Tag Archives: relationships
The worst thing I could do (and it’s not cheating)
I used to have a fairly regular nightmare that went a little something like this:
Guy meets girl, guy starts shagging girl, girl and guy tangle together, sexily. Their limbs slide over each other, their hands grip flesh. His fingers dig hard into the crack of her arse, the way he does so gorgeously with me. They see me approach but they don’t care.
I’d dream about this quite frequently – a side-effect of an intensely jealous feeling. Part paranoia, part justified worry. He’d never actually do this, of course – not to the same degree. But in the dream it wasn’t the sex that bothered me so much as the openness of it. The fact that, when I approached the tangled, tousled couple, giggling and snogging and touching and worse – as I watched my fucking boyfriend fucking hard with someone else, he’d shrug and brush it off like his betrayal was nothing.
“Oh, didn’t you know? I’m with her now.”
They’d carry on, as I stood stunned and watching. Stuck in the moment, unable to escape until the second I woke up.
In defence of 21 Grams – the dildo made of human ashes
Today, while the rest of the internet celebrates Ed Balls day, sex bloggers are instead faced with ‘why is everyone sending me pictures of a dildo made of human ashes?‘ Day.
In case you hadn’t already seen it RTd repeatedly with the comment ‘eww’, here’s a quick overview: 21 Grams is a memory box that allows a grieving person to collect together a bunch of intimate memories about their loved one. It contains speakers to play their favourite music (aww), a scent bottle for holding their loved one’s perfume (aww) and a blown glass dildo that contains a golden urn for their ashes (apparently, eww). The following quote is taken from the article above.
“21 Grams is a memory-box that allows a widow to go back to the intimate memories of a lost beloved one,” explained Sturkenboom [the designer]. “After a passing, the missing of intimacy with that person is only one aspect of the pain and grief. This forms the base for 21 Grams. The urn offers the possibility to conserve 21 grams of ashes of the deceased and displays an immortal desire.
“By bringing different nostalgic moments together like the scent of his perfume, ‘their’ music, reviving the moment he gave her her first ring, it opens a window to go back to moments of love and intimacy,” he said.
General content warning: this post contains a pretty frank and probably controversial discussion of sex and death.
I like to watch you flirt
“I think the barista fancies me,” he explained as we wandered towards the coffee shop. “She’s quite flirty, you know?”
Yeah. I know. I know a million guys who are convinced that the barista in their regular coffee shop fancies them. They pop in of a morning, freshly showered and ready for work, and order their usual from someone who knows how to make it. That loving ritual of giving and receiving hot drink adds an extra tinge of flirtiness to an otherwise mundane transaction. A simple ‘how are you?’ can be transformed into a declaration of playful lust.
“No, she doesn’t fancy you,” I told him, twattishly. “Everyone thinks the barista is flirting with them – they teach them how to do it in barista school.”
“Yeah,” a twitch of something that looks like relief on his face. “You’re probably right.”
A guy with no sense of humour walks into a bar
Sorry ladies, the news is in. A study of 80 dudes somewhere in America, as reported by world class science journal The Metro, concluded that men don’t want you to have a sense of humour. Well, they do want you to have a sense of humour, but one which means you laugh at all their jokes rather than coming up with your own.
It’s a shame, because for so many years we straight girls have been desperately trying to earn the right to write ‘GSOH’ on our dating profiles. Guys might complain that we’re taking an hour to pick an outfit before a night out, but they don’t realise that while they’re tapping watches and rattling car keys we’ve spent forty-five minutes putting the finishing touches to our favourite version of that Aristocrats story.
I’m joking, of course, but you’re not obliged to laugh.
My other half
I’ve always hated the phrase ‘my other half’ – it implies a lack of completeness about me. That I, on my own, am never quite full or rounded. Not quite enough.
I hate ‘him indoors,’ which implies the kind of comfortable, settled domesticity that I’ve never really felt with anyone.
I’m ambivalent about ‘boyfriend’ and ‘partner’ feels too grown up.
I panic at the thought of a ‘husband.’
‘Boy’ is becoming tired, and not a natural descriptor for someone in their 30s.
Says ‘girl’ on the net. At the age of 30.
‘Mate’ is either too pally or too like an Attenborough documentary, depending on how you interpret it.
‘Lover’ makes me cringe.
Some days he’s my guy, my dude. That dickhead. And often he’s a twat.
But maybe my obsession with the lack of a proper word belies what the actual problem is with any of these statements: the ‘my’ that comes at the front of them.
No one is ever mine, of course.