“I know I’m a man, but this story is written from a woman’s perspective, and I’d like you to publish it as my alter-ago Candy Sexpot please!” – I receive a fair few guest post pitches along these lines. These stories are usually written from a cis woman’s perspective, but composed entirely in the headspace of a straight man. I don’t publish these posts, and in case you’re thinking of pitching me one, here’s why.

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There’s been so much hateful, tedious, miserable bullshit written about trans people in the UK media it’s hard to pick out just one thing to rant about. I find it tricky to tackle the darker stuff, because I don’t know what I can contribute other than to just note that ‘GC’ (‘gender critical’) appears to be a new euphemism for ‘TERF’ (trans-exclusionary radical feminist), which itself is a euphemism for ‘transphobe’, and if your ideology requires you to actively fight against trans rights then you need to have a stern fucking word with yourself. Sometimes, though, the specifics feel easy enough that even I, an incompetent twat, might have something to contribute. Let’s talk about inclusive language, ‘pregnant people’, and why no one is trying to stop you from using the word ‘woman’.

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To the one night stands. To the fucks who didn’t love me, or ever need me to love them: a heartfelt thank you. You were not mistakes, but memories.

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So you’re having a baby, are you? You fancy finding out the sex of your child before it is born in a hilarious and entertaining way, at a party with all your friends and family? Hooray! Welcome! This post is for you. Here’s why we need to stop gender reveal parties, and you can help achieve this glorious mission!

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I like it when he wears my knickers. I like it when he wears short silk shorts, too – the kind he’s bought for me but that look too good on him for us not to share the pleasure. Given my love of seeing him wearing my clothes, it’s inevitable that one night I suggest to him: “Let’s swap clothes.”

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