When I Think About You I Touch Myself

By vanessa | Published: August 6, 2011

Although I’ve been reassured over and over again by the internet and various male friends, I can’t help but feel there’s something a bit odd about thinking of someone you know when you masturbate. Obviously there are scales of strangeness: thinking of your parents is very very wrong, thinking of your boss is debatable, and your boyfriend is probably quite reasonable. However for years I just couldn’t do it. Whenever I shut my eyes and tried to imagine someone I knew getting filthy with me, in a variety of athletic positions, I got coy, and felt embarrassed about the whole thing. Maybe it was because as a kid my mum told me your ear would ring if people were thinking or talking about you, and the last thing I wanted to do was wake someone up at 1am because I was trying to involve them in a sexy version of Eyes Wide Shut.

No matter how hot I found someone or how fun a time we’d spent together it was just impossible to imagine doing anything further than holding hands. I could say the words out loud, feel the feeling of wanting someone horribly bad, maybe even relive a fumble while daydreaming on the bus, but making up new situations was behind a brick wall I couldn’t scale. That isn’t to say I was wanking over disembodied robots or just shutting my eyes and giving it a rub with nothing in my head at all. In fact it was the complete opposite. My fantasies were full of people, characters I held over from scenario to scenario, with names and back stories, and specific personality traits who just waited to be called into service as the guy who held the bullwhip, or the one who wore a nice suit and took me to dinners in fancy restaurants where they turned out the lights and… well, I’m sure you can guess the gist of that one.

Then recently I got bored of making up elaborate scenarios with interchangeable players. So in the interests of keeping it fresh I threw in someone I was crushing on and it was surprisingly enjoyable. Then I assembled a cast of people I knew and fancied, mixed with celebrities who seemed kind of dishy, and it was great! It was I imagine even better than fucking half of those people because they didn’t complain and were totally ameanable to all my wishes. “Put this here? Why of course! I’ve always wanted to!” That sort of thing.

It does, as I figured it would, feel kind of odd seeing people who you’ve wanked about sometimes. It’s a bit like when you’re in crush with someone and you daydream about your whole life together and then when you see them you feel this super deep connection and they don’t. But less deep, obviously. I’m still hazy about the ‘telling them’ thing, because if you’re not dating them it could seem invasive and creepy, and if you are it just seems desperate and lame. Like “Hey, I’m crazy and wild and when I think about you I touch myself…” WINK. WINK. SUGGESTIVE LIP LICK. WINK. It’s not like you can ask someone else if they’ve been thinking about you either. Really if you’re seeing them on the regular they should just say yes to shut you up, but when in the past I have asked (of course I’ve asked, I’m vain ok?), I’ve found the answer is generally no. One time the answer was “Only when you’re with your best friend” which wasn’t half as flattering as I think he meant it.

The best course of action seems to be think about people, put them in any goddamn position you want, but keep schtum unless asked so as not to seem like some kind of greasy Austin Powers wannabe or a sex offender. So er, if you’re reading this (Hi!) and you think that I might be thinking about you if that’s something that you think might happen then well, er, cough, well, you’ll just have to ask, if you want to know. If you don’t think that’s likely to be happening, then, well, don’t ask because then it’ll get all awkward and surely you don’t want that? I’ll just shut up now.

 

Pictures from Playboy by Russ Meyer (Yvette Vickers aka Miss July 1959) and an illustration from a 40s issue of Esquire via Vintage Gal’s Tumblr

Posted in Sexy Times | 1 Comment

I Kissed A Girl And I Fucking Loved It

By vanessa | Published: August 1, 2011

At the age of 17 I walked into my local Wetherspoons, sat down next to my friends, put my hands down on the table, took a deep breath, and said “I need to tell you all something.” They went silent. I took another deep breath, “I’m bi.” There was a pause. Then another pause. Then my friend Susan looked at her boyfriend who looked at back at me. “Is that news?” and then everyone laughed. I was so crestfallen it hurt. This was my big reveal! My lightbulb moment! And they’d ruined it by guessing my secret months before.

While at that time I had done no more than dream about kissing girls in a semi-innocent fashion, I made up for lost time fairly quickly. There was an incident during my first week at uni that could have been straight out of a Russ Meyer film: me and most of the hockey team in a ladies bathroom. It was just as fun as I thought it’d be because how couldn’t it be? Tits! Snogging! Nudity! Hands in places! It is a situation I have returned to mentally over and over again, with some slight stylistic improvements. It is also a situation a boyfriend of mine made me relive ove and over again until it became a Caligula style orgy situated in a bath house with roses and only swimwear models for company. Tsk. Men. This is why I don’t talk about it much, it becomes this whole raised eyebrow thing where everyone says “Oh really?” and you sound like Katy fucking Perry trying to get some attention from a douchebag propped up on a bar, and it’s not about who you are and what you like it’s about some dickface’s purile fantasies and I really need to end this sentence because it’s run on too long and I’m getting kind of angry.

So for a few years it was girls and boys and fun and hands and places. And then, I somehow got back into men only mode. That isn’t to say I stopped finding women attractive more that I just moved into a mode where I stopped finding moments where I was with a woman who wanted to make out with me and maybe even spend some time with me afterwards. To be honest I stopped finding those moments with anyone for a while, but anyway, that’s a whole nother kettle of fish.

These days I don’t know where I fall on the Kinsey scale. Could I imagine myself spending the rest of my life with a woman? Sure. With a guy? Sure. It’s like Patrick Wolf said, ‘In the same way I don’t know if my sixth album is going to be a death-metal record or children’s pop, I don’t know whether I’m destined to live my life with a horse, a woman or a man. It makes life easier.’ That said I’ve always hoped, personally, that I wouldn’t end up with the horse. It seems like it could get kind of awkward. Not to get all Ming the Merciless judgemental on you, but I cannot imagine looking at another attractive person of any sex and not thinking about how much I’d like to just rip their clothes off and fuck now, on this busstop bench.

It’s like the way I feel about food: I love food so much I cannot imagine excluding a single food group. Why would I deny myself the pure, beautiful pleasure of cheese? Or pie? Or crayfish dipped in breadcrumbs and slathered in sauce and eaten from my fingertips which are covered in grease? So why would I deny myself the pleasure of any kind of person? Boobs are so fucking good! I want to lie in a big disembodied pool of boobs and just feel my way out. The same applies with men’s bums. Clean bums only please. Maybe this just brands me as some kind of sex obsessed nympho but it’s not just about sex, it’s about that cheesy bullshit of connecting on a deeper level, and much as I claim to hate people, the ones I love I love so fucking hard that it’d be impossible for me to pick just one gender, much like I could never decide between Gruyere and Asiago.

 

Photos by Ryan McGinley and Playboy (Miss July 1958 Linné Nanette Ahlstrand)

 

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My Wallet’s Too Small For My Fifties And My Diamond Shoes Are Too Tight

By vanessa | Published: July 30, 2011

It’s difficult to explain exactly what is bugging me at the moment because I don’t want to sound like a big headed bitch. It’s probably best to just throw it out there, as is, no bullshit, and see how it goes. The problem is this: everyone keeps flirting with me. Now, before you roll your eyes too hard, it seriously is a drag. It’s got to the point where today, at a zipline thing with my preteen sister and parents, the instructor flirted with me so hard even my mother commented on it. I did nothing at all to warrant this, I was even wearing green trousers with an elasticated waist and he still wouldn’t let up. I’m in a harness climbing on a fucking metal wire strung between two trees and he’s saying “Aww you’re mean”. Mean? Dude I am looking after children. Go away.

Fuck it man, I can’t even write this. What the hell am I thinking? This is a temporary glitch, a buzzy moment in the matrix where everything is good, and I am a Simon Templar sex beast. What the hell am I whining about? Knowing other people find me attractive is so lovely and ego inflating it’s insane, but equally, Jesus fucking Christ it’s tiring. I mean I’m not Helena Christensen, I’m not Shia LeBoeuf, I’m me, a kinda hot, kinda silly girl with enormous hair and a squishy nose. I’m just not used to it. How do super mega buff girls with shiny legs and bouncy hair deal with this? Do they ever just deliberately smear a bit of mascara down their cheek and rub dirt into their fringe?

I keep wanting to justify this with stuff like: “I mean obviously I don’t get hit on at the shop” but it depends who’s serving. “So not everyone in the entire world is hitting on me” well duh, I don’t think you all thought I was that fucking vain. Of course there are a million caveats, because even though I seem to be man-nip right now, I’m obviously not to every single person in the whole world’s fucking tastes. At first I thought that maybe I was just going out more (true), talking to strangers more (true), and probably just being super gregarious but the zipline guy has blown those theories out of the water.

While I’m here rambling: can I tell you all a story about being called gregarious? Of course I can, it’s my blog! I can do what the fuck I like! So I was at this Christmas party thing in a pub, and there’s this creepy guy staring at me all freaking night. And he keeps coming over and trying to talk to me, but his eyeballs are kinda huge and bulgy, and the staring thing kind of freaks me out, so I’m not best keen on a chat. Being drunk me and my friend Hannah start dodging him all over the crowded pub until I’m hiding under a chair, hidden by a coat, which is being guarded by my friend Dennis. Mr Eyeballs grabs Dennis and says “It’s…. very…. important you tell your friend… that…. she’s becoming… gregarious.” And then on that bombshell he leaves the pub. Straight out, no goodbyes, just leaves. Firstly, I didn’t know what the hell gregarious meant. Nor did anyone I was with. Secondly: What??? That’s what you were eye stalking me all night for? I’m gregarious? You need help mate. Best thing is: five years later I met him again and dated him. He’s the lean-er! There’s no moral to this, although if I had to find one it’d be: don’t date guys who stare a lot.

Where were we? Oh yeah: people keep flirting with me and it’s freaking me out. Really, what I want, is one super awesome person to flirt with me and make out, and hold hands and fly in a cotton candy sky with, because at heart, I love being monogamous; it is for me, the best thing I can imagine. However right now it seems every cool person I meet and want to be friends with at some point starts pawing at me, and then everything feels shitty, and like the only reason they’ve been laughing at my jokes is because they want to get their end away. It makes everything feel really cheap and shitty. It’s nice to feel wanted, but rather than feeling flattered that they want me that much, I just feel fucked off that they can’t look at me as anything other than clunge in a nice dress. Obviously I can’t stop people wanting to fancy me, I just wish I could. Because there’s nothing worse than someone howling themselves silly at your anecdotes to find out that they’ve been thinking “Skip to the end, I’d like to see your tits please.”

 

Illustration by Hellen Jo

Posted in Meeting People, Not So Sexy Times, Questions | 4 Comments

Some Thoughts Upon Watching Pornography At 1am

By vanessa | Published: July 28, 2011

A few days ago it was 1am and I couldn’t sleep, so having exhausted all my usual options, I decided to watch some porn. I also decided to ‘liveblog the experience’. However, thankfully, between the tonsillitis, some cortisone shots in my hip making me unable to move, and a magical cocktail of painkillers and antibiotics I didn’t get as far as hitting the ‘publish post’ button. Until today I had actually forgotten that I’d written any of this, so I must have been a lot more whacked out than I thought I was. Here are the edited highlights:

1.02am: I can’t watch porn in my clothes. This feels all wrong.

1.05am: It was too cold to be naked, and I got caught up retweeting Jenny Holzer. Everything she says is so shouty! DON’T ALLOW THE LUCID MOMENT TO DISSOLVE.

1.08am: It’s too cold and too bright in this room. Also I’m listening to If I Knew You Were Comin I’d Have Baked A Cake.

1.09am: It is silent and I am now in a nightdress and under the covers. My Cabbage Patch doll Veronica, who has been nursing me through my illness, is off the bed. I think her looking at me would be the biggest buzzkill ever.

1.22am: Does anyone watch porn all the way through without fast-forwarding it?

1.23am: Why is this girl talking in such a squeaky voice? “This means I’m hor!ny!” well no shit Sherlock, you’re in a porno. I fucking hope you are because if not this is going to be a real drag. If James Deen wasn’t in this whispering at me (not you Squeaky Lady, me) I would have stopped watching long ago.

1.25am: This lady has a really bad manicure. Her eye make up is amazing however. It reminds me a bit of this picture of Elizabeth Taylor:

1.29am: Ooh! My friend’s just emailed me. Seeing as Squeaky’s crawling around on the floor right now I can probably reply without ruining the whole buzz. Mainly because there is no buzz.

1.32am: Email replied to. Guess I should unpause this, though Squeaky looks quite funny caught mid pose.

1.33am: Oh for fuckssake. I unpause it and now she’s tonguing a glass dildo? Is that hot? James just told her to choke herself, and she looks like she’s doing a Mariah Carey hand to the throat. She’s in quite an odd position though, it must be hard to choke yourself and tongue a glass dildo, so I’ll give her credit for trying.

1.35am: Do all porn stars do yoga? They must.

1.40am: I am so bored. I want to get into this I do. I really do. But this seems about as fun as GCSE Maths camp.

1.42am: I’ve said goodbye to James Deen, and am watching Audrey Hollander instead. She looks a tiny bit like Fizz from Corrie, so if that’s your thing you’re in luck. (It’s not my thing.)

1.45am: This guy kissing Audrey Hollander’s bum looks well made up about it. That’s kind of sweet really.

1.47am: What even is this? Everything looks like meat.

1.55am: Everyone’s getting up and changing positions so regularly it feels like musical chairs. Musical cocks.

1.57am: Did you know there’s an insect that plays music with it’s cock when it wants to attract a lady mate? Imagine if men’s penises did that.

1.59am: Having thought about this, I’d like penises to play The Archers theme.

2.06am: The other guy in this scene looks like The Situation. I’m not really cool with that. For once I’m glad the director’s keeping his face out of shot because it’s kinda offputting.

 

At this point I must have given up because when I woke up in the morning, surrounded by blister packs of pills and copies of Vanity Fair, the computer was playing Daria on a loop. This was almost as sexy as a visit to the dentist’s. You’re welcome.

 

Photos from A l’intérieur du Jardin Secret, and Ilyinichna.

 

 

Posted in Not So Sexy Times, Sexy Times | 5 Comments

Sometimes I Don’t Have Bad Sex

By vanessa | Published: July 25, 2011

You’re probably reading the title thinking, “Yeah right!” because 99% of the things I’ve written are all “Wah wah wah my vagina is dry. Wah wah wah I hate flavoured lube.”. Thing is it’s way easier to moan about the shit bits than to wax lyrical about all the good bits. I mean what’s funnier: someone falling over, or someone sitting in a chair reading a book and smiling? Exactly.

Since I became single in February I’ve had awesome, mind blowing, oh my fucking God how are you doing that it is so good, sex, as well as some mediocre times. Once, my ears rang. Another time I blacked out for a second. And yet another time it was so good I almost cried. To give a specific example, a few weeks ago I found myself in a situation where I said the immortal words “It’s very important I take my dress off now” and then made out in (and out of) a lace bodysuit for the next few hours. It was amazing! Mind blowing! Filthy! Painful (in a good way)! Messy! My hair looked like a tangled mop head after! I loved every second of it.

The reason I keep going back even after the crap sex, and the pina colada lube, is because when sex is good it is the best thing in the whole universe. When I come and it’s good, not just “Woo!” and done, it’s the best feeling in the world. It’s like I’ve become the size of Godzilla and I’m naked, flying through the universe, looking at the stars and feeling like I could do anything. It’s like having a moment when the whole galaxy’s on mute and all I can feel is love and joy and oxytocin flooding my body. Everything, you, me, the bed, Hackney, floats away and I am buzzing off a feeling so pure that nothing can touch me. I wish I could live in that moment where everything seems quiet and far away, just me and stars and bliss. This has probably made me sound like a hippie but fuck it, I don’t care.

When I first started having sex I thought that shuffling around, hinting, and wishing, would make it good. I figured that a guy would go through his arsenal of moves, eventually pull out one I liked, I’d non-verbally communicate I was into it, and we’d have a good time. That did not work. Gradually over time I realised my assumptions that detailed directions and admitting to my specific peccadillos would not freak anyone out. Well, they freaked a couple of people out, but they were douchebags anyway. The point is, rather than being boner killers they made sex better. Learning to let go, turn a light on, get on top, and do what I wanted opened up a whole world of fun. The sex I thought had been so great now seemed like MacDonald’s next to The Ritz. I started opening my eyes during sex which for me was a big fucking deal and realised everyone looks batshit crazy, but in a kind of sexy way, so I stopped worrying and let myself get into odd positions and pull any face I damn well wanted. I also learned that sometimes you’ve just got to put yourself first, especially if someone else isn’t going to.

 

Photo by Ryan McGinley

Posted in Sexy Times | 4 Comments

You’ll Never Miss The Water (Until The Well’s Gone Dry)

By vanessa | Published: July 22, 2011

Let me set the scene: it’s two weeks ago and I was having a C- grade make out session with a man. The making out seemed rote, almost perfunctory, there was a sense of urgency that seemed impersonal. So as I found myself on my bed, half in, half out of my clothes, legs caught in my skirt at an unfortunate angle, I was not really ‘feeling’ the whole sex thing. He however was. Now, I don’t know if any of you have ever been in this situation but if a girl’s not ready, you can tell. Not by facial expressions or lack of reciprocation, although those are helpful, but by other more physical signs. However, a bit like a lack of an erection in no way means you are a minger, a lack of lubrication in no way means that this all has to end. In fact, it is really cue to keep going, switch things up. Don’t whatever you do try to force either a flaccid penis into a well lubricated vagina, or a hard penis into a dry vagina.

Just don’t. It’s not going to work no matter how acute an angle you lean on it, not if you hold it and jam it, not if you squidge lube everywhere. Stop it. Stop it now. Leaning has never forced a penis into a vagina and it never will. In fact I think leaning is my number 1 most hated sex move. If it starts with leaning, it’s going to end with me saying “Oh you’re done? Ok then.” Back to the point: me and this bloke, we’ll call him Steven, are making out, I finally untangle myself from my clothing and he does the lean. I shuffle about, try to focus on something hot (hi James Deen!) and make appreciative noises. But he is still doing the lean. Eventually I sit up and try to kiss him to see if it helps. In the thirty seconds we are making out nothing happens down there. Nothing. He pushes me backwards, and I think maybe this could be going somewhere fun. But no, it’s time for more leaning. By now I’m not even making noises, I’m just lying there stressed out at my malfunctioning vagina. So Steven goes down on me. Now normally this would be super hot and I’d be all into it, and there’d be tingles and jingles and exciting fireworks in my head. But no. Nothing. Because all I can think is: “IT’S NOT WORKING, NOTHING’S HAPPENING, HE’S GOING TO TRY LEANING ON ME AGAIN, ARGH WHY IS NOTHING WORKING?” And true to form, I am soon regaled with another lean.

At this point, I start laughing, because that’s exactly what everyone wants to hear during sex: laughter. He looks at me and smiles, and I say “I just don’t think that’s going to work right now, how about we…” but he cuts me off “I just really want to have sex.” Boom. Not ‘I really want to have sex with you‘ but ‘I really want to have sex’ like he wants to have sex with anyone and I happen to be here with my legs open. Even though it hurts, I think, “Hey, we’re naked, we all say silly things!” and I explain that yes, that’s nice, but it’ll take some time to get the motor running.

Soon, everything starts working, and we have sex. It is… ok. He finishes and I am nowhere near. As I realise that he thinks this is code for “Na-night!” I sit up. “Are you done?” “Yeah” He starts to lie down in a curled up shape. At this point I do something was possibly not very ladylike but which needed to be done. I grab him by the arm, fling him halfway across the bed, and sit on him. He looks at me, puzzled. I lean forward and put my boob in his mouth. “Bite this” I say in a monotone that Daria Morgendorffer would be proud of. I spend a minute or two enjoying myself. Then I hog the good pillow, the one without mascara stains on, and go to sleep, reminding myself that this, that he, cannot ever happen again.

 

Pictures from These Americans and HizerJason‘s tumblr. Title courtesy of Ray Charles.

Posted in Not So Sexy Times, Sexy Times | 1 Comment

Burning Bridges

By vanessa | Published: July 19, 2011

In the summer of 2005 I moved to Mexico and taught a bunch of bratty rich kids English in a school run by a rich hippie. In the absence of a social life I got super into Livejournal and in particular a community called j__rn_l which showed scans of people’s diaries. In awe of their mad collaging skills and also bored as fuck I really went to town on my diary. It barely shuts and is full of magazine pictures with song lyrics written on, nonsensical fragments of ideas, and moaning about how soalone I am. It is also a testament to my crush on someone called Chris.

Chris isn’t alone in that diary, but he’s notable because this year we dated. Normally I’m nice on here, well, nice compared to how I talk about people in real life. However for once I just can’t be arsed. This whole stupid fucking situation is partly my fault, because I should have known better, but mostly, it’s his fault.

My 2006 diary starts off talking about how he’s sent me a sappy email or some shit, and how I’m on cloud nine. Even though I’m thousands of miles away I’m impressed someone cares enough to bother thinking about me. He refers to me as ‘the bestest’. The diary entry is written in January: the last time I had sex was April, so you can see why this shit seemed so real to me. As the diary goes on I develop a crush on him that is truly phenomenal. There is even a page where I’ve dotted all the i’s with hearts. Cringe. Trawling through old emails we are as revolting as two puppies who’ve learned to work a keyboard. He tells me cutesy shit, I lap it up, repeat ad infinitum.

And then, and I don’t know what this is apropos of, because I’m still in Mexico at this point, I write the following entry:

I didn’t hold out on him. I called him up when I got back a few months later and we arranged to go on a date. I went to the allotted meeting place, and he didn’t show up. He didn’t answer his phone, he just disappeared. This farce was repeated at least twice. Then this year, I sent him another email. I guess I was blinded by the memory of his good looking-ness. After pinging emails back and forth I call him in the middle of the night and turn up at his house drunk, in an enormous prom dress and we sleep together. I’m nothing if not classy.

For a brief moment I think “Wow, this is awesome!”. We spend a day wandering around Hampstead and eating cake. It is all so nice and so fun I feel bad for ever doubting him. I tell all my friends that he’s kind of awesome and super cute. One of those things is true. And then after 3 weeks he just disappears. My therapist told me to tell him I was pissed off, so I did. I sent him an email and he replied. He promised me the moon on a stick and I fell for it.

Of course he didn’t make things up to me. He disappeared again, and stopped answering my calls, and my emails. At first I was pissed off, then I was annoyed at myself, and now, finding my old diary I’m just amused I have such a short memory. I know I’ve quoted Don Draper before but he is so right ‘People tell you who they are, but we ignore it – because we want them to be who we want them to be’.

What could I have done with those 3 weeks? Well I would have not gone to see Green Lantern for one, or watched Made in Chelsea, I’d probably have got pissed more, and danced around more, and maybe even bothered to get some curtains made for my room. I’ve been trying to think of some witty way of saying he was crap at sex, but I can’t so I’ll just put it out there like it is.

Ugh all those hours I just can’t get back. All that time on the bus to Finny P. It’s ironic that at the same time I was writing about Chris in my 2006 diary, I was also obsessed with a phrase, the mooted title for Bret Easton Ellis’ abortive autobiography: ‘Where I Have Been I Would Not Go Back’. If only I’d followed that advice…

 

Photo by Anja Mulder

Posted in Not So Sexy Times, Relationships | 4 Comments

Everyone You’ve Ever Slept With

By vanessa | Published: July 15, 2011

Apparently somewhere in the world there are men who like their women to be virgins. Though I’ve never met any of these men myself, I can in a way see their reasoning. When you date someone they bring their whole world with them, a cavalcade of one night stands, drunken fumbles, and obsessive crushes, not to mention the dreaded ex. Maybe you don’t mind and you’re better at living in the moment than I, but I often lie alone at night next to the poor buggers I go out with, thinking about all the people who’ve come before me and everyone who will probably come after me.

Is it better to have been proceeded by ugly or plain people? Bores with lank hair and vacant gazes? Or should you be at the end of a line of sculptural beauties? Are either of these things good? Never has the phrase ‘between a rock and a hard place’ been more appropriate. Surely with the former it means that you too are a dullard, and with the latter that you’re doomed to spend the rest of your life trying to compete? Much like no-one could ever live up to the glory of Elizabeth Taylor for Richard Burton, how can I ever live up to the memory of his part-time acrobat, full time model slash philanthropist girlfriend? HOW?

The utter delicious irony of this obsession with everyone else’s dating history is that I despise mine being raked over. Sure I’m happy to talk about it, even with people I’m seeing, but if they start to compare and judge I go batshit crazy. Recently a man said to me “What’s the matter? Did your ex have a small cock?” Words can’t even begin to explain how badly that went down. However even when people are less freaking shitty (seriously mate: go fuck yourself next time yeah?) I can’t handle my dating past being subject to scrutiny. It pains me to admit this but I frequently give my partners a fairly edited picture of my past. One night stands turn into flings, flings turn into relationships, and somehow relationships get downgraded into ‘this guy I was seeing for a bit, you know’. Lovebites and nail marks get explained away with tales of falling from bikes and mishaps with the cat.

Having been burned before I just don’t want to lay it all out on the line because there is a strong chance that once someone finds out about my gung-ho attitude to dating they will freak out and promptly dump me, or worse just stop returning my calls. Then again, I feel shitty about lying. Of course I should just be totally honest. That’s a given. And yeah, yeah, I know that anyone who’s stupid enough to judge me by some outdated moral code isn’t worth my time but it seems that 90% of people operate on dating rules that were out of fashion in the fucking 50s. Then again this just backs up my theory that most people aren’t worth my fucking time.

The double standard I ask people to accept is ludicrous: you must feel comfortable with the roving band of people in my past, and I must never ever hear about anyone you did anything more than hold hands with. Strangely I don’t think of myself as jealous. I could never be the girl who stops her boyfriend from speaking to someone, or stands possessively close in bars shooting lasers out of her eyes at any woman in a 2m radius. Thinking of myself as ‘not the jealous type’ I now realise is freaking ludicrous.

I think, in an ideal world, I would like to go out with someone who had had a varied, chequered, and filthy, dating history, and in a strange twist of fate, all the people they’d tangled with had mysteriously died. That would be bloody perfect.

Posted in Dates, Multiple Dating, Not So Sexy Times, Relationships | 2 Comments

Romantic Rights Are All That You’ve Got

By vanessa | Published: July 12, 2011

When I was 18 I thought the most romantic thing ever was listening to Weezer in bed with my teenage boyfriend, and maybe if I was lucky, smoking a fag out of the window. I was about as blissfully happy as I think I’ve ever been in those snatched moments, happy because the whole world was laid out in front of me like a game, ready to be played – I was going to university, I was in mad all consuming love with my teenage boyfriend, I had enough money to get totally ratted at Wetherspoons once a week, my mobile phone had a Powerpuff Girls cover on it – what more could I want for? Pink Triangle was really just the icing on an already delicious cake.

It’s funny to think what passed as romance in various stages of my life, at any time something as seemingly mundane as penny sweets could become imbued with magical moment transforming properties, it’s all about the context. Obviously there are some people who like to be showered in gifts regardless of what they are, there must be, I mean most men’s dating manuals are based on the idea that all women can be bought with an expensive candlelit dinner and some sort of shiny jewellery. Having never dated anyone who either had the money or inclination to douse me in pointless gifts I don’t know what it feels like but I’d imagine kind of grody. Sure, chocolates are nice, flowers are pretty, jewellery is shiny: sure, sure, I get it. It just all seems so thoughtless, so generic. Like there’s a little cupboard in this guy’s house with a selection of ‘woman gifts’ that he picks from whenever he wants a blow job.

Romance itself is such a nebulous concept: if we agree that it’s not rote gifts that could be given to anywhere anytime for any reason, then what is it? Is it someone cheering you up on a bad day? It is walking along the river at midnight sharing a cig? Is it throwing pool balls at bus on Old Street? (Don’t ask). Recently I complained to a friend that I’d never had a ‘romantic’ boyfriend, and then realised how totally ungrateful that comment was. I was trapped in the woman gift cupboard of that creepy imaginary guy, looking at all the flowers and chocolates, wishing I could have them. But who else but a true romantic would take me to the Cabinet War Rooms on my birthday? And who else but romantic would buy me soy milk so I could have tea at their house?

It’s so trite to say it, but romance really is the little things. It’s remembering a throw away comment, or a particular date, and all the heart shaped boxes in the world can’t replace that really. Does identikit romance do it for you reader? Do you crave fluffy bunnies holding hearts? I want to know! Honestly, I think sometimes I’d just be glad for any kind of gift, but now, operating in an ideal hypothetical world, I really don’t think I’d pick anything from Clinton Cards.

On that bombshell, I’m off to romance the fuck out of myself with a plate of pasta and Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.

 

 

Photos from: thrilld.com and the magic of Tumblr

Posted in Relationships | 6 Comments

I Got 99 Problems, But Being A Bitch Ain’t One: AKA Agony Aunt Time!

By vanessa | Published: May 18, 2011

Firstly, I just want to say that the response to my last post has been amazing, if at times overwhelming. I want to thank everyone who emailed Nadine Dorries, thank you from the bottom of my heart. To everyone who shared their experiences and stories: you are amazing, and a genuine inspiration. I don’t say things like this lightly, and I feel terribly guilty for not responding to everyone who tweeted at me, emailed me, and who left comments. The amount of courage you guys have is amazing. Once again, thank-you all so much for supporting me, re-tweeting my blog post, linking it to your friends, and sharing your stories.

Now then, I’m afraid it’s back to regular programming, sort of. I’ve been getting a few questions through my Tumblr’s ask box, so I thought I’d put my agony Aunt hat on and get down to answering a couple of them…

All my friends are gay with no single straight friends. My university’s male population is mostly gay. Any suggestions on how to meet men/boys of at least bordering on average intelligence/looks? I am a 20 y/o girl.

Oh my god, I think I went through this a couple of years ago: every single man I knew, came into contact with, mawkishly flirted with in a bar was gay, gay, gay. There’s nothing worse than looking over your friends and realise they’re all getting it from somewhere and you’re not. Ahem, I’ll stop pouring salt on your wound now because this can be rectified.

Firstly, I know you say that your friends have no single straight friends, but don’t discount the friends of these friends. Or acquaintances of friends, or people they have classes with, or live with and so on. I always think it’s best to pick dates a little out of your usual friendship pool just so that if it ends awkwardly you don’t have to see them often. If you come across someone tenuously connected to a friend who appears to be both eligible and hot, tell the friend you’re interested, try and invite them to a party or a night out where there’s lots of people around you both know, and attempt to get your mack on. It can work! I speak as someone who’s managed this, and more than once!

Secondly, I hate to sound like your mother here, but do you have any hobbies? While knitting (my hobby of choice) may not seem like an ideal way to meet a prospective boyfriend, you’ll almost certainly make friends which is wonderful in itself, and those friends will, as I mentioned above, probably have single male friends who are whining about how all the single girls are taken and magic could happen. The same could be said of a movie club, roller derby, or mathletics.

Thirdly, there is always online dating, which I promise is not just full of freaks. There are thousands of ridiculously good looking boys out there, online, who you can message in a totally pressure free manner, and then go on sun drenched dappled picnics with/have dirty filthy sex with, whatever floats your boat.

Last of all, maybe none of these things will work, maybe this time just isn’t working out for you. Once, for a year, I didn’t get it from anyone. A year and a half actually. It wasn’t particularly fun, and me and my hand became rather good friends, but anyway, that’s not the point. The point is we all go through dry spells, and they are fucking shit, but they are never permanent. Promise.

Oh shit I forgot one last tip: try drinking. That ended my dry spell sharpish. Ahem.

 

So as a single person I get really jealous and possessive over my single friends when they start seeing someone. My question, does this ever happen to you (or am I a total Havishamesque freak?) and if so, how do you deal with it?

I really hope you don’t live anywhere near the person who wrote in before you, because if so: YOU’RE THE REASON SHE’S SINGLE! It’s alllllll your fault!

But seriously, you’re not quite explicit about whether you cockblock your friends or not, so I want to start off by saying, if you do that, don’t. I had a friend who would sneer at every person I fancied (in their faces!! right in front of them! ARGH), or try and make me leave bars early with her, because she couldn’t possibly go home ALONE. Did I want her to DIE? Did I want that on my CONSCIENCE? Did I care about this guy I’d just met more than her? WELL? DID I?

Thankfully however you sound a lot more sane, and therefore I’m assuming you aren’t either that extreme or that obvious about it. Honestly I think a little bit of possessiveness is a good thing, as long as you don’t undermine their partners or attempts to get one. There are a few friends, especially ones that I have a minor romantic interest in, who I become particularly odd about when they are dating people, I have to admit. The way I deal with it is by focussing on how wonderfully happy they are/how awesome their partner is/how they’re not bugging me by whining about being single, and go and try and either eat the loneliness away or get a new hobby. I’d recommend the latter rather than the former, it’s much healthier.

 

There was another question for this post, but the girl who asked it decided she’d rather not have it out there on the internet, which I totally understand, but hey: if you’re reading this: DUMP THAT ARSEHOLE. He is a big prick and I don’t like the way he treats you. Please dump him now now now. He does not deserve you at all, and there is someone amazing out there who does. I swear.

 

 

If you have a problem you want me to attempt to solve, or you want to ask me a question, or you want to rant at me, my email address is vanessa@nightmaresandboners.com or you can anonymously do those things via my Tumblr Ask box (which is totally 100% anonymous I swear).

 

Photos from Hulm and Grottu

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