I’ve always wanted to be good at finding romantic gifts. Small yet exquisitely formed tokens of affection that have my other half either weeping with joy or laughing in ecstatic delight.

But unfortunately, I suck. I umm and err if I have to buy a guy a birthday present, caught between something expensive, tasteful and brilliant and something expensive, rubbish, but hilarious.

In the end I usually end up declaring my romantic intentions via the means of drunk text messages or half-formed sonnets written in fridge magnets. But still. Very very occasionally I’ve bought, made or done things that have had the desired effect. Here are the top five romantic gifts that I have generously bestowed upon gentlemen I have known:

A blue rose

We’d had a row about whether or not blue roses existed. So, when I spent ages hunting down a blue rose, and triumphantly presenting it to him, it had the benefit that it was not only pretty cool-looking and unique, but it also harked back to a shared in-joke. If I hadn’t handed it to him while shouting “HA! In your FACE, Mr WRONG” it might well have got me laid.

A week later, as the water in the vase started to turn blue as well, I got the sneaking suspicion I’d been had.

A hand-drawn cartoon card

This one was FUCKING AMAZING, OK? Just, honestly. Ignore the fact that I draw about as well as a dog licking an inkwell. Forget that I had essentially drawn pictures of the two of us engaged in one of our numerous fights. It was pretty and big and took time and effort – I’d even coloured it in! And hardly gone over the lines!

Pizza and a blow job

What can I say? Sometimes I’m just a mind reader.

A limerick about his cock

This one actually counts for about fifty, because that is how many limericks I have written about this one boy’s cock. Helen of Troy had a face that launched a thousand ships, he has a penis that inspires a thousand poets.

Top tip if you’re thinking of recreating this, though – should you feel inspired to write a birthday limerick about your loved-one’s genitals, be sure to write it somewhere other than in their actual birthday card. Otherwise you might find yourself having to dive across the room to whip it out of his mother’s hands when she loudly exclaims ‘oh, how sweet, do you mind if I read it?’

A games console

Now I know what you’re thinking: you’re thinking “hey, Gotn, I thought the message of this blog was going to be about how you don’t have to spend loads of money in order to make romantic gestures!”

Well, you don’t. But that’s not to say that spending money can’t sometimes be a really bloody romantic gesture. Especially if it’s money you don’t really have, that you’re selflessly spending just because the love of your life wants something bizarre and out of your budget range.

The most romantic present I ever gave someone was a games console. Not an Xbox or a Playstation: this was much much better. Months before this boy’s birthday, we’d been watching the shopping channel with friends when an utterly amazing product came on. It was an old-fashioned plug-directly-into-the-telly console that had modern copies of ancient games. Heavily pixellated, retro-awesome tat. Needless to say, he was excited:

“It’s even got a gun! You can do clay pigeon shooting!”
“With blocky, clunky clay pigeons?”
“EXACTLY.”

So. It was settled. I’d save up the pitiful amount of money that I had (I was poor enough at the time that the 40-odd quid this thing cost was a serious budgetary commitment) and ordered one. As his birthday neared, I was quivering with nervous anticipation. I worried that he might hear me whispering the secret in my sleep. Every time he mentioned his birthday, and the fun we were going to have in the evening, I almost exploded with the desire to say “and we can play with your birthday present because it’s AMAZING.”

As the day dawned, I could barely speak for excitement, imagining the look of pure, squirming love on his face as he’d open it, turn to me, and beg me to stay with him forever. This was no ordinary love gift: it was the One True Gift that would cement me forever in his heart.

Have you guessed the ending yet? Because I certainly didn’t. When I met him in the morning, babbling excitedly about his party at which I’d get to present him with The Gift, he hit me with a conversational bombshell:

“So I met this girl over the weekend. We’re going out now.”
“But… you’re shagging me!”
“I know. But… we’re not really going out, are we?”
“Aren’t we?”

So there you are, kids – there’s the moral. It’s not that ‘love costs nothing’, it’s ‘beware of forking out too much on expensive trinkets, because if your partner is going to dump you then no amount of consumer electronics will stop them.’

I gave him the console anyway. Turns out it was quite shit.

If I were to distil what I’m trying to say in this blog, in my book, in articles and guest posts I write elsewhere, it’s this:

“Don’t make assumptions about sexuality.”

Don’t assume everyone’s the same. Don’t assume women are all looking for excuses to get out of sex, or that straight men are on a relentless quest to penetrate any female hole. Understand that people are complex, difficult creatures, and if we all acted the same not only would sex and relationships be seven billion times easier, but the world would be an unconscionably boring place.

And yet, when I write an article about female sexuality – that it’s complex, that some of us lust after dark and sordid things, that some women pursue sex with a drive that’s not easily explained by the ‘I’ve got a headache’ narrative – one of the most common responses is this:

“You obviously haven’t met my wife.”

Sigh.

My wife hates sex

I haven’t met your wife, and it’s likely that I won’t. It might be the case that your wife/girlfriend/mate/girl you met down the pub detests sex. It might equally be the case that she wants a very different kind of sex to the one you’ve got on offer.

But I’m not talking about your wife, because I’m not talking about all women. I never am.

I get this criticism a lot, and to be fair I understand why – the things I write here can sometimes sound a bit prescriptive. And I’m confident enough in my own experience to put forward arguments like “women don’t all want X” or “men aren’t always like Y.”

However, there’s a subtle difference here. Just because men and women aren’t all X and Y, that doesn’t mean I’m saying they’re all definitely Z. They might be A or B or even – if they’re particularly filthy – J. In order to agree with me you don’t have to think that all women want exactly the same – that would be illogical, terrifying, and clearly contrary to the experience of any person who has ever met women. All you have to understand is that people, bless their incomprehensible selves, are all different. 

Although it might upset you, some women like sex more than your wife. Some women like sex less than your wife. Some women, if they were married to you, would be a bit pissed off with you moaning on Twitter about how infrequently they want to fuck.

Unique and beautiful snowflakes

Women aren’t all the same. We never have been. Some women will be pretty similar to me in terms of outlook, sexual taste, etc. Others won’t.

I know you know this, of course. Chances are if you’re seeing this just after it’s published you’re a regular reader, subscriber, or someone who follows me on Twitter. You probably understand well the vast spectrum of human sexuality, and that people – no matter what their gender, sexuality, etc – have vastly different and fascinating needs and desires.

I’m not writing this for the people who understand. I’m writing this so that I have a link ready for the next person who doesn’t. So the next time someone says ‘hurr hurr, you haven’t met my wife’ I can send them here, and try to explain.

Just because I like sex doesn’t mean everyone has to. Doesn’t mean everyone does. I might sometimes be clumsy with my words, I might conjure up images that don’t fit with your worldview, but – like every single other blogger out there – I am utterly unqualified to speak for everyone.

If you haven’t yet read it, you might want to see this article first: “Date a boy who travels”

Date a boy who travels. Date a boy who has an Oyster card or a car or one of those Segway things. Watch his face light up as he successfully navigates his way from A to B. Sigh blissfully at his ability to do things that you could only dream of.

Date a boy who treasures experience over toys. Who wouldn’t be seen dead in a Rolex. Date a boy who cares about memories, and this one time in Thailand when he and his mates got off their tits on mushrooms and cavorted wildly in the sea.

You might find this boy in a bookshop, a Starbucks, a back-alley, or somewhere on the internet. Offer to buy him a drink. Make sure it’s something unusual so that you can please him, while simultaneously pretending you’re just as interesting as he is.

His twitter account will be riotously colourful, and will make you feel stupid for not knowing what ‘chai’ is. He’ll study books and magazines that you probably don’t like, but his excitement for these things is a tangible reminder of just how much better he is than you.

Listen to his stories. He’ll have shitloads of them, and they’ll all be a thousand times better than anything you could say. Feel warm inside as he regales you with yet another tale of something incomprehensibly exciting. Cross your fingers and perhaps one day he’ll deign to let you join him.

Date a boy so that you can live vicariously through him. He will teach you what excitement feels like, his stories of risk-taking will throb powerfully through your veins, and every single thing he introduces you to will be new and fresh and good and superior. Date a boy who tells you how you feel. And know that he is right.

Wait for him to propose, which he’ll do if and only if you’ve proved that you’re capable of living the same life as him. You’ll get married on a beach somewhere, or in the middle of a crumbling temple, or while bungee-jumping into a pool of understandably terrified dolphins. Embrace it. Enjoy it. Let this magical traveling wonder-boy show you how to live your life.

Date a boy who travels. Or not.

Or don’t do any of this. Because although this article has been shared around the internet like it’s a template for The Happy Life Of A Straight Woman, straight women are in fact not all identikit man-hunting machines. Nor do we languish in a chrysalis-like state, with no ambition or desire of our own save the hope that one day – one day – our prince will come and shape us into more exciting human beings.

Date a boy who likes you. Date a boy you like. Date a boy who watches some of the same TV shows as you. Date a boy who hates your taste in music but smiles indulgently when you drag him to a karaoke night. Date a boy who values experiences, possessions, trips abroad, Rolex watches, food, drink, politics, or whatever. Date a boy who values you.

Date a boy who sees you as an individual rather than a bucket into which he can pour his own ideas. Date a boy who knows you’re not a piece of clay to be moulded and shaped by someone who knows better. Date a boy who is interested in your stories, who brings you on his adventures and wants you to bring him on yours.

Date a boy who travels, a boy who sings, a boy who cries, a boy who skateboards, a boy who shouts at the TV when Question Time is on. Date a boy who eats nachos like a pig, who is teetotal, who drinks like a fish, who is a domestic wizard or who never does the washing up. Date a boy who teaches reading to children, or watches Game of Thrones with one hand down his pants. Who calls you ‘princess’ and won’t fart in front of you, or a boy who laughs when you dribble yoghurt down your chin. Date a boy who couchsurfs, a boy who holidays at Butlins, or a boy whose idea of adventure is a trip to the 24-hour supermarket with a printed discount voucher.

Date a boy who likes you. Date a boy you like.