Love is an addiction, and I am not good with addiction. I’m writing this post so I do not send a text: it’s that simple. I sit here at my desk, legs crossed on my office chair like I know I really shouldn’t because it’s bad for my back, and I press the buttons on my keyboard that will keep my hands busy so I do not send a text to my ex saying ‘hey, how are you? I was wondering if you fancied hanging out?’ Earlier this evening, I pressed other buttons – on the microwave, to heat up my dinner, so that I wouldn’t send a text. Later, when it’s reasonable enough that an adult might call it a night, I will brush my teeth so I don’t sent that text, go for a pee so I don’t send that text, roll my mattress out onto the floor and take a sleeping pill and have a wank and put on a podcast so I do not send that text. I will do all this extremely mindfully. With the focus and dedication of a powerful woman who will – under absolutely no circumstances – send that fucking text. Love is an addiction, my friends, and I have no willpower.

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How should we deal with the problem of incels? Well, we don’t fuck them, that’s for fucking sure. You don’t ‘solve’ the problem of violent misogyny by giving violent misogynists what they want. You don’t get men to stop hating women by ensuring they have intimate access to women. You do not solve the problem of incels by fucking them, because you can’t solve the problem of men’s anger by throwing them a sacrificial woman.

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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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OK so hear me out: ten condom fucks. Fucks which require a large number of condoms. Fucks which start at about 2pm, are interspersed with drinks and chatting and playing Beat Saber and slow-dancing sexily in the middle of the living room. Fucks which ebb and flow between oral, penetration, and naked touching, meaning each time you decide you’re gonna get down to it, you slip on a new condom. Fucks which mean you have to scatter condoms throughout the apartment so there’s always one easily to hand. Ten condom fucks.

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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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