Everyone hates condoms – they’re rubbish. They’re all rubbery and they smell weird and there’s a break in sex where you have to tear the packaging and struggle your desperate, throbbing cock into something that will end up diminishing your enjoyment of the whole thing. See? Rubbish.

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ARGH WHY. Of all the bullshit that men are taught about sex that I have to then un-teach them, this is one of the ones that most frustrates me:

“You should still try and pleasure a woman even after you’ve come.”

Why? What’s in it for you? Oh, sorry – you’re selfless. You’re a selfless, giving, good-Samaritan of a man who’ll be kind enough to fumble with my cunt even at the point after orgasm when, for you, it holds less interest than a bacon sandwich.

Why thanks – you’re too kind. I don’t know about you but what I dream about in my wildest fantasies is a man who is spent, exhausted and completely sexually disinterested rummaging around like he’s trying to re-light the gas hob.

“I want to make sure you’re getting something out of it.”

Trust me: I am. And you’ll know about it with loud and vigorous enthusiasm right up until the climax – the most IMPORTANT BLOODY PART – whether you jizz in me, on me, or somewhere over the frigging rainbow. I can come any time I like, but it’s not every day I get to taste your spunk in my mouth.

That’s why I bought my ticket. That’s what I’m here for.

If I don’t come, and you do, that is fine by me. I can lie there in the afterglow feeling your come slowly drying on my stomach, listening to your post-shag panting and feeling satisfied that we both had a great time. What I can’t do is enjoy the afterglow if you’re still half-heartedly prodding at my clit.

So please, gentlemen, PLEASE, for the love of all that’s good and beautiful and drenched in sweat after an excellent ride: when you’re done, stop. You were wonderful.