This is it.

Screengrab from Blokely.com

A couple of days ago, I read a piece on Blokely* (a man-website which I am quite fond of), which left me feeling a little cold. ‘I can teach you how to get a woman into bed’ tells the story of Kezia Noble, a 28-year-old pick up artist (PUA), whose career is based around teaching men how to “have one night stands, bed strippers and blag threesomes”.

The phrasing is deliberately provocative – it begs you to jump up on a feminist soapbox and decry misogyny. Indeed the first line of the piece is “many women may hate the fact I teach men the tricks of getting women into bed but I don’t care”. Oh, sweetie.

She claims to be the only female PUA, a fact which she emphasises through her constant reiteration that women hate what she does. She’s inviting angry blogs from women. She wants the publicity for her business. Anyone will read a headline if it contains something juicy. It’s horribly deliberate. But I also imagine her own insecurities play a role in this over-confident peacocking – the constant reminder that she is the cool, edgy, sexy girl that will get you laid. By the time she brags that her book, 15 Steps to Becoming a Master Seducer (*snorts*) has been quoted as being “The book women do not want men to read and I know women will hate,” her whole act is just starting to feel… desperate.

But the funny thing is, I don’t hate Kezia for what she does for a living. I don’t care that she teaches men how to approach women. Let’s face it, some men (and indeed some women) really do need the help – even if it’s just to boost their confidence. I am not a prude – sex is great fun, whether it’s a fleeting one night stand, that amazing few weeks when you’ve just started seeing someone new, or with someone you’ve been married to for 20 years. I am definitely pro sex. And hey, if you want to go out and shag someone new every night of the week, that’s your prerogative. I will toast to your multiple orgasms and mad sexual adventures with gusto.

The thing that irritated me is that she’s put women in a box. Not only does she earmark strippers as a particular sexual target (more on that later), she seems to think that the key to getting women into bed is to trick them into it. The ‘push/pull’ method of being nice and then cold to a woman apparently has a very high success rate. She knows this because her sulky ex-boyfriend made her really horny with his moodiness. “If my ex tried it on and I said I wasn’t in the mood, instead of trying to convince me, he would freeze me out and just turn on the TV. I suddenly felt rejected and not sexy enough to keep him interested. Before I knew it I was climbing all over him, desperate to prove to him that I was hot and horny!” What a brilliant message.

I’m sure in this instance it was all very playful, and that the anecdote is something that shouldn’t be read into, but she finishes the story with this: “If a woman feels rejected, she’ll try her hardest to prove herself – and in this case, she’s very likely to jump into bed with the man in question.” The treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen routine is one of the oldest tricks in the book, but when taught as an actual step, it just seems a little… sinister. It’s essential that you jeopardise her self-esteem so she has to prove her self-worth by sleeping with you! Bravo, chaps. Tally ho!

Back to the stripper thing. There’s a whole paragraph about bedding strippers. Strippers, it seems, are not women. Not really. They are literally stripped of all other characteristics and are defined solely by their sexual characteristics. They are not mothers, or daughters, or sisters, or wives (more of this in our super  blog from earlier this year). Stripping has reduced them to a state of walking sex – the available yet unavailable conquest. So naturally, Kezia suggests “heightening their insecurities”. That way, you can “go home with the stripper of your choice”. Oh em gee. Who knew it was that simple! Had I known that, I would have picked up two strippers last week with my Tesco shop! I’ve known some strippers in my time, and most of them would eat you alive. Their business is horny men – do you really think the cheap backhand compliment is going to get you laid? Oh, Kezia. I almost want to hug you.

And the funniest thing of all is that sex is so much better than she makes out. She talks about getting laid and having one night stands, but she doesn’t seem to really get it. Through all her rules and tricks, she implies that women don’t actually want to have sex. They must be cajoled and persuaded and manipulated. God forbid a woman might actually want to get laid. Woman has no agenda – she is a passive barfly, waiting for you to insult her into bed with you.

Part of the fun of sex (in my opinion, anyway) is that there are no rules. We are all as weird as each other. Every single one of us has sexual hang ups, fantasies, fetishes, and skeletons under the bed (perhaps literally, if that’s what you’re into). Kezia reduces sex into a quick and dirty night with a stranger you’ve manipulated into bed. Is the woman who is sleeping with you to prove she’s sexy going to be the best shag of your life? Probably not. Is the stripper you’ve miraculously taken home going to rock your world? Not if she’s been straddling 15 other desperate wankers that night. Nope, sex should be a LOT more organic than that. It’s supposed to be fun. You can’t create that sort of spontaneity through a set of rules. And if you’re looking for something more long-term, you probably aren’t going to be creating solid foundations if you’ve had to make her cry first.

So, Kezia, I salute you. You are a lady pioneer in the field of pick up artistry. It is always good to see a woman making her way in a male-dominated environment. And good for you for running a successful business. But please keep your douchebag puppets out of my knickers. I don’t have anything to prove.

Yesterday, Jezebel posted a brilliant piece, titled, ‘Is pubic hair coming back into fashion?’ (NSFW). If you haven’t, go read it now. To summarise, this year has seen a handful of models pose with actual pubic hair. Which is apparently totally shocking, in an age where we watch programmes with (fictional) prime ministers, er, assaulting pigs.

The post naturally sparked some bush chatter on Twitter, with some expressing disgust and others welcoming the idea. There is, and has always been, something of a divide on the subject. But what irritates me is that we shouldn’t be shocked to see a neatly groomed lady garden. We shouldn’t be pointing and staring at something so natural. We should be totally unaffected. After all, a full bush is nature’s way of keeping your goodies warm.

But alas, mainstream culture and pornography have put the naked vagina on a pedestal and here we are: surprised at the sight of something ‘Other’, which 99% of adults naturally possess. Almost all modern pornography (I, er, imagine) depicts women (and in many cases men) with no public hair whatsoever, and the knock on effect (described wonderfully by Caitlin Moran in How to be a Woman) is that women are forced to buy back their sexuality with expensive and painful waxes. But how much of that is our fault?

This song makes a fantastic point and it’s totally brilliant. Watch.

It’s not a secret that women are particularly susceptible to body issues and insecurities. Both sexes are inundated with society’s picture perfect idea of beauty – the women are all ultra slim with disproportionately large breasts and the men all look like Ryan Reynolds. But is the pressure to wax away your love rug coming from men, or from society at large? Just who are we waxing for, and why?

When I tweeted about the magical muff yesterday, I was surprised to receive three DM’s from male friends, extolling the virtues of the vagina naturale. Had I been wrong all these years? Did men really not give a shit?

“If someone *likes* being completely bare, that’s fine (and despite the fact it doesn’t do it for me, no guy who’s not a dickhead will actually complain to you),” says one of my male Twitter amigos. “But the idea that it’s every man’s fantasy is just so, so wrong. From my perspective, a guy in his early 20s, I don’t care what you’ve done with your pubic hair. I don’t anything with mine, so why should I expect you to? If you want to then go ahead, but I’m not going to insist you do anything. That’s not out of some sense of chivalry; I just don’t care. I’ve never slept with anyone who’s been clean-shaven, and I don’t want to. It just looks pre-pubescent and creepy.”

As I mentally tallied up the precious pounds and hours I’d spent in waxing salons, I started to wonder if we’d been duped all along into thinking our vaginas are only attractive when they look like this. Why do we feel the pressure to be hairless if the people who actually see our ladyparts don’t give a shit?! [insert conspiracy theory about waxing salons and marketing campaigns]

Of course, the most important thing here is that it is a woman’s right to choose how she styles herself. Waxing is absolutely a personal choice. What I find irritating is that we’ve been sold the idea (thank you Carrie sodding Bradshaw et al) that our vaginas should be waxed. And now we’re getting our knickers in a twist over pictures of pubic hair in magazines. And yet clearly, not every man has been pre-programmed to expect vaginas to be hair-free, shiny and made of diamonds.

If the bush is back, I’m all for it. I really hope the fashion and porn industries can embrace a little lady fluff. Style your lady gardens however you want to – but remember – nine times out of ten it’s only you that cares.

You had me at gin and cake.

Reet, so this has been going on LONG ENOUGH. I keep meeting fabulous, funny and generally wonderful people on Twitter and it PAINS me that I’ve never met most of you. And after a lovely email chat with @Blonde_M, I’m even more determined this must change. So, I’m thinking we should get together. All of us. All at once. With gin. And cake.

So, who’s keen?

If we get a good sized group together we can hire out a room in a bar/pub in London and (hopefully) get some sort of drinks deal. I will (naturally) be baking a giant cake for the event and we can have a merry old time getting to know each other in real life, while consuming sensible vast amounts of gin and tonic. If it works, we can make it a regular thing and form an army of Awesome Women. Who knows what will happen when that much cosmic fabulosity is put in one room?!

Anywho, this will obviously fail if no one is keen (cue me crying into a glass of wine alone in a pub) so shout if you’re up for it. Invite your favourite Awesome Women and let’s spend an evening congratulating each other on being fabulous.

If enough people are interested I’m thinking of organising it for end of Nov/early Dec. If you have ideas for dates, venues etc etc do get in touch via email or just tweet me. #AWOT

(photo by Michael Negus)

First of all, let me express my distaste at having to refer to masturbation as ‘female masturbation’. It suggests from the offset that masturbation is a predominantly male activity, which, ahem, it’s not. But when was the last time you heard someone use the phrase ‘male masturbation’? Exactly. The banter and joviality with which ‘having a wank’ is normally associated is restricted by and large to male masturbation. Gender stereotyping sees the menfolk (particularly of the teenage variety) portrayed as furious and dependent masturbators, unable to go more than a day or two without polishing the silver, hitting the ham (!) or bashing the bishop (and yes, I had to Google those). And while it’s not necessarily something to chat about over high tea at Fortnum & Mason, I’m quite convinced that most men will (sheepishly) admit they do it. The world knows men masturbate. It echoes loud and clear.

But what of the womenfolk? Well, that’s where this story really begins. A few hours ago, while mooching about on Twitter, a friend of mine posted the following: “Bringing up female masturbation with the girl on your course you don’t know that well is always slightly nerve wracking #truthsoflife.” I smiled at first, because yes, discussing masturbation with a near stranger is one of those awkward things university seminars occasionally demand (…I definitely did the wrong course). But then I was annoyed, because why should ‘female masturbation’ be any more awkward than male masturbation? Male masturbation is waved aside flippantly because it’s to be expected. You’d be surprised if a man told you he didn’t masturbate (particularly if you’re in the middle of a discussion on the Eurozone, the NHS or similar). We expect men to masturbate, so why isn’t there that same freedom for women?

As a child of an all girls boarding school, sex was the bread and butter of our conversations. We would gather around our bunk beds in our dormitories, whispering and wondering about sex. And it was only a matter of time before the ultimate question of ‘do you masturbate?’ rolled around. Never one to be coy, I would nod sagely and proffer my sexual wisdom (age 14 and never been kissed) to my fellow students. Some girls would stare open mouthed, some would agree and some would dismiss it altogether, blushing furiously and saying adamantly that they never, ever masturbated. It was all very funny to see my prudish friends when we were kids, and I assumed that as we grew up, everyone’s attitudes to sex would naturally change. I didn’t think masturbation was taboo any more. I assumed it was a given.

But then I got to university, and STILL the whispered conversations of masturbation occurred. And while I was a hair’s breadth from becoming an Ann Summers demonstrator, some of my peers maintained a strict code of never (or at least never admitting to) masturbating. Now let me set one record straight – I have no issue with people wanting to keep their private lives private. Of course I wouldn’t demand sexual secrets from my friends and roommates. It’s a woman’s right etc etc. What shocked me was that women still treated masturbation as a big taboo. It was STILL shameful, still dirty and still only ever discussed after the third or fourth gin and tonic on a particularly juicy girl’s night in. I couldn’t believe it. Hadn’t we moved on?

So when Twitter brought up the age old debate, I couldn’t help it. A highly amusing and heated exchange sprang up, with some tweeters explaining that none of their friends EVER discussed masturbating, and others delightfully espousing the wonders of lovehoney.com. The divide was incredible. Some were religious, others just prudish and some just wanted to keep it private. I asked, is it taboo for women to masturbate? The first reply? ‘It’s taboo to ask about it on Twitter.’ I think that answered my question fairly succinctly. In the world’s biggest conversation, in which we’ve discussed everything from fake baby bumps to Gaddafi’s mutilated corpse, it is still taboo to discuss women masturbating. We really haven’t come much further than giggling teenagers sat around a bunk bed.

And really, this is just one tiny part of a much bigger conversation about female sexuality. But for the sake of women everywhere, for whom masturbation is a healthy part of their sex lives, I’m begging the world to get a grip. To the women of the world, I say this: reclaim the rights to your own vaginas. Masturbation is a healthy and happy part of sexuality. It’s a headache cure, a muscle relaxant and an instant high. It’s like cake with no calories. And let’s be honest, if you don’t know what’s going on down there, an inexperienced man hasn’t got a hope in hell. So please, take ownership of your sexuality and let’s stop subscribing to this strange and damaging notion that masturbation is anything other than brilliant.

The laws of He's Just Not That Into You - fact or fiction?

Being single in 2011 is exhausting. I mean it, it is absolutely knackering. Gone are the days where being punched on the arm by a boy in the playground was a sure sign he liked you. Gone are the times the boy across the street would knock on the door and ask you to play. Farewell to the simplicity of days gone by.

Since the invention of social media, there are 500 new ways to go absolutely bonkers as a single woman. Back in ye olden, Austen-y times, a few shy glances across a dance floor would give you a fair indication that Mr Darcy liked you. You might have an incredibly sexually charged Waltz and share a tipple or two. You might go for a (chaperoned) stroll by his family’s lake. By your third or fourth encounter, you would know if he hadn’t already proposed, he probably wasn’t going to. Next!

But these days, there are a million different ways to negotiate the dating scene. We no longer have the singular mode of actually talking to someone. First there came the telephone, then email, then texting, then MSN, and now you can tweet, poke and Skype your way into someone’s pants. And it’s all so damn CONFUSING.

You no longer have to check for missed calls to your home line a la the old school 1471 route. Now everyone this side of 2001 has caller ID, and most young people don’t even have landlines anymore. Not only are you frantically checking for missed calls, you are wondering how long to leave it between texts. If he left 6 hours before replying to your text, should you leave it 12? And this time he left 1 kiss, but last time it was 3 – should you add your standard 2 kisses, or return the coldness of a single kiss? But what if he sees the single, solitary kiss, is hurt by your obvious rejection and proceeds to stop texting you all together?

And what if, while you’re waiting for the outcome of this text, he tweets you, or retweets you, or Facebooks you? What does that mean, if he hasn’t already texted back confirming or not confirming his status as an asshole as indicated by the number of kisses he does or doesn’t leave? What if he ignores your text by then pokes you later on Facebook? What if, during this confusion, you retweet that tweet you thought was funny – is it too forward, will he think you’re desperate? While you frantically work out the percentage of his tweets you’ve retweeted, you’re waiting around on Facebook chat just in case he decides to show up. And even if he does, who starts the conversation? You really want to talk to him, but it was you that started the conversation last time, and if you start it again this time, will it reveal your secret desperation and send him fleeing to the hills for being just another crazy woman with too much time to overanalyse?

I would like to swiftly point out, that the above scenario hasn’t happened to me exactly. It is more a combination of fears expressed at nearly every girls’ night in, when the ladies are on their second glass of vino, and the terrible, inevitable conversation of ‘how’s-your’-love-life’ begins. The funny thing is, we know we’re being ridiculous. We know, as women, that men are (supposedly) overwhelmingly simple creatures. We’ve been told 100 times over that the rules of He’s Just Not That Into You ALWAYS apply (you are the rule, ladies, not the exception). But it doesn’t prevent the hours of anguish that can rack up over a single text, tweet, status or chat session. And with half our interactions happening in the public domain, everything becomes that bit more complicated.

Bridget Jones: clueless to how easy she had it.

Feminism has done a lot of wonderful things for women over the years – the vote, flattering trousers, the invention of the sports bra – but it has also left us with a lot more choice. And as most women know, choice is a tricky bitch. Now that we aren’t being dragged around by the hair by the menfolk, we get to decide things – what lipstick to wear, what career to pursue, who we shag/date/marry. And that’s brilliant of course, but it does make things rather a lot trickier. Instead of being told who to marry, we can pick and choose from the 3 billion-odd blokes on this planet, and I don’t know about you, but I find even the idea of that kind of exhausting. How in god’s name am I supposed to find my soulmate amongst all that? And once I have found him, what are the chances I don’t terrify him with the aforementioned insanity of wondering when or when not to tweet the poor bastard?

No wonder internet dating is so popular. You can effectively narrow down the population of the world (or at least the population of the men on match.com) to some key criteria before you subject yourself to the madness that is dating in 2011. Though of course internet dating does expose you to all the crazies that make up the worlds of match and eharmony (I am sure it is about 10% normals, 90% nutters). So really, you’re in just as much of a pickle as you are in real life. If 75% of people are complete turnips and 20% are wankers, it leaves only a precious 5% of men-you-can-take-home-to-your-mother. These are tricky odds, ladies, tricky indeed. No wonder every woman goes pathologically insane the moment she finds a good one.

So heed this warning, menfolk. I know women are a tad… intense from time to time. We know we can be downright terrifying (believe me, I haven’t told you the half of it!). But we mean well, we really do.

But do take note – if a woman’s not going batshit crazy over you, one of you’s not trying hard enough.