Steak and Blow Job Day - how are you going to spend it?

Last month, like many other people I sat back and let a digital slush fest unfold courtesy of simpering couples. All were making their spontaneous romantic gestures to each other coordinated by a pre-determined holiday. As with our love lives in general, Valentine's Day had gone public. It seemed that the whole world was in a relationship, as people desperately clamored to out-do one another with their public gestures of love and consumerism. Sometimes it's just not enough to purchase an overpriced novelty gift, for some people if others don't know about it then it isn't significant.

Fast forward precisely one month later and today the so-called male equivalent to Valentine's, entitled 'Steak and Blowjob Day' is apparently just as worthy of our attention. The occasion cleverly incorporates two pursuits most revered by the typical man: meat and an orgasm. (And connecting those together is what funds the official website, if the giant porn banners are anything to go by anyway). I'm not particularly bothered about either Valentine's Day or Steak and Blowjob Day. They're inoffensive and I'm perfectly able to tailor how I feel about them depending on my current relationship status: they're a nice idea if you're attached, but if you're not it's fairly easy to ignore them and go about your daily business as usual.

However online opinions about these events have become extreme in their opposition to each other. Some people are woefully distressed at having no one to share the occasion with but are otherwise happy about spending the rest of the year alone. While others are angrily incredulous that the event is being forced on them and suffocating the free service which they use. In my opinion the latter is definitely the more irritating. If I honestly don't like something I tend to not give it any credence by talking about my irrational hatred for it or how much I'm not celebrating it.

But what bothers me about Steak and Blowjob Day is the idea that it's the masculine antithesis to the apparently feminine Valentine's Day. It's such an insulting stereotype for both genders. They would have us believe that the way to win a woman's affection is through flowers, chocolate and pink fluffy things. And in order to please a man you must cook him red meat and perform a sex act. Both occasions imply that in order to make the other person happy you must not derive any enjoyment from it and treat it as an obligation. Men are perceived as rolling their eyes at having to be romantic and women are portrayed as performing the annual mandatory blow job which they take no pleasure from.Well actually, there are plenty of men who enjoy spending time with their wives and girlfriends which doesn't involve rattling the headboard like a sailor on leave. Just as there are plenty of women who enjoy performing blow jobs because it's a perfectly natural expression of love and sexuality.

Besides, people who are in love with each other take enjoyment from making the other person happy. So instead, what should be applied on these days is how to do that based on individual desires. I'm not advocating that you should only make an effort for someone once a year, but these occasions serve as gentle encouragement for nice activities to flourish. So what if it's commercial? Tailor it to what you both enjoy doing. Just remember, the way you choose to do it doesn't need to be broadcast. I don't make a habit of writing about people who make me happy because the moments I have with them are sacred and for me alone to enjoy.

The ironic thing is that it's not the single people who annoy me the most over whinging about how commercial the respective days of Valentine's and Steak and Blowjob have become, but instead it's the smug couples who take themselves far too seriously. You know the ones. They proudly declare that they make each other happy every day of the year and don't buy into a commercial holiday. That's wonderful but if you feel the need to broadcast why you don't do something, you're just as bad as the people you're striving to set yourself apart from. It's interesting to note that these same people also celebrate Christmas, Hallowe'en, Mothers Day and every other commercially pre-determined holiday.What they could really do with is just piping down and continuing their low-key true love without us having to hear about how it's better than everyone else's. Or as I like to call it: boring.

Dirty Knickers in a Twist: Music Snobbery

"What came first, the music or the misery?" - Rob Gordon

I enjoy listening to sounds and noise. Throughout the year and at most hours of the day. Whether it be emanating softly from a Spotify playlist during my morning routine, blasting from my ancient iPod Nano in time with my brisk pace, reverberating raucously at a summer festival or humming in my head as I sway in a gin induced trance at various meat markets. But while I classify my enjoyment of music as a hobby, I'm not particularly passionate or emphatic about discussing it. Which has led to the assumption that I have no interest in it. This coupled with the fact that I'm the least streetwise member of my friends has culminated in a series of running gags, where I am continually besieged with a combination of exasperation and good-natured ribbing. The most revered being that I only have one track stored to the music facility provided by my iPhone. (My explanation behind that is simple: I have an iPod, I don't need to clog the memory of a device I use to tweet and date from). And barely a get-together goes by where I'm not taunted with this gem of a faux-pas:

Apparently she doesn't even sing (such fraudulent behaviour). I embrace the jest I receive from this indiscretion however, because mortified though I was at the time, it is still incredibly funny. And I can laugh at myself. Occasionally. Or at the very least I can pretend with considerable ease that something doesn't bother me. But nothing leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth quite like music snobbery. So today I'm going to set the vinyl straight. Except that I don't listen to vinyls and while I don't favour the tinny effect radiating from my dilapidated laptop speakers, I refuse to surrender myself to a bare faced lie in an effort to be portrayed as musically superior. (For all of the Tumblr hipsters out there, that was for you).

In my opinion, music snobbery is the worst kind of snobbery, because it's at the root of the pretentious and scornful culture which is so popular right now. Which is in turn projected superficially. Music snobbery is the reason you see people wearing chunky knit cardigans in July and glasses without the integral glass section. Are they going to play cricket? Have they been mugged? No, they've just been listening to French electro or something which sounds broken with no discernible human vocals. Of course I don't appreciate the raw talent of these diverse underground endeavours because I'm too busy Spotifying corporate drivel likened to that of Atomic Kitten. (I wasn't a fan of their early work, but when Jenny Frost joined the group in '01 I think they really came into their own).

I particularly resent the phrase guilty pleasure. The enjoyment you experience may well be frivolous but why should it be cloaked in shame? The first single I ever purchased was by none other than Britney Spears. Because I was eleven. And I still enjoy her pop offerings today. They're infectious and fun. I happen to like pop music. Or chart music as mainstream tunes are now characterised. It's casual and at that particular moment you can't get enough of it. But the added appeal is that it's disposable and there's no obligation to find out any of the context surrounding it. Very much like a one-night stand.

And if I was to choose a genre of music which I've had the most consistent and monogamous relationship with, it would be the broad spectrum of alternative rock. But whenever I happen to make this omission, I'm met with incredulity. "Oh, you own an NME Essential Bands compilation do you?" I don't. Though I am aware of the irritating barrage of statements which NME hurls at you like a puppy with ADHD. "This is THE band of the year." A declaration which is reiterated fifty two times annually. And every song released when it isn't raining is the song of the summer. It's infuriating, yes. But the bands are inoffensive. I don't own any Snow Patrol or Kaiser Chief merchandise, but while it can be boring, it's easy listening. Do I really need to hit 'private session' on Spotify when my playlist reveals an NME tainted 'track of the moment' to prevent the unrelenting cajoles?

A Tumblr account which I follow and respect, recently declared their first single purchase was The Stone Roses, "I Wanna be Adored". Now considering the fact that it was first released in 1989 and she is the same age as me, I severely doubt the validity of that statement. Perhaps she made a vintage purchase while wistfully perusing an old music shop in a tea dress and cardigan. Perhaps her statement is as fake as the retro feel provided by Instagram. But my point is that it's ludicrous why anyone would want to invent a back catalogue of fabricated musical interest or play up to an ideal which is mandatory in order to pledge their chosen sub-culture.

We are becoming less defined by what we take pleasure from and instead are judged by what we hold in contempt. And I've been the worst culprit for it. I cannot tell you the amount of times I've sneered at a Coldplay or U2 fan in a disparaging tone and for what benefit?  The self-righteous charity appeals are irritating, but they're musicians who are good at what they do. As are The Stereophonics. But if you profess to enjoying their pub favourites you're labeled as a rugby chav or a Welsh nationalist. And you will rue the day you ever utter a positive comment involving Lost Prophets or Muse. Or any perspective other than that they've sold out and forgotten their roots. But the truth is they've made vast sums of money and moved on. Such is life.

It's always been a dreadful thing to be successful because if you're not scraping by barely making ends meet then you're suddenly not cool anymore. Well I can't tell you how I much loathe being poor and look forward to the day when I have the opportunity to "sell out". Perhaps then you'll be paying to read my scathing mockery which seems pretty hypocritical, given the nature of my whinge. But then you're entertained by it aren't you?

We See What We Want

I had an epiphany in my kitchen this morning. I had just finished hurriedly rinsing last evenings dirty dishes and was stood in front of my window thinking about which panic stricken task was next required for completion  before work. It was at this moment, dragging my nail bitten fingertips through unwashed strands of lank unstyled hair, when this solitary invigorating thought eclipsed all others. I don't want to be this person anymore, I want to be this person instead.

This person was a sudden flourish of transformations to the current nuances of my attitude which have been holding me back for years. Some of you are now thinking that this is an incredibly easy and straightforward practice to put into place. And in theory it is. Everyone is all too painfully aware of the things which they don't like about themselves. A lot of the time people are even aware of how to go about changing these things. What they're lacking however is how to connect the two together. Or quite simply, the inclination to want to change. It's as though a clarifying beam of light has shone into the dark recesses of my forgotten ambition and banished all traces of the resigned ambivalence from sight.

Having direction in your life is a very rare and downplayed advantage to possess. Perspective can be engulfing and you feel at once both intoxicated and calm. But perhaps the most overwhelming realisation of all is that it was always there. It's like falling in love. You're suddenly alight and you can't remember how or when it started, but it was there, patiently flickering the whole time waiting for you to notice. I spent 2011 gaining this perspective and 2012 will be spent putting it into practice.

Some of you will now say that my resolution is ambiguous. And you'd be right. So I'll tell you what's going to change. I'm going to stop taking myself so seriously and let my defences come down without feeling that it's necessary to attack. I'm going to stop being nonchalant and say what I mean. I'm going to stop feigning a blase attitude and risk getting hurt. I'm going to stop thinking that being nice is a chink in my armour. I'm going to try and dispel the pretentious self-importance which has accumulated through years of over-analysing the perceptions of others.

But most importantly I'm going to stop locking facets of my personality away. It's all very well building the necessary walls by which to protect yourself with, but while a fortress of solitude is thought provoking, a fortress of isolation is detrimental. Lulling yourself with the negative and false judgements of others is very easily done, but all it does is breed self-loathing and a callous attitude which is inflicted at every calculating whim. Well, I'm not prepared to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I may not know exactly what I want but for the first time I'm being propelled in the direction of finding out what it is. If 2011 was about looking up, 2012 is about looking forward. The Mayan era may have ended, but the world is still turning and I feel more alive than ever before.

Love is Not a Spectator Sport

"Kind of like an alcoholic Cagney and Lacey" - @MartynKelly

A few months ago @Oh_Merde (who is pictured above) inquired about how I cope with this "single and dating thing". Fairly fresh faced when it comes to singledom, she was hoping to obtain some insightful relief from let's be honest, a veteran. However at the time I was hardly feeling particularly wise. I had been applying hair removal cream on my upper lip and decided that a little dab of it on my sideburns wouldn't hurt. When I received the What'sApp message from her I was mortified and peering at what looked like the remains of a vacant patch of carpet next to my ear. So I absent-mindedly replied with, "I don't. This is why I've given up and am spending my Friday evening essentially shaving my face." (For the record, I now spend every second Saturday afternoon at House of Fraser, where a woman named Vera threads my face).

But I was reminded of her question today, while shackled to my desk during one of my wistful daydreams over unrequited situations of the past. And it led me to the realisation that I have a coping mechanism which I implement these days without even thinking about it. Pessimism. Or is it realism? I'm torn at the moment and a little worried that my past experiences of rejection have caused this irrevocably jaded outlook on my romantic life. Because the result is total and utter ambivalence towards relationships and men in general. Don't get me wrong, I go out on dates and spend a lot of time (OK all of my time) drinking raucously with friends at various watering holes. What I'm trying to assert here is that I could have sex (and more importantly a life outside of hair removal) if I desired it. 

But it's not that I don't have the opportunity for romantic endeavours to flourish, I just don't have the inclination to capitalise on them. Some people are starving for emotion, I on the other hand am fasting. All this time I thought I'd been dusting myself off, moving on and being better for it. But I appear to be simply repeating the same mistakes with different people. I don't cope, I just put distance between myself and whatever it is that has hurt me. Evidently this method of pushing negative emotions to the back of my mind and letting them quietly fester as a mental illness have manifested as a somber cloud over my love life. 

I've cast my mind back over the last twelve months and the highlights are more than a little comedic. There was the one-date wonder who revealed he had just being diagnosed with clinical depression, a guy who proceeded to have sex with a girl immediately after me while I remained a prisoner in his house, a younger one who commented that I hadn't taught him anything despite being an older woman and a wholly dysfunctional infatuation with someone I've never actually met. But what's really enlightened me is my reaction to these failed scenarios. Or the lack of a reaction more like. Except of course to derive humour from them. 

Which is my ultimate coping mechanism, otherwise known as my armour. If in doubt I go on the offensive with a joke. But I'm getting increasingly weary of the one-woman show and now I'm not so sure that it's been good for me. I've been of the opinion that it's detrimental to get upset and laughing through the pain of being unwanted was surely the best remedy. Some people are too frightened to experience new relationships because past pain acts as a deterrent. I've been too frightened to experience the pain at all. Which is exactly the problem. I've been under the false impression that I'm immune to being hurt. But just because germs are invisible doesn't mean they're not there. And ignoring them has led me to a bedridden state of romantic apathy. 

But there's a glimmer of hopeful light on the horizon. Last weekend I succumbed to revealing my feelings to someone. Well sort of, in my own little flirty digital way. It totally backfired on me however and I was thrown the ultimate curve ball: the revelation that he now has a girlfriend. Who is apparently completely perfect for him. And it hurt. But it's good. Because it affected me and I'm OK. The clarity of the situation is a relief actually. Uncertainty is acutely treacherous and the real detriment here, not pain. In fact, the experience has awakened a flicker of desire for intimacy with someone and I know that eventually someone will set it alight. Taking solace from that knowledge is keeping me warm and for the time being that's really all I need.

Going On The Offensive

I'm always disappointed to discover that someone has interpreted a flippant comment I've made as a malicious jibe, when it was merely my intention to derive humour from a situation. And the person I'm the most disappointed in is myself. Because I actually expected people to have the ability to laugh at themselves. As someone who relies heavily on self-deprecation, I find it absurd that people can take themselves so seriously. I know that most functional people have a high opinion of themselves (yours truly can certainly vouch for that) and I admit that I can be incredibly defensive. But the difference is that I'm aware of it and I'm able to laugh when it's brought to my attention. 

Though it appears that our hyper-connected modern world has led some people's online notoriety to fill their heads with the notion that they're now important and their opinions are not just right, but statutory. Standing atop of their self-elected digital podiums, challenging the civil liberties of others and firing their opinion at people as though it's somehow mandatory for them to provide it. Of course if they had an interesting or different perspective on what was being discussed, I would more than welcome the debate. But all that's on their agenda is condemnation. They seek to vilify anyone who has the gall to commit the mass-terrorist of goodnatured ribbing: offence.

Offence. If there were awards for utterly pointless nouns, this would have my vote. Because it's completely subjective. Only the individual can determine who or what they're offended by, according to their own personal preferences. If you choose to be offended, you need to take personal responsibility because you alone are making that decision. You're letting yourself be affected by something which you could have easily brushed off as inconsequential. And if you're honest with yourself, you'll admit that it's often not the content of the joke which caused such palpable distaste, but the person who made it.

Putting a joke in context is paramount when understanding it. Nothing is exempt from being mocked. You have to first appreciate who is making the joke and more importantly, why they're making it. In my case, I do it to confront the elephant in the room. (And taking my past quips about Adele into consideration that phrase is incredibly apt). But my point is, we often let our dislike for someone cloud our judgement and we're besieged with self-righteousness lubricated with venom. It's not enough that you have been caused offence, that offence now has to be validated and supported. So you take to your online outlets and discuss your right to being offended with other deluded nobodies. 

Of course now I suppose everyone is thinking that I want people to stop being offended. And I don't. It's an endless source of entertainment for me, so please continue populating your cringe-worthy attempts at informed and coherent opinions. It makes me so feel so smug and intelligent. Particularly when I discover that people have been discussing whether or not something I've said should be considered racist. If you're going to have an opinion, have some conviction and declare it. Instead of analysing it publicly in an attempt to form a majority because you're too cowardly to remain a minority.

Now I'll leave you with some hilarious truth from Steve Hughes.

People Puzzles

I do enjoy a good jigsaw

I've been licking my wounds of late, having experienced the callous sting of rejection. Of course it’s not nearly as bad as it could be, because he’s not entirely aware that he’s spurned me. Which sounds perfectly ridiculous, but you see, he doesn't know because nothing of consequence really ever occurred. Nothing concrete anyway, which I can pin on him and justify being upset about. No, on this occasion I’m being forced to take personal responsibility because I projected a fantasy onto him which didn't correlate to the events unfolding in real life. My dream world ran alongside us, just like a ghost who is oblivious to its previous demise. 

Romantic yearnings are like any competitive endeavour. When you’re in the moment you’re focused and your outlook is restricted to tunnel vision. But a spectator has an unbiased viewpoint and can analyse every wrong movement you make which contributes to your failure overall. It's laughably tragic how I reveled in those once precious moments, when seeing them from a fresh perspective reveals they were merely borne of his boredom. Something he knows little of now with his new girlfriend (or so I hear). 

But I'm not entirely bitter, from what I know of him he seems deserving of it. He just wasn't the right man for me. Or is it that I wasn't the right woman for him? I'm brash and offensive, my opinions are blase and my attitude is annoying. But it's just a fragment. Amplified for effect. Did he recognise that I can be more? And if he did, then surely it's worse because he chose to ignore it in favour of her. 

I've perused her. She's a low-key intellectual with edgy good looks, and her shy smile reveals a sweet disposition. She doesn't write about such silly and inconsequential things like relationships. And while it's not exactly worthy of The New Republic, the topic is a mutual interest of theirs and only further crystallizes a bond between them which I could never share. Although a nagging part of me wonders if the only legitimate advantage she has over me is down to the simple logistics of the situation. Doubtful. But I still choose to placate myself with it from time-to-time. 

Perhaps the problem was that I didn't really put myself out there. I shied away from his half-hearted and clumsy attempts at wooing me. Admittedly I found them endearing but I was too frightened to give them any real credence in case they hurt me. If I hadn't have carefully kept them at bay would they have blossomed into romantic fruition? Perhaps if my candour wasn't tinged with playfulness and I wasn't such an incorrigible flirt, I might have provoked faith instead of mirth. I should have taken hold of the situation and not left it all up to chance.

Ultimately though people will find away their way around an obstacle if they really want to. And very often they create them if they want to prevent what they can see on the horizon. He saw me. I was right at his fingertips. And while mine weren't completely outstretched, they were there to be grasped. I don't know whether to take solace in the fact that I didn't make enough of an effort to secure him or to reprimand myself for losing out on something which could have been, well, really something.

Self-doubt: the most effective virus

This morning I awoke to a DM from an esteemed Twitter follower, which informed me that an alleged 'bad blog' was circulating the internet about yours truly and inquired as to whether I was aware of it. Naively I ignored my better judgement and clicked the link, only to discover that it sent me back to the Twitter homepage. Ah, a virus. Naturally. I was then alerted to the fact that by clicking it, I had in turn passed the message on to all of my followers. Terrific.

If you've received this DM from me, I apologise. If you haven't clicked it and are one of the people who have replied to me warning that it's a scam - congratulations. You're a happy and secure person. However if you've succumbed to the paranoia (as I did) then you're going to have to change your Twitter login password immediately to prevent the virus hacking into your account. Apologies. I have self-esteem issues clearly.

Being an avid user of social networks, I routinely encounter scam attempts such as this on a regular basis. They're prevalent on both Twitter and Facebook, with a popular example being the sensationalist approach: OMG! Have you seen this? 

Like most sensible people I avoid these links and smugly mock those who give into their foolish curiosity. Usually by reprimanding them with a self-satisfied tweet dripping in condescension and derision. However now it seems I must eat my words, as for the first time I've fallen victim to one. Purely because I thought there was something negative written about me somewhere and I was desperate to know what it was. It's an effective method. Because even though the format of the scam is one which I've received countless times in my Twitter inbox, the phrasing of the question is clever because it taps into your insecurities.

I don't know why, but I always believe my worst reviews. I try to pretend it's part of my cool self-assured attitude and my need to view it is because I want to turn the criticism into something constructive. But all too often I fixate on the negativity and over-analyse it in my head. And what's worse is that sometimes I start to believe it. Being left alone with your thoughts can be both invigorating and perilous. While I implore you to recognise and respond to your inner-critic, I think it's important to note that you shouldn't spend too much time giving it credence.

You need to allow yourself just as much time to focus on the positives about yourself too and not feel arrogant about it. You deserve to bask in complimentary affirmations which you've given to yourself. I'm not advocating that you brag about your achievements, but by acknowledging them you'll naturally exude that inner-confidence which your critics don't have. Because no matter what you do in life there are always going to be people who won't like it and aren't shy about telling you so. But you can take solace in the fact that at least you're provoking a reaction. And besides 'haters gon' hate'. 

I'll leave you with a hilarious series of DM's which my unintentional spamming provoked this morning. If you think you're paranoid, you've got nothing on this guy. I don't know what Atlantic Bridge is, but if I'm killed to cover up an alleged Tory conspiracy at least my blog readers will know the truth.

Dirty Knickers Translates Womens Lies on Video!

It's been a long time coming but I've finally made my first little Vlog. It overly emphasises my spidery eyelashes and rather ominously has Thom Yorke lurking in the background. (Well, what did you expect?!)

In it I detail some of the classic lies women tell men in order to keep them parked in the friend zone. Let's face it, she's never going to regard you as that person who will be strong and take charge of a situation.  Sure, when she pulls that cute expression with those big innocent eyes, you'd swear butter wouldn't melt behind that perfectly formed pout. But she knows she can have you, and therefore doesn't want you. So, stop wasting your time fixated on winning over this girl, because that's exactly what it is: time wasted.

What do you think? Click the link below and share!

DIRTY KNICKERS FIRST VLOG

Sapphic Repercussions

About two months ago I wrote a post about a sexual fantasy I'd been harboring for a while and in typical dirty knickers fashion it featured some downright candid and unabashed opinions The fantasy in question was my desire for a same-sex encounter and in case you missed it the first time around you can read it here. On the whole it received some wonderfully empathetic comments and praise. But it also shocked and disgusted some people. Most notably because I'd posted the link to my Facebook wall (apparently casual lesbianism isn't ready to be accepted among my Facebook friends, but when it comes to casual racism no one so much as bats their culturally ignorant eyelid). Much to my amusement I was also excluded from social events with acquaintances which I would have ordinarily been invited to - had I not divulged my covert lesbian fantasies. I can only assume they now live in fear that I'm going to attempt to queen them at any given opportunity. In front of their boyfriend. In public. (Yes this sounds incredibly enjoyable).

I've always been of the opinion that by not justifying yourself to your critics you're having the last laugh. But I've decided to start writing a bi-monthly post which will address some of the backlash I receive for documenting my honesty on the internet. And before you start accusing me of wallowing in self-pity, I'm not going to write paragraph after paragraph moaning about how misunderstood I am. Instead I'm going to be frank about why I do the things I do and try to inject a bit of humour into the situation. (After all when gravity fails me funny will be all I have). It shall be commencing this weekend, so brace yourselves.

In the mean time if you're now in the mood for some talented lesbian musings, here are my recommendations:

"It’s utterly stupid and juvenile. I seem to thrive upon Unrequited Love, I could love you forever if only I could never have you. Maddened, titillated and passionate I’ll go to the ends of the earth and free fall off into the deepest depths of a never shared love. Poetry and prose run bountifully from my fingertips, Mumford & Sons and Bon Iver will play dutifully into the night… Until that irritating moment when you turn around and say; “Actually, you’re lovely. Do you want to go on a date?” and ruin my whole melancholy, broken artist in love look. I’ve never actually been on a date..."

Read More


"Everybody acts differently around different people, it’s Human nature, but how far can you go before it turns into a case of hiding who you are? Especially in the gay society we feel we have to – not so much hide but.. reserve our sexualities around certain people, whether it be out of respect, uncertainty or even fear. I’m not a person that is afraid to share my sexual preferences with anyone and everyone, educate, humiliate and fight my corner but even I sometimes feel the atmosphere thicken and think twice about my loud and confident approach when the topic rears it’s head. I’ve been paying extra close attention to my many different Lesbian personalities over the last week or so and I’ve noticed the following..."


Read More


"So, after spending plenty of time scraping the metaphorical barrel in my small town, for beautiful lesbiansexuals, I excitedly searched further afield. I ventured out to the next biggest town, with my token gay male friend, filled with the expectations and hopes so high I could have wee’d with the anxiety. I had not been in the dingy so-called Gay Bar an hour; and I had already been rejected by the only straight girl in there, almost punched in the face by a psychotic who was convinced I was trying to get with her girlfriend, oh and been shunned by someone else because they refused to believe I liked women..."

Read More

Cardiff Read - 'For polyamory not cashdollahmoney'

The most recent Cardiff Blogs meet up was themed around local projects which people commit themselves to purely out of the love and enjoyment which they get out of it and not for the money. (In hindsight, it would have been the icing on the cake to have Jessie J perform).  However I am skeptical about that idea, because even though the projects aren't benefiting fiscally, the endeavour isn't purely altruistic. Mainly because the person in question is receiving a lot of free self-promotion from it, which is just as crucial as the monetary rewards to a brands success. I don't make any money from my personal blog, but I hold my hands up and confess that I don't do it purely for love. I do love blogging yes, but I want people to read what I write and validate it. This is not love. This is an aspiration where I am the only beneficiary. It's selfish. And there's nothing wrong with being selfish in your ambitions. I would just rather not hide behind the veneer of Sainthood. 

But one local project, which I think comes the closest to the concept of  collective benefiting is Cardiff Read, an informal book club who meet once a month in Canton. Jessica Best @JessicaBest87 started the group in March 2010 in order to meet fellow book worms in a relaxed atmosphere, which wasn't as regimented as other clubs she had experienced previously. At the first meeting she met Steve Dimmick @TheDimmick (who has since co-organised the club with her) and in just over a year they've successfully coordinated a consistent and vibrant meet-up of people who enjoy literature and a good chat over a glass (or two) of red. 

What I like most about Cardiff Read is that it's not essential to have read the entire book, or even a page. It can be just as invigorating to sit and listen to the discussion while meeting new people and then going away with a renewed motivation to read that month's book choice with an enriched foundation of eclectic opinions. Another important aspect of the club which makes it stand out, is the online interaction in the downtime between meetings. The discussion continues via the Twitter feed @CardiffRead where people can make observations while they're reading, contextualise with links to the authors/reviews and most recently people have been arranging to borrow copies of that months book if others were struggling to obtain theirs. 

They've also started asking the people who have chosen that months title to write a brief couple of paragraphs pertaining to why they picked it and then having another member review it with their (often conflicting) opinion. This is then featured on their Facebook page. Yours truly took the reins for September's choice with Galt Niederhoffer's The Romantics. (Which if you continue to scroll you will find at the bottom of this post). In true Cardiff Read form, Caitlin Allen @CaitlinLA89 felt compelled to detail her response to the novel on her (very eloquently written) blog soon after: Your friends already know you're awful. Which only gives more credence to the online ripples Cardiff Read has been so successful in creating and maintaining. 

If you want to find out more about the club, Jessica was recently interviewed for a guest post on the @CdfBlogs community blog Cardiff Blogs - Guest Post Cardiff Read. Or you can read on for my flagrant disregard for pretentious literary opinions.

Choosing 'The Romantics'

(For more discussion on this topic request Cardiff Read as a friend and read it here)

"When Cardiff Read asked me to pen the reasoning behind my choice for last month’s book club, naturally I began to concoct a fictitious list of pretentious opinions which drew me to Galt Niederhoffer’s acerbic novel. (However as it turns out, fabricating literary insights is exhausting). So instead the simple and honest reason is that I caught the trailer for the film adaptation online and after discovering that it wasn’t yet released in the UK, I bought the book to bide my time. While I concede that a group of college friends reuniting at a wedding is hardly original, I was reeled in by the emotional torment of unrequited love. As a dating blogger it’s a concept which I examine frequently and I was particularly interested in the idea that friendship and rivalry often go hand in hand.

While reading the ‘The Romantics’, I found the authors insights into the group’s perceptions of each other to be both brutal and refreshing. It certainly isn’t a comfort to think that your friends harbour such candid opinions of you, but I’m of the belief that being honest about flaws is cathartic and it’s certainly essential in a friendship if you are to achieve unconditional love.  In fact my fickle response to the characters almost mirrored the real friendships I have, in that I was in a perpetual state of falling in and of love with them.

After reading the book I found myself giving the most credence to Lila’s character, particularly her view on unrequited love. “It’s the perfect romantic construct. It allows two cowardly people to act out a fantasy of love without having to face any real consequences.”  It truly is the measure of a good book for me when I’m confronted with a different perspective on a topic and I intend on exploring cowardliness in love for a future blog post. So to conclude, I was captivated by the prose, and style of Niederhoffer’s cynical satire, which some people will probably call an easy read. But as @Lizmrawlins would say, "the book doesn’t have to be War and Peace". 

The pursuit of reading is merely an escapist exercise after all."

So if you're looking for fellow literary fiends and a good old-fashioned chinwag then don't be shy - because we're not! Follow @CardiffRead and check out this months read http://flavours.me/CardiffRead

Personal Contentment

I can't quite put into words how happy I feel today. That's not to say that I often feel depressed - because I don't. In fact I mostly suppress my emotions a lot of the time and am naturally a very apathetic person in a lot of respects. But today I genuinely feel as though I'm going to burst with excitement.

I'm puzzled. This isn't even remotely situational. I'm at work. Sat in front of a computer doing the same mundane tasks which I do every day. And as I'm writing this one of my Twitter followers has just suggested that it's due to my romantic circumstances. (I micro-blogged my happiness a few moments ago obviously).

Well, it isn't. For those of who weren't already aware, I'm single (because I rarely make reference to it) and have no special man currently in my life. But I'm happy. Incredible isn't it? It's not because of love from another person. I've made myself happy. (Not like that, I'm at work remember). This is very invigorating because I've always given credence to the mantra that happiness depends upon ourselves. And now I'm at a place in my life where I can honestly say that I have achieved it.

I'm certainly not suggesting that people don't make themselves happy all on their own every single day - I'm sure they do. Neither am I knocking dependence on another person. If someone else is responsible for your happiness, that's quite an achievement also and certainly something which I desire for my future. I do want to have love in my life. Contrary to popular belief, I am open to it. I'm just not searching for it.

Love. The Greek language defines the concept beautifully. I hope to achieve agápe in my life with someone. Unconditional. A feeling which is evoked through philía (friendship) and enhanced by eros (passion). I want to be content with someone. That might not sound particularly awe-inspiring to some people, but if you think about it can people really say that they're content? I don't think that they can. I think they appear to be content. I see it all of the time. And while I don't know what love is, I can certainly tell you what it isn't.

It isn't infatuation and it isn't possessiveness. These feelings are intense and have the ability to consume you, yes. But too often they're confused for feelings of love.

Are you in love? Do you want the other person to be happy even if it isn't with you? Or are you experiencing one of the aforementioned selfish feelings which only concern yourself?

Go on. Be honest. If not with me, at least with yourself.

Running With Scissors

Over the course of an average day my mind is besieged by a torrent of wild and kinky sexual fantasies. They particularly occur during the obligatory mundane period of my day (at work) and are mostly to do with the fact that I am incredibly frustrated in that department at present. With my desires bubbling over so frantically that I’m managing to knock off three or sometimes four orgasms when I get home through a combination of my lurid imagination and online visual treats in the form of low-budget pornography. This always takes place under my bed covers (to the point where I almost have a seizure), which allows me to really indulge in the immediate self-loathing that comes on immediately after those few seconds of euphoric contentment.


My affair with pornography has never strayed too far out of the confines of vanilla sex. I’m a simple girl who knows what she likes and likes what she knows – no muss no fuss. And a common fixture among my illicit favourites has always been lesbian encounters. No other type of porn leaves me as erotically charged as watching two attractive women enjoying each other. This is mainly because they look and sound as though they’re doing it for the sexual benefit rather than the fiscal one. (And partly because women are so much prettier naked than men).


And as life so often imitates art, my fantasies have replaced the alluring strangers who linger on my screen with people who are more familiar. Women who I know and are acquainted with in everyday life have now taken up guest starring roles in vividly explicit scenes: ones that tantalisingly meander their way through convoluted plot lines of innocent beginnings, to the inevitable crescendo of us ripping each other’s clothes off.


The more I fantasise the more personal they become, and it’s dawned on me that this isn’t just an idle musing. I would like to experience having sex with another woman in a scenario that isn’t limited to the pictures in my head. While this may not be a particularly shocking or daring sexual act to some people, it most certainly is to me. 


Admitting a once obliviously repressed desire is really very cathartic. And as soon as I grew comfortable with the notion, I began dissecting exactly what was so gratifying to me about the thought of having sex with another woman.


For me the answer lies with my new found chastity. As a steadfastly single twenty four year old who has been having sex for seven years, I’ve had a veritable array of encounters. However over the course of the last few months I’ve become disillusioned with the concept of casual sexual. Of course herein lies a paradox. I’m at an age where I want to open myself up to new opportunities, but presently I’m unable to be turned on by men who I’m not emotionally attracted to. But a lesbian tryst would tie in perfectly, fulfilling my needs sexually while at the same time not exposing my vulnerable heart.


With another woman I could feel wanted and desired but I wouldn’t feel that romantic yearning which I crave with men. While I would need to establish a connection with the women I have sex with in order for it to be fulfilling, a profound meaning wouldn’t be at all applicable. Because for me a woman just couldn’t provide the security and protective role which I yearn for in a man. Certainly, the virtue of monogamy is something I envision only with a man. Experiencing encounters with women through this flirtatious phase wouldn’t expose my jealous streak either, because fidelity and commitment would not be required.


And by disentangling myself from the complexities of becoming emotionally attached to another person, I could finally achieve the benefits of a fulfilling sexual relationship: which isn’t robotic or lacking in passion, like so many of my one-night stands. Ultimately what I crave is sex with disposable intimacy as opposed to sex with no intimacy whatsoever.


There’s just something so starkly different to the way I imagine a woman’s skin will feel on my fingertips as opposed to a man’s, and indeed the intense sensuality of being touched by another woman in turn. Women have such subtle nuances of coquettishness. Their lust filled eyes, long hair cascading gently across the sensitive areas of their necks, breathy moans and lip quivering: all instilling frissons of intense excitement, so unlike that of a man. Not to mention the playful build up of accidental brushings of touch, the shy exchange of glances and the wry smiles which serve as very satisfying foreplay.


It’s a kink in me which I definitely want to explore and it will probably get ironed out in the future. Still a bi-curious nature is never something I thought I would discover about myself. The theme of the month here is Anything But Vanilla – but vanilla compared to whom? This is certainly the most lurid confession I’ve ever made and somehow I don’t think it’s going to stop there.


The image used was originally located here thecatspajamasareinsideout.tumblr.com

Ambivalent in the City

 

On Sunday evening a friend and I were languishing in my living room, discussing our lives and occasionally making scathing comments about the utterly ridiculous American suburban nightmare that is Desperate Housewives which currently adorned my flat screen. When suddenly she ventured the painfully open ended question,"so what's new on the love front?" At that moment I was trying to decide whether I was still hungover from the night before or drunk again after the obligatory hair of the dog that afternoon, so the abrupt reply which tumbled out of my mouth stunned us into mutual silence for a couple of seconds. 

"I don't even think about it. I'm disillusioned with it all."

I have a penchant for the dramatic I will concede, but it usually pertains to the more jovial side of things and there was certainly nothing remotely humourous about my confession. It was unnerving. Even more unnerving, it was actually quite a relief to lose my bawdy dirty knickers persona for that moment and indulge my insecurities for a change. (A rarity indeed, which was only able to come into fruition because my friendship with the aforementioned person is older than some of my teeth). So in order to combat my intense fickleness, I've decided to pursue love clarity.

For a little over a year now I've had a disjointed relationship with the world of online dating. Never able to take it seriously (something I have trouble applying to anything in my life) I detached myself from the notion of meeting someone and instead basked in some mean spirited ribbing. Opting lazily to micro blog the passive aggressive mirth via my Twitter account instead of dedicating my time to worthier musings on here.

The pursuit of clarity will start with offering constructive advice on the art of cultivating an attractive portrayal of yourself on dating sites. Naturally my uncontrollable urge to mock silly people who contact me will continue. It's just that in light of my recent loss of direction I'm aiming for a more balanced view of things. (It's also something people have requested that I do for a while now and my minions followers mean everything to me). I have also decided to finally give in and upgrade to a premium site in order to compare my online endeavours objectively.

And a place where I've been able to incorporate the two is a fairly recent dating site founded in 2010. Which relies more heavily on individual expression than any other dating site I've previously encountered. Singles Warehouse very much has the feel of a social networking site and conveys a well rounded portrayal of its users through facilities such as status updates and diary entries. I'll be giving a more detailed analysis of it in the coming week, once I've had chance to explore like the tentative yet eager premium dating virgin that I am.

For now here's a little teaser...

 

"Weight is definitely one of the more precarious subject area's. I lingered over the 'average/medium' option before briefly considering 'voluptuous' and finally settling on 'a little curvy'. Everyone knows that curvy means fat, which leaves voluptuous around the morbidly obese mark. But 'a little curvy' manages to be both positive and truthful. Which is fundamental when filling out these pesky little details. It admits that you are chubby but you can be thin at a good angle with the right knickers." 

Follow my pursuit of clarity which I'll be contributing to on Warehouse Life here: Dirty Knickers at Singles Warehouse

Bitch Be Crazy

Non.Fucking.Plussed

I sometimes feel that people get the wrong impression of me. (And when I say sometimes, I mean most of the time. And when I say wrong, I mean slightly incorrect but still mostly right on the money). All lighthearted humour aside though, I often find myself rubbing people up the wrong way and it's not always my fault. Everyone has their own preconceived ideas about other people. What they don't realise is that these impressions are often based on conjecture and gossip. 

But I'm not in the habit of justifying myself, so if I ever become aware of someone having a negative view of me I tend to let it remain that way. Or make it even worse by playing up to this distorted image they have. I like to call this having a sense of humour. Albeit an obnoxious one. And I suppose I do have the tendency to be mercilessly offensive (quite a lot of the time actually) but my humour also relies very heavily on the self-deprecating approach, as those of you who follow my tweets will already be aware of. Which is exactly the reason why it incenses me so when people wrongly label me as a bully. 

I am not a bully. I'm brash, yes. I can also be rude, thoughtless, selfish, incredibly arrogant and a plethora of other supposedly unappealing adjectives. But I don't target one person and actively go out of my way to humiliate and intimidate them in an attempt to cure my own crippling insecurities. That's a bully. 

As a tentative teenage school girl I came into contact with an alarming number of girls who all met that definition. Naturally they all chose to band together to enforce my misery as a collective effort and not so coincidentally they were all smokers. (They always are). I'm still unsure as to what the exact reason was which provoked their irrational rage at my existence, but I can tell you that my nonplussed attitude to their viciously cruel outbursts only aided the problem. 

On the whole my average school day was pretty consistent. I would trot along to lessons, have lunch with my friends and Tipex out the name of the current nonreciprocating love interest on my pencil case. I would also be jostled in the corridors, taunted amid raucous shrieks of laughter and threatened with "a battering" if I even so much as made eye contact with the aforementioned tough girls.

My life is over, I've run out of Tipex

I'll always remember the dull sickness which would form in the pit of my stomach when it came time for a Games or P.E lesson, as it was the only time we were all forced together. Obviously none of them partook in any physical activities, seen as their lungs couldn't take the pressure and they couldn't afford trainers. But in a way that was worse. I'd rather one of them have come at me armed with a hockey stick rather than suffer the torture of them lined up on the side of the field, scrutinizing my every movement and hurling "insults" for everyone else to hear and exchange smirks at. 

"Oh look at 'er now, thinkin' she's awesome in her little outfit. Where's that from Sam? GUCCI?"   

I don't think I'm awesome right now at all, I'm merely stepping up to bat because it's my turn. And no, I wish my black leggings were designer but they're not. They're from Topshop. You know, on the High Street. I'm sorry, my parents work for a living and buy me things. 

"Ooooh Sam, does your boyfriend bend you over and make you scream like a pig?"  

No. Bend me over what? We watch television in my living room and sometimes he looks as though he's going to put his arm around me but doesn't and then when the programme finishes he goes home. 

"Aw look at 'er now, walking by there."

Yes. I am walking. Over here, on the opposite side of the road to you. And you are over there, shouting at me.

And that's generally how it would go. Every day. Not the worst scenario of bullying I will concede, but when something like that doesn't relent for five years it really takes its toll. 

As a consequence of experiencing that exquisite torture, I've never felt inclined to direct it at someone else. While I'm naturally defensive and stick up for myself with ease, I don't attack people unnecessarily. So imagine my surprise when at twenty four I was thrust back into the familiar scenario of being ganged up on for no apparent reason by two girls who appeared to be around the age of 16 or so.

Like two peas in a pod

After a fairly grueling day chained to an office desk being made to squint at a computer screen and type things, I treated myself to an overpriced serving of saturated fat in a cardboard box. I was commiserating, as a trip to Miss Selfridge had revealed I was no longer a size 10 and naturally a calorific meal was the answer. So as I was contemplating my next eating disorder, I look up and there are two young girls looking right back at me with that brazen amused look which is the only expression teenagers seem to have these days. One of them got up, crossed the floor and came back with two straws. Obviously as you can see, they had finished their meals. They then started sucking on the straws and fiddling with the empty wrappers. 

Oh no. This is not happening. Is it? Are they actually going to start pea shooting me? Is this where I'm at in life? My dazed thoughts were interrupted by their little boyfriends rejoining and occupying the seats opposite them, thus obscuring the minions from view. They then urged their boyfriends to hunch over the table so they would (I presume) be able to get a clear shot at me without being detected. The familiar surge of discomfort and humiliation crept up my back, but a decade later it was merely an initial reaction in disbelief and was not a residual 14 year olds feeling of panic. With a defiant look, I raised my voice to a level which would be heard over the din of the crowd and in a menacingly calm tone which echoed the caption of my previous Twitpic, I slowly said: "Bitches. Try it and shit will go down."

I'm the kind of person who prides herself on her eloquent vocabulary and generally well-spoken nature.  But I pulled the ghetto speak off with astounding ease, which the boyfriends laughed at in genuine amusement. The girls however fixed me with wide surprised eyes and exchanged a worried glance at each other before quickly averting their eyes to the table in front of them. Yes, I knew exactly what they were thinking. "Shit, bitch be crazy."  Yeah. That's right. Go pick on someone your own BMI. I wish I could Twitpic their rotting corpses with the boyfriends heads shoved up their vaginas, but alas, I got up and swaggered out of the place before this thought came to me. 

Moral of the story: don't attempt to pea shoot someone who goes by the alias Dirty Knickers, especially not when she's feeling like a chubster.