New year’s resolutions are generally a bit crap, but as it’s timely I’m going to tell you about a resolution I’ve been working on for the last month or so, which I’ll carry through into the new year because time is linear like that.

I need to lose some weight.

It’s not urgent, but I’ve decided that my happiness depends on shaving off a few pounds so I can jiggle around the house to showtunes without feeling my tummy wobbling out of sync to the rest of me.

There are three things I hate about this, and believe it or not none of them have anything to do with diet or exercise. Sure, I prefer cider to soup, and running my arse round the block is about as tempting as queuing for One Direction tickets, but these are just things you have to do to lose weight, so I bear no grudges against biology. But there are some things about dieting that bother me.

The detox bandwagon

The first and most obvious thing is the patronising, sexist market that surrounds female weight loss. Don’t get me wrong, there’s an irritating market surrounding male health too (Get ripped in 8 weeks, lads, with this one weird old trick). But given that I am a woman, the female stuff leaps out from the shelves and smacks me in the face more forcefully.

Magazines trumpet ‘detox time’, as if it’s a long-established calendar event: that all women, for the month of January, will eschew booze and munch salads. Because if we don’t do this there’s a very real danger that we’ll just disappear into a fatty swamp of chemicals.

It’s bullshit, mostly. There’s really no such thing as ‘detoxing’, and if we didn’t consume any chemicals we’d die. But since the first marketeer sat down and said “hey I’ve got this great new product it’s like water but better because it costs two quid a bottle” we’ve been dragged into thinking that ‘detoxing’ is not only a real thing but something that all women should do throughout the month of January. Unfortunately, the more of us do it, the more it reinforces the idea that we should all be doing it.

So now I am in a position where I feel guilty for dieting in January, because I am propping up a ridiculous ad-driven concept of the New Year detox, but similarly guilty if I don’t, because I am a woman and therefore should be thinking about calories every single minute that I am not either buying shoes or tearing hair from my pudenda. It’s a pickle.

The ‘oh but you’re not’s

Why is it that, when I mention the fact that I’m a bit chubby, people feel compelled to tell me I’m wrong? Seriously, why?

I’m wrong about a million and one things. Once I argued that the battery life on an iPhone was shorter than the time it’d take me to commute to and from work, and the other day I spent a good twenty minutes insisting that Brad Pitt couldn’t be a day over forty. Wrong on both counts, of course, but not everyone feels compelled to point that out: often they just roll their eyes and let me continue down the path to future embarrassment.

But when it comes to weight, people are keen to insist I’m wrong even when I’m plainly and clearly right. When I say I’m trying to lose a bit of weight (usually in response to someone trying to guilt-slip yet another mince pie down my throat), people leap insistently out of their seats crying “OH NO YOU’RE JUST BEAUTIFUL AS YOU ARE”, as if the world will stop spinning if they let me believe I am anything other than perfect.

Why do we do this? It is, of course, mean to walk up to a friend and announce “you could stand to lose a few pounds, mate.” But I’ve got a mirror – I can see what I look like. And what I look like is an averagely attractive person who could do with losing a bit of weight. You’re neither evil nor a bully if you let me get on with it.

To add insult to injury, although gentlemen friends are allowed to make self-deprecating jokes about their weight, as a woman any mention of weight gain is treated as blasphemy. The poor gents who actually do want reassurance are left out in the cold, listening to the lilting sounds of “who ate all the pies”, while girls hiss “blasphemy!” at each other if one raises the possibility of dieting. This situation sucks for all of us.

Will you still love me when I’m thin?

“I love you no matter what.”

It’s a lovely sentiment, designed to elicit the same warm fuzzy feeling people imagine they’re conjuring if they tell you that you don’t need to lose weight. And yet it’s rarely evoked the other way around. Someone who goes on a diet is rarely reassured “I’ll still love you even when there’s slightly less of you filling those knickers.”

Loving someone when they’re fat is seen as a noble and beautiful thing, as opposed to just something that happens when someone you love piles on a few pounds (or, indeed, if you fall in love with someone who doesn’t have the proportions of a runway model – i.e. almost everyone). If we really meant it then there’d be no question whatsoever about whether we’d stay with a partner who weighed more than average: therefore no need for any reassurance that our deep and true love transcends weight.

Moreover, as I’m confident the sun will rise tomorrow, I know that if I woke tomorrow lighter and tighter your love would not wane. It’s not my weight that’ll put you off, but the things I have to do to stay like that – the act of losing weight itself. You’ll love me when I’m fat, sure, but I think loving me when I’m calorie-counting might be more of a challenge. Will you still love me when I ask you to eat salad to keep me company? When I swap my legendarily awesome macaroni cheese for quinoa? When I neglect your blow jobs to go to the gym?

We’ll see.

Nothing kills my mood quicker than a genital close-up. I have no problem with people’s bodies, and I think that there’s a distinct type of beauty in a nice, solid cock, but I find it pretty difficult to find porn with hot scenarios that isn’t going to cut to a gynaecological close-up just as I’m getting to the juicy bit.

I know some people love it – most gentlemen with whom I’ve watched porn have expressed a strong desire to look not just *at* someone but *up* them, so I can see why these shots are included: they clearly please a proportion of the crowd. But they don’t please me.

To clarify: this isn’t a disgust reaction – I am not horrified by genitals. Nor am I shaming the spectacular men and women who show them off on screen, and fuck like champions for an audience of internet wankers such as myself. I’m just lamenting the fact that so many directors insist on close-cropped shots of trains going into tunnels, disembodied vulvas being rummaged at by strangers’ hands, or those same hands pulling butt-cheeks apart until all you can see is a gaping void. And these things usually happen during the climax of the scene – at just the moment when the sex is getting hottest and most furious, when the actors would be building to a moment of exquisite lust, our director cuts away from their faces and straight to parts of their body that are far less capable of expressing emotion.

What I’m saying is this: I’d like to see something super-hot that doesn’t turn into a medical documentary just as it’s getting to the good bit.

My porn wish list

I’m not saying that people who like this are wrong/evil/stupid, and that everyone should be forced to watch only porn that comes from a set-list I’ve prescribed. I’m just having a general moan about the number of times I’ve had to cut short a wank to find a video that’s got more fucking and less fanny.

Perhaps the kind of porn I like (lots of kinky, rough, angry fucking) leans more towards these gyno shots, because that’s what directors feel the audience will want. Or perhaps I’m just crap at finding good porn. So, in case any awesome pornographers are watching, or you’ve come across any videos that show shagging without an accompanying smear test, here are some things I’d love to see more of in porn:

Lots and lots of long shots of people fucking

I like watching people actually fuck. Although head and handjobs are fun to have, I find them far less fun to watch, because there isn’t nearly as much action. Jiggling tits, pounding arses, hands gripping squidgy flesh, sweat dripping from people who are really getting into it? Yes. Fumbling and rubbing? Meh.

While we’re at it, that thing that porn stars do where they push a cock into the side of their cheek? It reminds me of the standard childish symbol for ‘blow-job’ where you’d make a wanking gesture near your mouth while sticking your tongue sideways. I get why it’s more visual than other suckoff techniques, but I’ve never met a guy who has expressed a desire that I do that to his penis.

Noises

I’ve waffled on before about how noises are hot. Not fake noises – I don’t need scripted, efficient ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s. I want genuine noises – the ‘unnggh’s and ‘aaargh’s that people make when they’re fucking like they’ve really let go.

Especially – and I cannot stress this enough – from the men. Men in porn are often strangely silent, as if they’ve expressed opinions on the sex before and have been told to keep their mouths shut. Those that do talk often say things that don’t necessarily correlate to what’s happening on screen, as if the guy is just reeling off a list of accepted phrases like a politician at a press conference spouting ‘hard-working families’ over and over again with no discernible relevance.

Faces

If you’re going to give me any sort of close-up, I would like it to be of someone’s face. Ideally, because I am straight and female and pervy, the dude’s. In fact, if I’m completely honest, I have a deep and abiding preference for porn in which the women look a bit bored – in which they’re either idly or sarcastically pandering to the dude’s insatiable lust while they earn a paycheque/watch themselves in the mirror/wait for the washing machine to finish a spin cycle.

I appreciate this specific kink isn’t for everyone, but I know a hell of a lot of people who’d like to see more face. There are, of course, millions of porn videos that show faces, but my main issue with them is that they are not the faces of hot people reacting to orgasmic delight, but usually faces that are being jizzed on. Pop shots are, of course, a porn staple, so I don’t expect this to disappear any time soon, but we could do with more of the other: if you’re the one jizzing, it’s your face I want to see.

Shameless plug: if you want to read more about dirty fucking, and thoughts on porn, my book is currently ridiculously cheap on Amazon (59p in the UK, 96c in the US). I have no idea how long it’ll be on offer for, so if you want it then now’s a good time to get a copy.

I’m really excited about this guest post. Not only is it something that I’ve never written about before, it’s about something that is so rarely written about you’d be forgiven if you hadn’t heard of it.

Since I started this blog I’ve had lots of people get in touch with me to say lovely things, and the loveliest of all is ‘I feel this way too.’ Whenever this happens I’m overwhelmed with a sense of relief to find that I’m not alone.

This week’s blog is about a completely new topic, written by someone who has a very different experience of sex, and a problem which is rarely written about in the mainstream media. I hope it gives you something interesting to think about, even if it doesn’t directly affect you. And I hope you can share it, so that others who have similar experiences can find it and know they’re not alone.

Over to Artemis…

On Vaginismus

Vaginismus is an ugly name for a physical condition which affects a small and mostly silent minority of women (vaginismus.com puts the figure at 2 in 1,000 women, but acknowledges the difficulty in getting accurate statistics). This is how I experience it.

I am in bed with my boyfriend, and he is going down on me. The sensation is exquisite but I want more: I want to be filled with him, I want him inside me right now, I want more than just his finger and tongue pushing me to climax. I am hot and wet and wide open, my cervix is dilated, my eyes wide, my nipples hard.

He puts on a condom and then he pushes his way inside me. Everything stops. I have to force myself to relax enough for it to stop feeling like I am being stabbed with a blunt instrument. I gasp, in pain not lust. My vagina burns, inside and out. Even so, I feel completed: this is what I wanted, as close as it gets for me; I wanted him inside me and now he is. He begins to move, and there is an unbearable pressure in my abdomen, it feels like I will explode; I pull him closer and the pressure recedes.

The pain wanes but never leaves. I am scraped raw, but still, this is satisfying, and perhaps this time it will stop hurting for long enough that I can find my own pleasure and cum with him inside me. But that does not happen, and when he finishes I am drained and happier, but not released from myself. I go to the toilet. It hurts to pee: the entrance to my vagina is slightly scraped, and stings when touched. It will heal by tomorrow.

Living with vaginismus

This has been my sex life for nearly 13 years. In that time, I have had penetrative sex with four different men. I have probably had sex less than a hundred times in my life. I have lost two relationships because of it. Once, my hormones were so wild and I was so fucked up that I managed to orgasm even though the pain never left; I cannot describe what it is like to cum like that, fighting against my body. An angry orgasm, like Hedwig’s Angry Inch but, obviously, different parts involved.

I’m sure you don’t need me to go into detail about the large number of ways this can affect not just the primary sufferer but her partner as well. It would be easier if we were all lesbians, and I’m sure a lot of bisexual or heteroflexible sufferers do deliberately seek out female partners accordingly – the same has to be true of our silent and totally ignored male counterparts – but that’s not a solution, it’s a response. My response is far less healthy: it combines very well with my desire to harm myself when I hate myself, which it’s very easy to do when you feel like a failure as a woman.

Why is vaginismus invisible?

The media does not talk about people like me. Medical treatment is hard to come by and mostly involves “dilators”, which don’t actually dilate you – there’s nothing wrong with the size of my cunt – but which persuade the body not to fight the sensation. Psychological therapy is more expensive, you see. Far easier to give you some phallic glass and a tube of KY.

Society largely ignores anyone who doesn’t like sex. I have a lot of sympathy and solidarity with asexual people, although I’m not asexual, I’m really not, I want sex so much I could cry just thinking about it. But society doesn’t care that any of us exist: people should be sexual creatures. For men, there are readily available treatments if you can’t get it up; but no-one talks about the small percentage of men who experience pain from penetrating a partner. Women don’t even have reliable Viagra: we are expected to just be able to lie back and think of England regardless of our own pain, discomfort, arousal, or ability to orgasm.

We are silenced before we even open our mouths, mired in self-hatred from the very start, and then ignored by Cosmo and More, Loaded and FHM. Hollywood rarely ever shows a sex scene where the woman doesn’t have a vaginal orgasm – something which is literally not possible for a large number of women due to the way that the clitoris and vagina interact – and outside of rape, women are only shown in pain when they’re losing their virginity. (For the record, I didn’t have a hymen to break, my first time. Lots of women don’t. All it takes to disappear is moderate physical activity, and some women are born without one at all.) They’re occasionally shown as being in discomfort, but that’s usually to demonstrate the clumsiness and inferiority of their partner – which of course makes the partners of women with vaginismus feel just super about their ability in bed.

I want to see more discussion about the reality of sex rather than the fantasy, because I think that might have helped me at the start, and because the tendency to fetishise a homogenous, cookie-cutter idea of sex is deeply unhealthy for all of us. That means listening to those of us who are denied that experience for whatever reason, and not dismissing our experiences just because they’re not yours. This includes not giving facetious “advice” like “I bet I cud make u cum ur boyfriends just shit in bed”. That response is part of the reason why I’ve lost relationships, and will lead to me kneeing you in the balls, and then we’ll see who doesn’t like sex for a while.

The other day I walked in on the boy asleep on the sofa, wearing just pants and a t-shirt, right hand cupped gently around his junk and wide out in the open. Mmm.

There’s definitely something comforting about touching yourself – not necessarily in a filthy way that means you’ll get hairy palms, go blind and/or go to hell. Just holding yourself to get some warmth, and feel the solidity of your genitals beneath your palm.

I love to do this. On rare occasions when my hands aren’t occupied with a cigarette, a laptop or a cup of coffee, I’ll stick my hand down my knickers and cup myself. Silk or lace up against the back of my hand, coarse hair and warmth on my palm. It’s not hot like a bent-over fuck but it’s nice like a warm bath or coming inside from the rain.

I do the same with my tits. Boys I’ve known have occasionally commented that if they were girls they’d play with their tits all the time. Rarely do they stop to consider whether those of us with tits do that anyway. Running our hands over the underside of our breasts, slipping a hand inside the bra just to grab a bit of extra warmth. It’s thumbsucking for grown-ups, and I love it.

Cup me

That rather long ramble was merely a shameful excuse to tell you that this happened the other night, and it kicked me so solidly in the gut with lust that I couldn’t help but write about it.

I was in bed, and awake early in the morning. Having slipped out to go to the loo, I’d stumbled back in and smooshed around a bit, trying to find the warm patch I’d had to leave behind. As I snuggled down, the boy with me stirred. He’ll do this at any time of night, no matter how asleep he is: movement from me equals him turning, reaching out, grasping for me in the dark. Usually he flings a limb over me, or runs his hand up my stomach before his forearm settles just underneath my tits, pushing them gently up so they rest on him.

I love this. I love this more than I can say. I love this so deeply that it makes it harder for me to go to sleep, because I’m busy enjoying the feel of his big arms around me, throbbing warmth into whichever bits his sleeping brain reaches for first. The occasional tired moan or snore into my ear. Amazing.

But the other night he didn’t reach for the same places. As I got back into bed, feeling cosy and soft and on the verge of tipping back into sleep, his hand explored downwards. I leant up with my back against his chest, and his right hand ran softly over my stomach, coming to rest in exactly the comforting crotch cup that I use myself. Inside my knickers, with the silk against the back of his hand and his palm up against my skin, he gave a very soft sigh and rested there.

I stayed awake for thirty minutes, trembling slightly, holding myself as still as I could so that he wouldn’t move. The feeling of his hand cupping me felt more intimate, more arousing, more significant than a pinch of my nipples or even a fuck. It was made hotter by the thought that it might have happened before, but neither of us knew it. Touching me in the dead zone between waking and sleep, running his hands over me without knowing where they were going, and warming each other while our minds were dreaming elsewhere.

When he woke up his hand was wet.

The vast, vast majority of the time, I am a loser. A lank-haired, jeans-wearing, slouching drunken loser. With a cider in my hand, a chip on my shoulder and a face like a bulldog chewing a whole hive of wasps.

I say this only to counter what’s coming next: right now I am hot.

I’m hot because I’ve had my hair cut – it swishes in that shiny way that some people achieve daily, but for me comes round only twice a year when I go for my biannual hack. I’m hot because I’ve spent the last week doing more exercise than I normally would and – although there’s no immediate visual difference – I feel stronger and livelier and readier to bounce around like a puppy on MDMA. I’m hot because I’m wearing knickers that cup my arse comfortably, and because I’ve been doing DIY in hot pants and getting dirty and sweaty and wet.

We need to deal with your high self-esteem issues

I’m British, of course, so writing the above paragraph was torture – it took me a good ten minutes to bash out just a few sentences without tagging something self-deprecating on to the end. I’ve been trained, through years of TV, magazines and friendly banter, that to talk about the things you actually like about yourself is a social crime. Like eating steak with the fish fork or passing a joint to the right.

Most of the time this makes sense. After all, we’d all be excruciating and insufferable if our conversations started not with “how are you?” but “how hot am I!?” We’d barely get beyond introductions before we were hurling into buckets at the appalling displays of self-love.

No, instead we must only ever speak of the bad stuff, while desperately hoping that other people notice the good. We’re trained to make the best of ourselves, so we spend hours primping and preening and picking out just the right kind of shoe only to shit on all that effort later on by replying “no, really, I look awful” when someone says something nice. It’s a reflex gesture, and one which makes sense most of the time. When the hard-earned compliments come, we bat them away with great force, because self-hate is a much more attractive quality than arrogance.

Start fancying yourself

I’ve got nothing wrong with light self-deprecation, and on an ordinary day I’m far more likely to make a tedious aside about my weight than to bounce into a room and shout “Look! Aren’t my tits brilliant?!”

But not today. Because, fuck it, I don’t always feel good. And on the rare occasions that I do, I want to start making the most of it. In fifty years time I’ll be yearning for the chance to wear this arse again, to sit in hot pants on a stepladder sugar-soaping walls and enjoying not just being me but looking like me too.

You should do it too – go on, do it. Fancy yourself a bit. There are bound to be bits of yourself that you’re not a fan of. But isn’t it bizarre that it’s these disliked bits that get all the attention? Hours in the gym toning a stomach that you hate. Days in front of the mirror shaping eyebrows or facial hair in some sort of damage limitation exercise. Weeks spent traipsing around shops that make clothes for people who always seem to be a different shape to you. All that time spent rectifying or changing or enhancing – how much time do you actually spend appreciating?

You don’t have to take pictures of yourself in sexy poses and pin them on the fridge, or give yourself cringeingly awkward motivational pep-talks about how beautiful you are. Just give yourself a bit of time to appreciate the things you fancy. The things that your partners will go primal for. Stand in front of a mirror if you like, touch yourself if you want to, put on or take off the clothes that make you feel best, and just revel in a bit of self-lust.

Because no one else can love you like you can.