing that fewer women should choose to have them, or that we should all have them at certain times or what have you, I’d change it to this:

• Having kids is one of many options when it comes to making life choices.
• It shouldn’t be assumed that anyone either will or won’t have kids: no matter what their gender, relationship status, etc.

In short, having kids is a bit like training for a marathon – it can be incredibly rewarding, it’s definitely admirable, but it’s also a lot of effort so not everyone wants to do it. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about kids – have ’em, don’t have ’em, whatever makes you happy. Here I want to talk about silence…

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Did you know that men have evolved to have slightly louder voices than women? Well, it’s true. As a general rule, men will speak at a higher volume than women do, and will tend to dominate more conversations. This is because, in our evolutionary past, it was necessary for men to put in most of the hard work to find mates. Alongside the usual: standing around looking rugged, they also used their mating megaphones (a primitive feature which eventually evolved into the mouth) to shout for female attention. ‘Ugg!’, or what have you – I don’t know, I don’t speak neanderthal, but it was basically a primitive version of ‘hey darling, I am ready to impregnate you in order to further the species! Check out my spaff-packets and make your choice!’ The rest, as they say, is history.

Now, before you start writing me angry letters about how actually neanderthal men communicated by dropping a dead mammoth at the feet of their lover, please understand that I made all of the above up. I mean, obviously.

The initial fact may or may not be true, I don’t know. It sounds maybe a bit plausible, doesn’t it? That men have evolved louder voices? I’ve not checked it, of course, that would take ages. But what I have done is constructed a vaguely plausible story as to why people might have evolved that way, then carefully ignored any facts or examples that might not fit.

Do I win £5?

Crappy evolutionary dating theories

Believe it or not, I get sent quite a few emails from people who have found The Answer when it comes to dating – ‘how to be an alpha male by killing the metaphorical 21st century mammoth’ or what have you. Normally I delete and ignore.

Yesterday’s captured my imagination, though, because it was funnier than the others.

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The other day, I was playing Magic: the Gathering online, like one of the cool kids. I like to play it in the evenings, because I find it relaxing to scream ‘Fuck off with your TWATTY DRAGONS’ at the telly while glugging wine. After half an hour or so of being repeatedly beaten by a bunch of cheating nobheads, I realised that I’d been horribly sexist.

“Oh look,” I’d exclaim when my opponent brought out a ridiculously overpowered beast which which to savage me. “I imagine his bastard ogre will decimate my teeny elf in a manner of seconds.”

And it did. But that’s not the point. The point is I was playing against someone with a generic, genderless username, and yet I’d repeatedly referred to them as ‘he’. In fact, almost every Magic opponent online is a ‘he’ in my mind, despite the fact that I would rage against anyone who told me any given game was for boys or girls.

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