Tag Archives: feminism
Girls’ nights, hen dos and gendered parties
Second only to ‘fancy dress’, the two words that make me most nervous about a party invitation are ‘girls’ night.’ I used to think (when I was twenty years’ old, and an absolute shit) that this was because I didn’t get on with women. Most of my friends were men, ergo I wouldn’t enjoy a girls’ night, because what would I have in common with women anyway? Today, I’m still wary of girls’ nights, but for very different reasons.
Two things: women in literature and Skype sex blackmail
In two things this week we’re going to look at male authors writing women, and Skype sex blackmail. The first will make you laugh, and the second should make you very angry indeed.
Repeal the 8th: sometimes you have to state the obvious
The reason I haven’t blogged about the campaign to repeal the 8th, and in fact abortion in a general sense, is for one rather boring reason: it feels too obvious. Abortion is a right, because bodily autonomy is a right, and I don’t need to hear the details of an individual woman’s struggle in order to understand that someone’s choices are their own.
But I’m writing today because sometimes it’s worth stating the obvious.
Two things: Doxy comp and McVities girls’ night in
Woo! Start of the week! That means you get to throw all last week’s mistakes into the bin and be reborn as a better person. That’s what I like to think, at any rate. In ‘two things‘ this week we’re starting with the good stuff: a competition in which you can win a Doxy die cast, as well as £100 to spend on more amazing sexy things. Then we’ll move on to something that annoyed me: the McVities ‘girls’ night in’ advert.
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In defence of writing confessional stories
I write confessional sex stories. Which is a weird thing to say because I’m not really confessing sins or expecting absolution. I’m just telling stories and expecting readers – if they’re kind enough – to click or share or stump up some cash for my books.
Confession is a pretty horrible word – drowning in centuries of expectation. It conjures images of the religious urge to ‘cleanse’ people of their misdeeds via exposure. Telling your stories so that others can judge you: shout ‘shame!’ as you’re paraded through the town. When you call it ‘confessional’, it’s a wonder anyone chooses to write stories about themselves.
But we do.