This post has everything to do with anxiety and nothing to do with sex. Except, of course, for the fact that both sex and anxiety are woven so tightly into the fabric of my life that they touch on everything I do. Except for that.

A while ago, someone sent me a link to this old article on stress and anxiety, and it made me stressed. But the good kind of stressed: annoyance that prompts me to write a long blog post about something. That kind of stress I like. It’s a refreshing break from the other kind of stress I have, which is a constant low-level hum of worry that I have done or said something howlingly awful, which at some point will be revealed to me via the medium of a friend or colleague telling me to get fucked.

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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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It’s hard to talk about rejection without sounding like you’re looking for sympathy. What’s more, it’s almost impossible to make rejection sexy. So on this sex blog, I very rarely talk about times when I was dumped, or when a hot person greeted my clumsy ‘fancy a shag?’ with a ‘no.’

But I think it’s important to talk about rejection. Firstly because I don’t want to give the impression that my life has been an unending sex-fest with anyone I choose. I hate to think I’d feed into the myth that men will fuck anyone who asks, because it’s total bollocks, as most people who’ve tried to fuck men will tell you. Secondly, there are often great things that come out of rejection: friendships made, lessons learned, disasters averted.

So, with all my love and thanks to each of them: here are three guys who’ve rejected me.

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My latest book is out today! Here are the links to buy it, and if you want to read a sample, then below is the whole of chapter 6, in text and at the bottom in audio (which I think technically counts as audio porn).

• Girl on the Net: How A Bad Girl Fell In Love (Amazon)

Extract below. I’m chuffed that this was the chapter picked for extract because I think it gives a pretty decent overview of the book – a bit of behind-the-scenes on blogging, a couple of fucking lovely blokes, a rant about openness and a dirty lubed-up hand job. Hope you like it.

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What do you do after sex? Chat, maybe? Fall asleep? Sometimes a fuck is so energetic that when you’re catching your breath afterwards you barely have the energy left to high-five. Perhaps your post-sex ritual involves a large bacon sandwich and a coffee with two sugars.

Whatever floats your boat: despite having been super-judgy about it in the past when I was young and wrong, the post-sex ritual is as individual as the shag itself. Some couples need peace and quiet, others need coffee, but for me there’s one thing I always do once the spunk has settled: a kind of sexual post-match analysis.

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