Recently someone emailed me a question that went a little something like this: “you’ve alluded to wanting a spitroast/gang bang before. But there are clubs in London where this happens every night! Why don’t you just go to one of those?!” It is not an uncommon question, and I suspect it’s one that quite a lot of horny, slutty women get asked, so I thought I’d have a crack at answering it. I don’t think everyone will feel the same way I do, but (with thanks to the person who asked the question) here’s why this pervy woman isn’t in sex clubs every night.

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At some point, I will get back on The Apps. I know I have to. There are geographically convenient men in London just waiting to get shagged, and the only thing standing between them, me and a powerful ten-condom fuck is the fact that I can’t be arsed to take new dating site pictures. Oh! And the fact that my diary is looking pretty full until Christmas. Also that every time I consider meeting a new person I immediately run through all the possible ways it could be terrible/boring/frightening/disappointing until the whole thing starts to feel like admin. Oh God, what if the thing that’s standing in the way of this fun is… me? No, it can’t be that. That would mean it’s my fault. Instead, let’s pretend it’s because none of the dating sites are good enough, and the men I might meet on them are all wrong in interesting and hilarious ways. Join me in completely ignoring the impact my emotional baggage has on my life choices, as I present a few dating site reviews based purely on my prejudices about their brand.

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If someone were to ask me what I bring to the table, sex-wise, I wouldn’t mention specific parts of my body. My body is fine, my hair is fine, my clothes are basically clothes. I like to think I’ve got a pretty filthy grin, but apart from that my physicality is nothing to either write home or pen a strongly-worded letter of complaint about. So if we’re having sex, what I’m bringing to the party isn’t my body, it’s my attitude. To be blunt: my enthusiasm.

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Katherine Ryan tells a fabulous story, in her stand-up show Glitter Room, about the time her ex-boyfriend moved to Japan. He had to go for work, and she didn’t want to move with him, so they split up. Shortly after he arrived in the country, he rang her to express shock that she had stayed where she was, and hadn’t followed him halfway around the world. He tells her: “I thought you needed me more than that.” Katherine replies: “Oh sweetie, I didn’t need you – I liked you. I enjoy having you around, but you are a luxury item.” I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, and I think I understand a bit more where I fall on the idea of ‘needing’ men (or ‘a man’). Friendships are one thing, but when it comes to sexual and romantic relationships, men are a luxury.

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I think I’ve got it: the cast-iron, rock-solid argument for why you should tell me at least some of what you wank about. Not ‘you’ as in ‘everyone’, ‘you’ as in ‘people I am fucking/wooing/thirsting after.’ I know it is kind of terrifying to let someone deep into your horny, fuckdrunk brain, but this is why you should take your courage in both hands and tell me what you wank about anyway.

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