We can be horny, we can be hopeful, we can be keen, we can be enthusiastic, but woe betide us if we’re desperate.

Desperation is unsexy

There’s nothing less sexy than someone who whines for you. Who doesn’t just want you but who needs you in a pitiful, clingy way. I’ve been guilty in the past of turning my nose up at such people. You know the ones – the ones who text you straight after a first date asking for another, the ones who try to wheedle an invite back to yours even though you’ve already said no. The ones who send you emails saying “why didn’t you reply to my last email?”

I snort dismissively, delete their texts, and pity the poor fools who think I’m anything special to fuss over.

But I’m wrong, and I’m cruel, and I know that this is bad. I shouldn’t write off the desperation of others because I fall victim to exactly the same feelings. The difference between my desperation and yours is that mine feels more true, and raw and painful.

We’re all desperate sometimes

Tonight I’m having an evening of self-imposed celibacy, and as a consequence I’m pathetically desperate for sex. Not just sex, either – I specifically want to be beaten. I want to be toyed and fucked with. I want a guy to bend me over, spank me with the palm of his hand, dip his fingers into my cunt to feel how wet I am, then beat me some more.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m capable of walking to the nearest pub, picking the loneliest-looking guy, and begging him to take me roughly in the beer garden. And then I get hornier and more desperate and I realise that I can’t – sex with a stranger will scratch a different itch to the one I actually have – the desperation to fuck a guy who knows me, and who can beat me with the strength and lustful conviction of someone who knows how I like it.

Have a wank, then

When I confided in a friend about this problem he said exactly that: “why don’t you have a wank?” but unfortunately it doesn’t work like that. I don’t know if it’s the same for everyone (what I do know, though, is that it’s rarely the same for everyone), but if I come home from work and rub one out, five minutes later in the kitchen as I’m pouring a gin and tonic, it occurs to me that – well, the last wank was nice, why not have another? And another? And… you get the idea.

Wanking is not a nice, relaxing release of tension. It’s like Pringles.

Sometimes you have to beg

The only solution to this problem is to find a boy I like fucking, and persuade him that – no, it doesn’t matter that it’s a school night – he has to fuck me right now. This works sometimes, and the resulting sex is satisfying and powerful and – usually – incredibly quick.

But I don’t think it’s easy to do this. Doing this properly involves putting yourself out there as a desperate person. Texting someone to say ‘I desperately need sex now – are you free?’ is far more difficult than saying ‘Free tonight? Fancy a shag?’.

‘Fancy a shag?’ has less baggage – it’s less needy – it’s more likely to get a reply.

But it’s also less likely to be successful. I once sent a casual message of this type to a friend, after a similar self imposed (but this time week-long) celibacy, and he offered to come and pick me up and take me to his house. My cunt twitched and ached as I waited in the cold outside the train station – imagining a quick journey to his, followed by a swift beating and a cold, functional fuck bent over the side of his sofa.

I didn’t wear knickers, I hadn’t even bothered to wear shoes – flip-flops thrown on as soon as his ‘yes’ text came through meant I was prepared for nothing other than a quick shag. I needed it just to calm me, to prevent me from rubbing my thighs together on a train in a manner that was starting to look suspicious to those who regularly joined my carriage.

He stopped nearby, and I limped over to his car, wondering if there was somewhere nearby we could retire to, saving ourselves the ten minutes of dripping, twitching agony as we drove to his house.

But I’d been too casual. I’d been too jokey and calm. ‘Fancy a shag?’ hadn’t fully conveyed my need. He stopped at a pub on the way, and insisted that we had a pint. I downed my drink then squirmed for 20 minutes, staring at him. I batted my eyelashes and crossed my legs and jiggled my knee up and down under the table, willing him to drink up.

It was the longest twenty minutes of my entire life.

Somewhere in the world there exists a blurry night-shot video of me sucking a guy’s dick. Don’t hit google, you’ll never find it. The guy who filmed it, whose dick starred in it, is not an arsehole. I’ve had odd moments of panic when I wonder if his computer ever got stolen, or if the tape from the camera was mislaid and picked up later by a curious friend, but I know with utter conviction that he’d never have deliberately shown it to anyone without my consent.

Kate Middleton’s tits

This week some tawdry celeb mags have published pictures of Kate Middleton sunbathing topless.

The pictures (for I have seen them – they are on the internet) are nothing special. They are exactly what you’d expect them to be. They are not newsworthy, or shocking – they’re unnecessary, and the taking of them was hurtful and intrusive and offensive. The buying of them equally so.

And yet I looked. I looked because I was curious. Everyone’s talking about these pictures. I wanted to confirm my suspicions that the fuss was about nothing, and that publishing them was something I could easily condemn.

“Oh, how awful. They invaded this poor woman’s privacy for nothing. How disgusting they are. I’m so horrified I’ll shut this web page in a minute.”

I fucking disgust myself.

Because so rarely in life do I do things that I think are genuinely wrong. I’m happy batting away the judgment of other people when they call me a pervert or a slut, because I have the moral high ground. I usually have enough ethical awareness to avoid doing the things that – although tempting – are actually morally wrong.

And yet I looked at Kate Middleton’s tits.

Prince Harry’s bollocks

A similar dilemma arose during the recent ‘Prince Harry gets naked in Vegas’ shock. It turns out that a young, attractive man got naked in his hotel room with some people.

The resulting storm that brewed was both disgusting and weird. While Clarence House played whack-a-mole with the images that had popped up online, individuals were loudly asserting their right to see the pictures. “It’s a public interest issue,” they said “We pay for him,” they continued. And then, flailing vaguely around the issue of just why, exactly, someone they pay for should be compelled to let you see his bollocks they added “it’s a security issue.”

Well, no. It’s not, is it? Perhaps there are security issues associated with what happened, but the pictures themselves are not a security issue. No one is more or less likely to assassinate Harry on the basis that there is photographic evidence that he has testicles. The fact that the pictures were taken might form the basis of a story about security surrounding the prince, but the actual pictures themselves add nothing to that debate.

Nevertheless, a debate was had. Justifications were made, counterarguments swept under the table, and the prince’s own assertion that – you know – he’d rather we didn’t all cop a look at him in the nude went unheeded. The Sun knocked the whole thing out of the park with a grand announcement that it would publish the pictures because it was the ‘right thing’ to do.

Hooray for press freedom! Hooray for the Sun! Hooray for them posting naked pictures of someone without his consent! What larks, eh? Who wouldn’t shell out 20-odd pence to have a quick glimpse of the prince’s privates?

Well, I guess nice people. People nicer than me.

I’m going to put aside the spurious debate about press freedom for a moment and talk about ethics. Because hey – I’m not a fan of banning people from doing things if at all possible. If I were ruler of the world, I wouldn’t want to have to issue a diktat saying ‘newspapers cannot print pictures of members of the Royal Family in the nude.’

So let’s instead talk in more general terms: is there ever a compelling reason for a national newspaper to publish naked pictures or videos of someone without their consent?

I don’t think there is. Moreover, I don’t think there’s an honest justification for anyone to publish naked pictures of someone without their consent.

Tulisa’s blow job

A few months ago a video was released of FHM’s sexiest woman – Tulisa – giving an ex-boyfriend a blow job. Blogs were ringing with the sound of gleeful dudes rubbing one out, frowning moralists calling Tulisa ‘loose’, and bitchy women criticising her blow-job technique. Someone suggested to me that I jump on the bandwagon, grab myself some cheap SEO traffic, and review the video.

As you can probably tell, I didn’t. The idea of pointing and laughing at someone doing something that they clearly believed was private gives me the shivers. With the certainty that comes from knowing I never want my blurry night-shot blow job video to go online, I know that posting sexual pictures of someone without their consent is unethical and wrong.

Whatever you think of some of the more controversial things I’ve written, I have very strong views on consent, and ultimately I don’t want to be part of anything that tramples all over it. So even if you’re saying that Tulisa’s sexy, Kate’s an English Rose, even if you’re saluting Prince Harry and calling him a ‘top lad’ for playing naked games in his hotel room, the fact remains that he’s made it pretty clear he doesn’t want those pictures published. So we shouldn’t publish them.

But I looked

Here’s the tricky part. How do we ethically justify the fact that, although we’re disgusted by the idea of releasing hot blow job videos, or tit shots, or blurry mobile-phone snaps of a prince frolicking in a hotel room, some of us are happy to watch those things when they appear? The answer is we don’t – we can’t. There’s no need for me ever to see this stuff – it will add nothing of value to my life.

The people who publish this shit are hideous. The people who either take photos without consent or release photos without consent are doubly hideous. But if we’re completely honest with ourselves we’re not much better.

No matter what our reasons for looking, we are still disgusting. What makes me angry is that not only do these situations demonstrate how pathetic I am as an individual, but how pathetic we are as a species. We cannot bear to admit that we googled the pictures out of cheap curiosity or lust. Instead we cite press freedom, security concerns, or the hazards of celebrity.

But the very fact that we want an excuse shows we know deep down that seeking out these pictures might not be our most glorious moment – that we’re crossing a moral line. So let’s drop the excuses altogether, shall we? We can admit that we want to look whilst trying to avoid looking, and while this internal battle rages we can stop lying to ourselves and everyone else.

Let’s not invent bullshit excuses to try and wriggle out of guilt. Accept the guilt. You’re not looking at Prince Harry’s bollocks because you’re a freedom fighter. You’re looking because you’re disgusting. We’re disgusting.

I am disgusting.