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?