Yesterday some poor soul wrote in to the Guardian to ask why his girlfriend masturbates after sex. His assumption was that it was because she was ‘insatiable’, and the agony aunt explained that perhaps she just fancied a second orgasm, or wanted to pleasure herself without the potential anxiety or pressure of doing it in front of him. My answer is a lot more sweary and pretty NSFW, but here goes: maybe the sex made her really, really horny.

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We live in anxious times, soundtracked by the constant, incessant ping of phones and laptops. Notifications are everywhere, bleeping and flashing and demanding a response. So how do we deal with it? Some people probably just switch their phones off or put them in a different room. People like me, though, write blog posts trying to explain ourselves to others in a desperate attempt to either make them forgive me or make them leave me alone. So with good and bad, selfish and silly and paranoid and everything in between, here are a few reasons I have not replied to your message.

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There are very few things in life that are truly guilt-free pleasures. Throughout the history of the human race, we’ve been on the constant look-out for pleasure. And unfortunately, most of the things we find that give it to us turn out to be bad in some way. Masturbation, though, is not one of those things. It is the jewel in the pleasure crown: something which is both intensely enjoyable and actually good for you. So it’s disappointing to hear that some twats have invented ‘No Nut November’ – a masturbation version of Stoptober (for smoking) or Dry January (for booze). A month during which people are encouraged to avoid masturbation for the good of their physical and mental health.

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I took him by the hand and led him through the kitchen, then along the hallway and to the bottom of the stairs. I stood up on one step, smiled at him, then wrapped both of my arms around him in a giant hug. “This is what it feels like when you hug me,” I told him. “And this is why I love your hugs.”

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For a brief period in my otherwise sofa-based life, I used to go running. Stop laughing at the back. My boyfriend at the time was really into his running, and his enthusiasm for this activity infected me to the point where roughly three times per week I would put on my trainers and gamely wheeze my way along a river while he ran gracefully in front. It was absolutely horrible. Still. Occasionally – VERY occasionally – I managed to get into stride. For a few brief seconds, I’d bounce lightly on my feet, propel myself with power, and breath like a normal person. During those times I got a teeny flash of joy, and a revelation – this is what it must feel like to be GOOD at this! I got the same feeling recently, when going on top during a shag. The perfect rhythm, the right amount of bounce, and a sense that this is what it must feel like to be GOOD at this.

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