I’ve talked about it before, as I’m sure you remember, but don’t worry, this isn’t a re-run, this is an exciting new post about an exciting new method of birth control I’ve been trying : the Nuvaring. That’s right Nuvaring. Doesn’t it sound futuristic? It is! Now, normally, I wouldn’t write about a method of birth control, as that’s kinda boring, and what can I say that hasn’t been said before? The pill has been around for over fifty years, and has spawned article after article, blog posts, videos on Youtube, and (taken correctly) only a couple of babies. The Nuvaring isn’t entirely different (it’s a hormonal form of birth control) but it’s method of delivery is a little different. Instead of taking a pill every day, you take a plastic ring and put it up your vagina. Isn’t that kind of amazing? Aren’t you both excited and a little scared? Sh, it’s ok. Come with me.

At first I was afraid of the size of the Nuvaring box. I thought about the size of my vagina, and worried how this would tally up. the friend who I was with when I picked up the prescription was worried too. We looked inside to see how this was going to work out.

Not so bad after all really. Somewhere between a condom packet and a sweet wrapper. It could have been a lot worse, I figured. Having spent the entire day watching multiple videos and reading dozens and dozens of Nuvaring testimonies (including one random post on “Texts from Last Night” wherein a girl’s partner thought it was a glow-stick), I decided to unwrap the package and give it a go.

As you can see in this picture I am holding the ring, and a coin. The coin will never go inside me, the ring will. The coin is simply for visual identification purposes. Let’s stop talking about the coin…. So, there it is, a piece of plastic, that sits inside me all day, but yet isn’t a part of me, like an implant or coil is. I can take it out, have a look, give it a poke with my fingers, anything I like, which I have done. I was worried, for some reason, that it being in my vagina would mean that it would change colour, or start to go a bit odd, because apparently I think my vagina secretes a corrosive substance, but nothing has happened. It is as clear and well shaped as the day I put it in. So far I haven’t felt sick, angry, weepy, or put on any weight. I can’t feel it, at all, and it hasn’t fallen out, in fact it hasn’t come anywhere near falling out.

This is all academic though as I’m yet to have sex while wearing it. The ring’s website says I can take it out beforehand, and I’d imagine that most times I would, because it being in there might be a bit of a shock to whoever’s going down there, but equally, I’m intrigued by the stories of finding it ’round their penis like a ring toss’ and that it can be ‘pleasurable’ during sex for both of us. So as excited as I am not to have to remember to take a pill out every day or have a patch stuck to me that’s constantly collecting fluff in a scum line ring on my hip, I’m reserving my full judgement for that fateful, sexy, encounter.

Important: Nuvaring is a prescribed medicine, and it may not be suitable for everyone. You should talk to your doctor and see if it suits you. As with all forms of hormonal birth control there are various risks and side-effects, which can be extremely detrimental to your health. While I am currently not suffering any side-effects, this does not mean that my experience is necessarily indicative of what yours will be like. Again, talk to your doctor, read up on the risks, and decide what is right for you.

All photos mine, please do not re-use them without permission, obviously.

In the wake of the ScarJo n00ds dramarama, I wanted to share some tips with all of y’all about how to take a picture of your genitals and not end up on Fleshbot. Here we go:

1. Don’t send them to everyone
If you’re gonna take a picture of you, or your genitals: send it to one person and one person only. Don’t send out a blanket text to a variety of people with your bits in and a “How about it?” tagline. This should be like a special club that only a select few can enter. I’m not saying you can only send naked pics to one person ever, but one person at a time. The idea is that you send it to one person, who you’re relatively well involved with, and who will be pleased to see it. Random cock shots are never good.

2. Only send it to someone you are at least 85% sure won’t send them to anyone else.
Because let’s be honest, you can never be 100% sure. We all get into tangles with people who are a bit sketchy or a bit stupid, but we don’t have to be sending them pictures of our batties no matter how hard they beg. String them along with promises/protests of shyness if you have to, but if you can’t trust them with your key you can’t trust them with boob snaps.

3. For the love of God make sure you look nice and nothing weird is happening in the background.
The looking nice thing is obvious if you’re going to allow your face to be in the photo, natch, but the other seems to need a bit of explaining. So here it is: don’t take a picture in the bathroom if you haven’t flushed the loo, don’t take it outside and get photobombed, don’t have a baby, pet, pack of sanitary protection, cuddly toy, or loofah anywhere fucking near you. The last one’s just because I have a mortal fear of loofahs.

4.  Delete them from your phone, camera, computer, and email outbox.
Especially if you are going to be allowing someone else to use/repair these things. Ok so another person has a copy and obviously in the modern age that copy can be reproduced a thousand times but if you followed tip 2 then they’re probably going to just look, be like “Oh, sweet!” and then move on/reciprocate. And if they reciprocate and then leak your pics then you’ve got dirt on them too.

5. OWN IT
If you feel confident enough to send a picture of you licking your own nipple/knob to someone then fucking own that shit. Be a bad bitch and style it out if you get confronted with it unexpectedly. If your picture ends up doing the rounds, just chalk it up to experience, know that you are looking your best, and wait for the phone calls to roll in offering you decent sex from people who appreciate your finest assets. Then meet up with the person you sent the photos to, take a deep breath, and start screaming at them so loud their eardrums burst.

P.S If any of you have Tom Fords n00ds my email address is vanessa@nightmaresandboners.com thank-you.

Recently in Glamour magazine a hundred or so men were polled as to what they liked to see women wearing. Obviously the answer to this quandary is “Who fucking cares? I’ll wear what the fuck I want.” however Glamour were desperate to fill space and deemed this group of anonymous men’s opinions worthy of a full page spread. Although I don’t have it to hand, it’s currently sitting on a bog top in Whitechapel, I do remember the number one outfit that men liked women in: a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt.

Well pass me a party popper and a glass of cava! Let’s chuck out everything else: fuck it I’m going to walk naked to Topshop right now as I don’t own either of those two items. In fact next Saturday, at 7pm sharp, I am throwing a bonfire on a scrap of wasteland in Hackney Wick for all our extraneous garments. Give me your tired wind breakers, your poor blouses! Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free of their lycra prisons! As the flames flicker we will roast marshmallows as we join hands and sing Paolo Nutini’s New Shoes before throwing glitter into the air. Now before you all think I’m getting a bit too outraged by an innocuous page of mangled photoshopped images of celebrities across the ages wearing this ground breaking outfit, I want to explain exactly what pisses me off about this article so much.

Being alluring to someone you want to fuck is obviously important. In no way am I against luring people to sleep with you. That’s fine. Equally I can understand wanting pointers on how to do that because it’s way difficult. However there is no one answer. The abhorrent ideas in this article is that there a) clothes that are boner killers, b) that you should tailor your wardrobe to cater to the tastes of 100 men Glamour picked off the street and c) that being sexy is the greatest accolade your wardrobe can attain.

Let’s address the first issue: clothing as boner killers. What exactly makes clothing sexy? When I think of sexy clothes I think of Rose McGowan’s 1998 MTV Awards dress or a PVC nurse outfit, two items that do as much for me sexually as a boiled egg. When lads mags think of sexy outfits it looks like this. And sure, if that does it for you: great. Finding suitable porn is going to be piss easy for you: just Google ‘boobs’ and you’ll be set. However if the internet has taught me anything it is that as many items of clothing there are, as many body types that exist, as many bodyparts as God saw fit to bless you with: there is a fetish for each and every one of them. It takes all sorts to make the world go round and one man’s High Street Honey is another man’s dog’s dinner. Therefore the idea that all it takes is a white t-shirt and jeans to make someone’s pants go ping is so patronising as to be infuriating. Once, while wearing a pastel yellow dress and some white knee socks in a bar and a man bellowed “You look sexy at me!” at me before rolling away drunkenly. I turned to my drinking companion and laughed, pointing out how infantile my outfit was. “Well, the thing is, people find all sorts of things sexy and I don’t think it’s fair to say that what you don’t find sexy is unsexy per se.” he rambled at me. “Sexy is very subjective and so I don’t think it’s right to mock his idea of your attractiveness.” I believe my reply was the incredibly erudite “Er. Thanks?” He was, though totally inarticulate, utterly right. Sexy is an incredibly subjective concept, and so we are not going to discuss it anymore or I’ll start going on about how I find peacoats and a certain cut of jeans make my knees go weak and you’ll all scrinch your eyes up and get confused then stop reading.

On to point b: your clothes should serve only to bewitch potential dates. To that I say: fuck that shit. When I dress in the morning I want to look nice, cute, fun, sure, yeah all that crap. I also want to make sure that I won’t be drenched in sweat while riding my bike, or have my boobs falling out everywhere at an important meeting. There are times when I dress just to cheer myself up. I have a pastel jumper with an intarsia knitted balloon on it that does an incredibly good job of this. Other times I just want to get to the supermarket and back without dying of hypothermia. It sounds cliched to say it but I really do dress mostly for me. The way I want to look is somewhere between Betty Brosmer with her clothes on and the youngest kid out of the Narnia film adaptations, not exactly an heady cocktail of sex and intrigue but a look I like never the less. Even with such niche clothing choices I have managed to get laid. I’ve managed it more than once, and sometimes I manage it more than once with the same person. Please note: I have not worn a pair of jeans in the last 6 years. Shocking isn’t it? How ever did I manage it while also refusing to wear high heels? Maybe I should write to Glamour and ask them because I sure as fuck don’t know. Back to the point. What I want to say is that you don’t need to dress for men. Wear what you want, when you want, and as long as you’re not arrested for public indecency/don’t injure yourself, everything is going to be ok. Promise. If not, it’s probably not the clothes love.

And finally we come to the crux of the matter, being sexy is not everything. It is not even a large part of a thing. It is just something that is sometimes noticed by some people who find that sort of thing attractive. You don’t have to be sexy when taking the bins out. There is no need to be sexy when eating your dinner. And even when you’re having sex it’s ok to laugh, just as long as it’s not at someone else’s genitals. To paraphrase a cliche: sexiness is in the eye of the beholder. So if you’re wearing your white t-shirt and jeans and feel shit hot, great. If you’re wearing a flower patterened drop crotch dungaree and a tie-dye t-shirt and feel sexy, wahoo for you too. Wear what you like, feel sexy when you like, and fuck what the man in the street says: he’s not worth your time anyway.

First two pictures I don’t know where they’re from, the 3rd picture is of the wonderful Hattie Watson.

It’s like this: if you are in a relationship with someone for more than say, a week, then you are going to argue. Obviously you don’t want to argue all day every day, though I know a couple who do pretty much only that and they seem really happy, however the occassional argument is going to rear its head from time to time and there’s a way to deal with and a way to break up over who last bought toilet roll.

1. Stay In The Present
Ok ok so their Mum said you used to be a ‘bit chunky’ and he didn’t stick up for you, and yes -he does have an annoying habit of zoning out when you talk about your cat – but this is not the time to bring that up. If you didn’t bring it up at the time or you did and you’ve already argued once about this then let it go. Seriously, listen to me: let it go. Repeated arguments about the same thing breed resentment and discontent. They also fuel the idea that women are nags who can’t get over even the smallest emotional slight. And you can, you just think about it once, put it in a box, lock the box, and throw it away. Really really fucking far away. So far away that a river picks it up and takes it out to sea.
If however the issue is so big, and keeps happening to a point where it’s casting a cloud of doom over your relationship that you can’t escape then break up. That’s it. Break up, DTMFA, move on, find someone who loves your cat. The End.

2. Keep It Relevant
This argument is about how someone forgot to pick someone up at the train station, not about how much you hate each other. If being left at the train station for hours is indicative of how little you are cared about, or how insensitive your boyfriend is to your deeper feelings, then what the hell are you doing arguing about this when you could be packing your bags? Do I have to say it again? BREAK UP. GET OUT. KEEP MOVING. DON’T GO BACK. That said – if he really did just forget and feels horrible, then get an apology, accept it, file it away in ‘Problems Resolved’ and move on.

3. Remember That People Don’t Change Just Because You Shouted At Them
Some people have horrible habits: only yesterday a friend told me that she saw someone trimming their nails on the tube. On the tube! Imagine if that was your boyfriend! How revolting would that be? Imagine if he did when you were there!! Oh god, it’s so horrible. But yeah – if that was your other half, then I think it would be reasonable to sit down with them, and in your indoor voice say politely to them that this is totally not cool and that if they want to keep banging you then this has to stop. I dated someone once who used to say embarrassing things about our sex life in front of his friends. He thought it was hilarious to tell everyone that he’d got jizz in my eye or that I’d queefed the night before. While I’m all for an hilarious sexcapade I think there are times and places where I want to discuss these things: aka not in a very quiet pub while pointing at me and howling with laughter.
Back to the point… arguing with someone almost never changes their stance on an issue. Attacking them or becoming aggressive and shouty will harden their stance, and probably make them think you’ve less in common than you thought. Talking to someone, reasonably, nicely, and in a calm, balanced manner, is probably more likely to make them think about whether they’re right or wrong. Remember to avoid words like: obviously, prick, and fuckhead.

4. Do You Care Enough About This Arguement?
Walking away, though super passive aggressive, is a valid response to an argument I promise. In fact sometimes it’s the only way to end one when you’ve been dragged kicking and screaming into it against your will. Those arguments are always the ones that end up with you sleeping in seperate beds, or taking a trial seperation, and will probably end up in a festering oozing sore of hatred that forms itself over your heart and never heals.
Should you be in an argument that you don’t give a shite about then why the hell are you still in the argument? Why are you wasting valuable seconds of life, that you will, never, ever, get back. Go walk a dog, hug a hoodie, punch Piers Morgan, whatever floats your boat. Just extricate yourself from this argument before it consumes your whole life.

5. If You Hate This Person So Much That You’re Willing To Argue About Pretty Much Anything Just To Have Something to Do…
…then consider developing a hobby: may I suggest knitting?

I have no idea where the first illustration comes from because some douchebag on Tumblr posted it without credit. If you made this, please tell me! You’re brilliant! The second is from the ever wonderful Comically Vintage.

Some nights it seems like, as Kings of Leon regrettably said, your sex is on fire. It doesn’t matter what you do, wear, or say, people are falling over themselves to offer their bedroom services. Flattering as it is there are times when the right choice isn’t quite clear, the options become a dazzling, terrifying minefield, fraught with tension and killing your lady boner. However there is a step by step process you can go through to help you through this difficult time. Here it is.

Am I Attracted To This Person?
This is the first question you need to ask yourself. Will you, in four to five hours time, still be attracted to them? Will you, tomorrow morning, in the cold light of day, still be attracted to them? Look we’ve all woken up next to Cthulhu a few times and snuck out, but it doesn’t have to be like that. Take a long, hard, searching look at them. You’re only thinking about tonight, not the next ten years, so as long as your detailed once over didn’t uncover claw like blackened fingernails or tendrils of greasy hair you’ll be ok.
It sounds almost ridiculous asking you to think about whether you’re into to the other person but I feel like a lot of girls mistake being flattered that someone’s hitting on you with being attracted in return. Even if you accept drinks from and flirt with someone you are not obliged to give them sexual favours. Ever. If you feel like accepting a drink from them could be awkward or risky because you feel like they’ll make a big deal out of it if you don’t at least snog them then walk away: they are a grade A dick. Equally just because an hour ago you were attracted to them but now after their diatribe about how Star Trek: TNG is better than Firefly are incredibly turned off you still don’t owe them anything. Be polite, don’t yawn in their face, but make your excuses and leave. If necessary, and sometimes it is to people who just don’t get social cues, leave the bar. Leave the party. LEAVE THE COUNTRY. Wait, no don’t do that last bit. I’m prone to hyperbole sometimes, I can’t help it. Sorry. Just go somewhere else or tell them, as firmly yet politely as you can “Leave me alone. I’m not interested.” If later they see you making out with a Ryan Gosling look-a-like then too bad.

Have We Kissed Yet?
Before you agree to walk home, get in a cab, or god forbid catch public transport, with this person kiss them. This is very, very, very important. Do not, I repeat, do not, get to someone’s house not having yet kissed. While I can understand being incredibly awkward and feeling like there’s no right time to make a move, there is and it is before you are within 10m of a bed. You don’t have to full on grope them up in public, you don’t even have to do tongues, just give them a kiss. Even if it’s just on the cheek go for it because once your mouth hits their skin you’ll realise that either you want them so bad you could strip down and do it on the bar right now, or you could wait until the 13th of Never. That tiny peck on the cheek will seriously mean all of that.
If you’re worried about ‘making the first move’ or ‘seeming forward’ well welcome to the 21st century babycakes! That nonsense is a big old pile of bull crap. Firstly as almost every oh so insightful Cosmo article will tell men love it when you make the first move and secondly, and jesus how many times do I have to say this? Any man who will judge you for liking him is not worth your affection. That’s it. No arguing. A fear of intimacy, a fear of commitment, a fear of being liked, they are all code for “I don’t like you and I don’t want you” that’s it. After all who fears being liked? What kind of nutjob is that? You don’t want that nutter you want someone who’s heart bursts into fireworks when they realise you like them. Or at least smiles.

Does Anyone Know Where I Am?
While I don’t want you to have to think about horrible things like murder and rape when you’re trying to get it on, it’s kind of important that someone knows where you are if you’re not going back to your own house. If you’ve gone out with friends tell them you’ve met someone – preferably point to them and wink suggestively – and that you’re off to theirs, and if you’re on your own feel free to text a friend a message somewhere along the lines of “Hell yeah! I’m going home with a man so hot it’s making my underwear uncomfortable.” If you don’t have a friend you can text to tell that, then text me, seriously. I’m happy for you to do that if you want. Because if this person turns out to be a terrible horrible bad person it is always best that someone knows where you last were. God that’s so depressing isn’t it? I hate having to write things like that, because men don’t really have to do this. I mean they do text their friends ‘Fuck Yeah’ messages, but not for the same reasons.
And it’s depressing to think that even with someone who seems trustworthy and kind that they could be bullshitting you. While I don’t advocate living in fear and I wish that this wasn’t a situation that I felt that needed to be addressed, I do think that it’s best to cover all your bases. Lastly if you have any and I mean any reservations about going home with this person, just don’t. Take it slow if you feel uncomfortable or that you might not be making a good decision. If you’re worried about being too drunk, then don’t go. While I’ve had some of my most fun evenings when I’ve been too drunk to remember the way home I’ve also had some of my sketchiest evenings, and I’ve been very lucky. The main thing here is let someone know where you’re going and make sure you feel happy and safe. I can’t promise that everything will turn out ok for you, but it’s the best any of us can do.

Do I Feel Comfortable Telling This Person No?
This may seem like a Debbie Downer to throw into your evening it’s the most important. Everyone has their limits, and these can change from day to day and person to person. It is of the utmost importance that you know yours and that when they are being approached can say to someone, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to do that.”. You don’t have to say why, or whether you’d like to do that another time (although if you do it does offer a carrot/stick to the other party), and regardless of your reasoning behind it the other person should respect your wishes and cease and desist immediately.
Going home with someone to you may mean making out fully clothed, it may mean making out naked, it may mean ass to mouth, it’s up to you to figure out where your boundaries lie and to be clear and firm about them. If the person you are with whines, begs, or tries to go there anyway I recommend getting dressed (even if that just means putting your coat on) and going home. The person you are making out with should be thanking their lucky stars that they are getting a sweet piece like you to be with and they should understand that with respect and trust come further treats. I mean come on, how many of us have felt a little awkward, made out with someone fully clothed with all the lights on, gone home, and then though “Fuck, I want to sleep with that person so bad?” it can’t just be me, right? Anyone who needs reminding more than once, and I don’t care how drunk they are, that you will do anything but you won’t do that is not worth your time. End of. You don’t have to sit down before making out and hand them a checklist of things you will and won’t do, but you can feel free at any time to stop what you’re doing. Hell, even if you’re fucking and having a great time sometimes there comes a moment when you think “I’m not into this and I am very very tired.” That’s reasonable!
The other person in this has a right to be treated with the same courtesy so if they don’t want to go down on you they don’t have to. If they don’t want to do it and scrinch their face up, or say “Ew but it smells!!” you might want to consider whether you thought about the first two questions hard enough.

Photos from The Face, Fuck Yeah Gay Vintage, W Magazine.

Have you ever seen someone’s status change from ‘In a Relationship’ to ‘It’s Complicated’? Do you too get that awful feeling in the pit of your stomach when you see it? Whenever that little red heart pops up on my feed I want to grab that person and shout “Run! Run while you still can!” because a relationship that’s gone from solid to complicated is one that will soon be over.

Obviously, I was once that girl. The short version of the story is this: I started seeing someone, thought we were exclusive, found out he had a girlfriend, he promised to break up with her (don’t they all?), didn’t, and I found myself in heartbreak city moping about in my pj’s for weeks. I even cried at a pancake breakfast my Dad made me to cheer me up. Seriously. All the while through the sham of a relationship I told myself it was ‘complicated’ and that things would sort themselves out after a while. He would see the light and break up with his girlfriend, we would carry on with our dating, and I would be able to hold his hand in public if I wanted to.

It was so easy to believe in that because I wanted to think that I was in control of the situation, rather than just blindly bobbing along behind someone who didn’t really give a fuck about me or my emotions. My friends at the time were serious enablers, telling me that I was obviously better than his actual girlfriend, and that any man in his right mind would rather date me. They pointed out how we were practically officially boyfriend and girlfriend anyway. But that was the stinger: ‘practically’. I didn’t want to be sort of kind of maybe seeing someone, I wanted a boyfriend.

When people asked me how my love life was, I said it was complicated. Eventually I started sleeping with other people like him because I figured if he got to have his cake and eat it I should too. What I didn’t realise was that it was a shitty cake which nobody wanted to eat except totally fucked up psychopaths. When he inevitably chose his girlfriend over me I should have been elated. It was a chance to be free, to move on, date people who wanted to date me, and be happy. Instead I was devastated. In what could have been a scene from Skins I turned up at his house to go to a gig with him and found his girlfriend. I caused a childish scene and then shouted a terrible comeback “HAVE FUN WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND” as I left. Out on the street I cried so hard I thought I would be sick. I cried all the way home from Camden to New Cross. I cried so much on a bus that a man told me to shut up and that he’d give me something proper to cry about. So I got off and sat on a doorstep in Bloomsbury (I have no idea what I was doing there, it certainly wasn’t the right way home, in fact I should probably be thankful that he shouted at me and made me realise I was lost) and cried until I had a migraine. Then I cried because I had a migraine.

This was all so long ago that me and the man in question are now friends. He and his girlfriend are still together, I think they’re very happy, though I’ve never asked. I’m very happy with someone too. Honestly I hardly think about it at all, other than to think “What was I doing?” but last night in a strange twist of fate, I met someone who had slept with him during our sorry charade of a relationship. At first I was hilariously shocked and found myself laughing, but then, as the night wore on and my brain had time to work on that fact I became miserable. I hated myself for allowing myself to be in a situation where I would accept crumbs of affection from someone who gave them so rarely. I hated myself for being wilfully blind to the the fact that I was being used. Most of all I hated myself for letting it get so complicated.

Now I don’t want to get all judgey on you but if I when I die I am remembered for one thing I want it to be this piece of advice: DON’T LET IT GET COMPLICATED. It’s not complicated, it’s shitty, you’re being used like a dishrag and you’re worth so much more. Your life is not a post modernist novel, it should be a happy walk in the park. Don’t do what I did and hope against all hope that somehow this will be a hilarious footnote to a stable and successful relationship because it won’t be. It’ll be a shitty chapter in your life that you’ll regret and hate yourself for. And when you meet someone who slept with your kind of not quite really boyfriend you’ll have to paste a smile on and pretend it’s all ok. Even if it really isn’t.

Photos from Comically Vintage and Olivia Bee.

5. The one who won’t get away
Problem: They called and called, you ignored them over and over again. There were times you had the opportunity to kiss each other, but you decided it was a bad move. Their teeth stink and their hair is greasy but they’re just so sweet and they really really like you. Now it’s Saturday night, you’re going out alone and you’re so desperate it’s making you walk funny.
Solution: Call them if you must, but know that this won’t just be for tonight, it’ll take you MONTHS to get away from their greasy tendrilled clutches.

4.  The one you have nothing to talk about with but who is really really hot.
Problem: Your mouth waters, your eyes roll back in your head, and just the slightest glimpse of them zipping by is enough to make you need to sit down with your hands in your lap. When you first met you bonded over how noisy the gig was and funny the guy behind the bar’s nose is, but now, alone together it’s clear you have no shared interests, no common background, and they don’t know the difference between Martin Luther and Martin Luther King Jr.
Solution: Stop talking, start making out, and don’t stop till dawn.

3. The one who dated your friend last year.
Problem: Ashley said it’s cool if you guys went on a date, so it’s fine with her. But why isn’t it fine with you? Now every time you kiss you start thinking of Ashley and it’s killing your mood. Did Ashley touch him like this? Did Ashley like it when he touched her like that? It’s got to the point where you might as well be kissing Ashley.
Solution: Go home, it’s not going to get any better. Ashley’ll thank you for it later. That is if she’s still talking to you after you tell her that you made out naked with her ex.

2. The one who looks nothing like their profile picture.
Problem: They’re not fatter, or thinner, they’re just, well, less hot. The photo was from a good angle and well lit, but here, under the strip lighting you can see them from every angle and it’s starting to look a bit too post-modern. You bring up something you both said you liked, he can barely string a sentence together about it. He asks you if you’re going to have dessert and raises an eyebrow: you don’t know if he’s implying you’re overweight or that you should skip it and go straight to his. Both of these seem similarly repellant.
Solution: Go to the bathroom, text your friend and say they should call in five minutes saying something ‘very bad has happened’. Don’t feel bad that you’re ripping off a scene from Sex and The City. Pray that he hasn’t see SATC. Go back out smiling and wait for your call. Note: I find that a housemate losing their keys is always a good get out clause.

1. The one who’s already in a relationship.
Problem: Or is married or in an open-relationship their other half doesn’t know about. Seriously just don’t do it! I have and basically it sucked. It broke my heart in two and made me hate both myself and the rest of the world for a very long time. There are exceptions; people are frequently in relationships with people they don’t love and aren’t happy with but you are not the solution. You are worth being with, wholly and completely, in public, and on your terms.
Solution: If you want to be in an open relationship then do it- don’t sneak around and fuck up someone else’s life. And if you do then own up to it – whether you’re the cheater or the cheat-ee you did wrong. Apologise, stop fucking about, and make amends. And don’t ever EVER do it again.

1. They’re your boyfriend not mine.
No matter how sweet, caring, hot, amazing in bed, this person is, they aren’t doing any of this stuff to me. I don’t want them to do it to me, and I’m glad they’re doing all this supposedly great stuff to you, no, really I am, but it impacts so marginally on my life that to have to hear about, read about it, and get twittered at about it, all the freaking time is about as useful to me as you telling me about how relieved you after your first piss of the day.

2.  All this talking about them is eating into my valuable time.
And your valuable time, and dare I say it? our valuable time. We could be talking about how shitty Lady Gaga’s dancing is when compared with that of Beysus or why everything on the internet comes from 4chan. We could be having an intelligent discussion on the link between yamambas and Essex girls. We could teaching me to burp the alphabet. We could NOT be talking about how psyched you were when Tarquin ran you a bath after work.

3. I don’t know them.
When a friend goes out with a mutual friend there is a slightly more vested interest, I liked both of you enough to be friends with you in the first place evidently. But if I’ve only ever met him with you then I don’t have a clue what he’s like. Maybe in time we’ll get to be best buds, sharing a cup of cocoa in the kitchen before bed. It’s unlikely, he wants to stick his dick in you, I don’t: we are very different people.

4.  Are they really that amazing?
Really? Really really? If you wrote down their qualities objectively on paper would they be more amazing than Cory Doctorow? I mean seriously, think about it, he gave you a chocolate bar cos he called you a mean name when he was angry, really, it’s kind of douchey.

5. Unless it’s exciting, funny, or gross, I just don’t care.
Boyfriend fell over and farted on you? Great! You both dodged a speeding motorbike that nearly mowed you down? Amazing! He fell over while naked and arguing with you? Jackpot! Just think of the rule “Tits or GTFO” and you’ll see my conversation criteria.

Please don’t go away thinking I hate your other halves, or you, I really don’t. Your relationship is probably super exciting… to you and them. I’m sure that they make you see stars and fireworks when you kiss not pencils or empty ketchup bottles because, yeah, I get it, you’re in love. But don’t blame me if when I ask you how your weekend was and you reply with “Well, Rory Boring and I…” I high-tail it out of your presence.

Pictures from these three brilliant tumblrs: Vogue Weekend, Living Loving Maid, and Super Woodbinda.

Recently I was googling how to get rid of lovebites (aka hickeys) and came across a mine of confusing, contradictory advice. Some people swore by ice-packs and tea bags. Others by  toothpaste, arnica cream, or hot compresses. Some people even recommended making them worse so you could pretend that you had a real injury (these people are obviously mad).

Scrolling through page after page of crackpot advice soon brought out the smarmy answers too: “Next time tell your sweetie not to bite so hard.”, “…don’t get one in the first place.” “Remember how unsightly they are.” and on and on. Some bloggers, writing for teenagers I imagine, advised talking to the hickey giver about it first. Not that I’m advocating forcing hickeys on teenage girls, but if someone starts to give you one and you don’t like it, whether you’re an adult or not, just tell them to stop. Sitting down, with a notepad and pen and saying to each other: “Do you like lovebites?” “Yup.” “Cool, what about blindfolds?” “Nope, sorry. How do you feel about oral sex?” etc etc would be one of the biggest passion killers I could ever imagine. However it is something I could imagine Topher and Bennett getting pretty into. That aside, what the heck is so wrong with a lovebite? Having one, getting one, or giving one, can all be fun, and it’s the douchey reactions from other people that make them less than worthwhile. Also, mate, telling them not to bite so hard? I think we’re all missing the point here…

I, for one, hope that with the sudden surge of interest in vampires (and to a lesser extent zombies) that lovebites, hickeys, blooms, strawberries, passion marks, tramp stamps, WHATEVERS will enter the mainstream and stop ignorant people making comments like this on urban dictionary:

After all if lovebites remain ‘a sign of sluttiness’ then whatever are we going to do when True Blood comes back later this year and everyone starts role-playing Eric and Sookeh at night?

Picture from a Google search on Pup’N'Taco… no I don’t know why I was doing that either.

Back in this post I mentioned a party so terrible that I forgot sleeping with someone at it. While I erased most of it from my mind I have never forgotten a lipstick related mishap that nearly stopped that entire sorry blog post unfolding (why didn’t it?? why??).

At the start of the evening I bumped into someone I thought was my ONE TRUE LOVE. We’ll call him Chet. My primary reason for thinking this was because I’d met Chet while blissed out on some Es. The moment I met him was amazing: I looked up from my scrabbling hands and in a split second the world slipped away. For a few hours I followed him around, hands in his pockets staring at him like there was no-one else in the room. It was probably pretty creepy. A few days later Chet invited me to this now apocryphal party and most of the sheen had worn off him I was still fairly smitten. When I arrived he’d necked half a bottle of Ritalin and was gabbling at me about everything under the sun. I was horrible disappointed but followed him into an empty room anyway to put my coat down. Inside Chet grabbed me by the arm: “Nadia just kissed me.” My heart sank as he was smiling broadly. “She kissed so badly; let me show you.” and before I could say anything he was lapping at my face like a St Bernard. I seized the opportunity as he broke away: “How would you prefer it was?” and so we kissed. We kissed for some time stood in the dingy light of Nadia’s bedroom surrounded by coats and shoes and someone sleeping under a curtain. In my head I was going “Yes! Yes! Yes!” because I am an idiot and do things like that.

Then someone stepped in to drop a bag off and we stood about awkardly talking about how this was a terrible idea and that we should just be friends. Well Chet said that and I said “Oh yes I suppose so.” Mortified that I could have misread a situation so badly I had been staring at the floor, and when I finally had the courage to look up I realised my lurid red lipstick was all over his face. He was telling me, all serious like, that this was just something that we’d done in the moment, and that it would be best if we didn’t think about it again, blah blah blah. I gave him a tissue, told him to clean himself and left the room. It wasn’t until days later that I realised I too must have looked like Robert Smith when I walked back into the party. Subtle.

And so to avoid this ever happening again I have been looking for a matte lipstick that doesn’t smell like crayons, isn’t neon red, won’t dry my lips, and yet won’t leave a trail of smears everywhere I go. Any ideas? It’s rather important you know.

Photo from Le Smoking.