Only a true friend

I’ve just about had it. Almost every time I check my inbox nowadays, I’m plagued with those gruesome emails entitled ‘Only a true friend’. You know the ones I’m talking about – they’re usually covered in pictures of teddy bears holding hands and present you with a list of things that “only a true friend would do”. Now, excuse my French, but I’ve never read such bullshit. Most of the items on these lists are things I’d happily do for my boss’s Gran or someone in the queue at Sainsbury’s.

They’re sayings like “Make you smile when you’re blue” or “Be your shoulder to cry on”, the first of which is just common decency and as for the latter – If you count the number of drunk strangers I’ve comforted in the ladies loos I must be an AMAZING friend!

So in an attempt to end this propaganda once and for all I’ve started to compile my own, accurate list of things which only a true friend would do – all suggestions welcome...

Only a true friend would...

1. Not judge you for eating something that’s fallen on the floor
   
2. Accompany you to the GUM clinic, even if they don’t need to go
   
3. Admit they’ve forgotten your birthday
   
4. Stay up all night to make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit
   
5. Call when you’re lying in bed with a one night stand to play the opening bars of ‘Let’s get it on”
   
6. Show you the extent of her pubic hair to make you feel better about yours
   
7. Fein interest in the 100th photo of your nephew at his 5th birthday party
   
8. Grope your boobs for no reason
   
9. Watch you file your feet
   
10. Keep you company when you’re stuck on the loo with cystitis
    
11. Let you use the last of her batteries
    
12. Deliberately try to catch your eye in a situation when it would be really inappropriate to laugh

God's Gift

You may have noticed that most of my posts, insightful as they are, are fundamentally diatribes inspired by my own personal qualms. However, one particular topic has angered so many women that I have actually been asked to broadcast the injustice of it to the world.

It’s 11.30pm. You’re in a bar, enjoying good company, good cocktails and minding your own business, when a man approaches you. He’s a good-looking guy (and quite clearly knows it) but for various reasons you thank him and politely decline his advances. Feeling nicely flattered but sure you’ve done the right thing, you turn back to join the conversation when you hear the retreating male mutter “bitch”.

Will someone please explain to me why rejecting a man’s (usually incredibly arrogant) advances makes us bitches, sluts or - my personal favourite – lesbians? Is it possible that there are men out there who believe themselves to be so wholly irresistible that any woman not throwing themselves at his feet in the style of a Lynx-ad must be into women?

I think the most illogical insult of them all is the ‘slut’ slur. Let’s take a look at the possible outcomes of this situation: we politely reject their offer of a face-sucking and are consequently labelled a slut; we ignore them completely and again, are deemed a slut. But if we decide to let them get on with it just so they’ll leave us the hell alone (the only option which actually lends evidence towards our ‘slut’ title) then they are completely satisfied.

I know these archetypes are not renowned for their intellect, but surely they can appreciate the irrationality of this. So here’s a quick thought for all of you supercilious men out there (if indeed you have a moment in between fake-tanning and blowing kisses to yourselves in the mirror) – next time you find your affections declined, you could think about taking the high road. Or alternatively, spend a few moments contemplating the phrase “it’s not me, it’s you”.

This is War

There should be a sign displayed on buses and trains which reads: "Extra room may be required for people with disabilities, young children or huge, cumbersome bollocks."

Almost every time I take public transport, there is one bloke who insists on spreading his legs so wide that he takes up the equivalent amount of leg room as a mountain ape. And the really frustrating part is that you can never see him coming. A guy could look completely normal as he tip-toes past other passengers, carefully side-stepping shopping bags and pushchairs as he makes his way to the empty seat beside you. He can neatly lower himself into the seat, with all the poise and slenderness of an extra from Swan Lake, but as soon as his arse hits that cushion he remembers he's a man, grunts, itches his inner thigh and sinks back, spreading his legs like iron gates and gazing around proudly, having sucessfully asserted his masculinity.

I once asked a male friend why blokes feel this neccesary and the reply I got was "I duno, things just get squashed otherwise." Get squashed!? Oh I'm sorry, I didn't realise you had bollocks the size of melons. Last time I checked they were closer to satsumas and decidedly more malleable. I hardly ever say this, but forget the huge package - the extra space is really just there to accommodate men's huge egos.

So I say let's fight back ladies and reclaim our personal space. I urge all of you to shop. Shop like you've never shopped before, and then once back on the train or bus, spread your purchases out nicely - take up as many seats as you need. A chair for your Choos, a cushion for your Cartier. Men might be cursed with huge balls, but we're cursed with a huge addiction to shopping.

Two can play that game.

The Perfect Brazillian

The saying goes, when one door closes another opens. This is particularly true of re-locating: as soon as the search for the perfect apartment ends, the search for the perfect brazillian wax begins.

It's always a struggle to spot the difference between someone who will make you pornstar smooth and someone who'll leave you looking like a plucked chicken that has been bashed about a bit. Price is usually a reliable guide, but you can never be too careful and besides, we spend hours shopping around for the perfect pair of shoes to dress our feet, why not show our nether-regions the same courtesy?

And once you've found the perfect person, I find your relationship with them develops in the same way as a sexual one: At the beginning there is politeness, consideration, attractive underwear and paper thongs. But five months down the line you're whipping off your granny pants and plonking yourself down, spread-legged and ready for action. It's very much a get in, get out mentality.

And of course there's discovering the different positions you may have to manoveur yourself into to please your new partner. During sex, there's one moment when you both know it's time for a change of position; during a wax there's the moment when all the front has been removed, raising the dreaded question: "How is she going to do the back?" And it's usually the case that the more humiliating the position, the more effective it is. There's the traditional leg-over-the-head approach, the up-on-all-fours and of course lying on your back, with your knees hugged to your chest like a small child.

But there's one particular request which will haunt me forever. Having plied my ever-reddening front with handfuls of soothing lotion, my then-beautician turned to me and oh so casually requested that I lye face down and firmly hold my cheeks apart. I almost cried - mainly for me, but also for the poor girl waxing me. I'd have to be paid a hefty salary to attend to that all day long.

So I think it's safe to say I have some exciting times ahead. Bring on the search!

It's all about the Arse

Ironic, isn't it? That the part of our bodies which elicits the most attention is the part which 90% of us hate the most. Yes ladies, I'm talking about that fluctuating bain of our lives - the backside.

Time and time again I have tried (and failed) to understand why men are so attracted to them. They're pale, wobbly, very oddly shaped - made even odder with the onset of cellulite - and most importantly, they're designed for the purpose of excretion! Yet every day, millions of women find their arses the centre of attention, and millions of men struggle to find the most condusive way to ask their girlfriend's permission to enter through the back door.

I think most women have tried it once, if for no other reason than to see what all the fuss is about. I can't say I found it especially arousing - it was mainly uncomfortable - but at least it was pain-free due to the fact that I was aided by copious units of vodka and a bottle of Johnson's body lotion as a makeshift lubricant. This may not have been the most sensible alternative, but it's always best to be prepared - a motto which my friend Betty now has etched into her subconscious following one particularly ferocious (front-entry) session, when the object which she had been enjoying for the past half hour was accidentally and forcefully rammed into the wrong hole. Recalling the incident still brings her to tears.

So what exactly is it about the arse? Granted, a small percentage of them are toned and tanned but they still serve the same function. Although given that men are able to block out virtually any thoughts in order to score an ejaculation, perhaps this doesn't phase them. Or maybe it's actually the filthiness of it that they find appealing - the dirty act of doing something you shouldn't.

I don't know, it's all a bit animalistic for my liking. But then I've never been a huge fan of doggy the traditional way. It's a struggle enough allowing my beautician full view of that area, let alone someone I am trying to impress. And besides, I would have thought that having a bottom wagging in your face would be quite enough to banish a boner.

So alas, the question goes unanswered for now...I'll get back to you if I ever find out.

Are We Crude?

For its most amourous deciples, Sex and the City has always been a metaphorical anchor, securing a night of red wine and gossip with one's closest friends. But something is changing: Mums are entering the arena. My friend Lilly still can't get her box set back from her Mother, and during the few months I spent at home mine seemed to conveniently be around during my daily viewing slot.

Aside from forcing us to re-live those repressed childhood memories of watching sex scenes with our parents, the most dangerous part of this development is the moral judgements that Mothers inevitably bring to the table.

For example, one evening we were watching the memorable episode where Samantha finds a grey hair "down there" and subsequently voices her concern that "no one wants to fuck Grandma's pussy". This may not have been the best episode choice for viewing with elders, but it couldn't be helped. I glanced over at Mum, wondering how she would take it and was relieved when she broke into laughter. But I soon realised that the outburst was more incredulous than anything, when she coupled it with "It's so crude, isn't it?".

Is it? This was everyday conversation in my books, which threw up an interesting question. While trying not to sound too much like Miss Bradshaw herself, I wondered: Are we crude? I had always thought that talking frankly and openly about sex was considered mature and healthy. But has our generation gone too far? Are some things really better left unsaid?

Of course, a lot of things we share with our friends would never be said in the company of parents. For example, during our monotonous dissertation sessions at Uni, it wouldn't be uncommon for someone to snap their laptop shut and announce "I'm bored. I'm going to vibrate." However, this kind of proclaimation might not be quite as well-recieved during a Fawlty Towers marathon after Christmas lunch.

Of course, it's one thing talking about sex with Mother, but seeing solid, undisputed evidence is quite another - as my friend Betty discovered after making the mistake of inviting her Mum to help her move out of our flat. After an hour or so of packing, Betty was holding a mouldy, orange sphere at arms length and vowing never to keep clementines in her room again, when her Mum asked: "what's this?". She dropped the year old clementine into a black sack, suppressed the urge to vomit, and turned to see her mother staring intently at a small, white pot, clearly labelled 'Pussy Rub'. Horror-stricken, Betty snatched the tub from her Mother's confused clutches, pirouetted 180 degrees and launched the offending pussy rub out of the window. I don't know how the conversation continued after the incident, because that's as far as she got in re-telling it before we broke into hysterics. But I digress.

My question is: while Mums might not discuss virators and lubricant with their offspring, surely they talked about them with their friends? Apparently not. Only since the exposure of society to more open conversations like those in SATC, the somewhat tamer Loose Women, and of course the internet, has women's sexual liberation really gathered steam. But is this a good thing? Or are we slowly eroding the last remaining ounces of tradition and romance that we have left?

So what are you here for?

With the exception of running into and ex while makeup-less and wearing a t-shirt only just worthy of the gym, there is no social situation more mortifying than a visit to the GUM clinic.

During my time at University I lived with five young, beautiful and very sexually active ladies, which consequently resulted in a number of delightful trips to the local hospital to have our female parts inspected.

Now let’s not beat around the bush here (see what I did there?) - being stirruped up in a cold, sterile room with a blinding spotlight directed at your unwaxed nether-regions is never going to be a pleasant experience. But the actual act of being examined is not the uncomfortable part (unless, as my friend Betty discovered, you had a marathon sex session the previous night. In which case having a clamp inserted into certain delicate areas, and then expanded, is about as fun as sticking needles in your eyes). The discomfort lies more in the awful vulnerability of the situation - spread eagled in broad daylight and facing the entrance to the room which 9 out of 10 times has no lock on the door. Heaven help any poor soul who mistakes it for the ladies' loo. Or the men's come to think of it. That would definately cause some pretty permanent scarring.

However, it’s not this alfresco situation which upsets me the most. Neither is it the terrifying clamping instrument, the hideous tub of lube next to the sink, or even the fact that it’s usually a man doing the examining. No, the part of the experience which horrifies me to my very core every single time is when the doctor, whose head has disappeared somewhere between your straddled thighs at this point, asks “So, what are you studying at University?” WHAT!? YOUR HEAD IS IN MY VAGINA! The last thing I want to do is discuss my studies! I don’t know if you’re familiar with these sort of social rules, but once someone has had a visual on your genitalia, it generally negates the need for small talk. Oh the humiliation.

And incase this isn't torture enough, there are also the questions. The embarrassing, intrusive questions – to which the nurse is supposed to remain impartial, but you can just see the judgement in her eyes as she scribbles down your answers…

1. How many sexual partners have you had? (“Um, in the past month? How about just a ball-part figure?”)

2. Do you use protection during intercourse? (“Absolutely. Always. Well, usually. Most of the time. Unless I’ve been drinking. Or sleeping.”)

3. Have you had anal sex? (“Only by accident”)

I will always remember the first time they asked me if I had ever slept with a black man. My sheer horror at this seemingly blatant racism must have been evident, because the nurse hurriedly went on to explain the rationale behind her question.

Unfortunately, this was not the only horror I had to endure before that first visit was over. As we left the hospital feeling suitably violated, Betty sighed “Well, that’s one job done. And we got a free pack of condoms into the bargain.” I stopped. Turned to her. “One pack?” I asked, “She gave me two!” Fantastic, I’m glad I’m giving off the right impression.