And I don’t want to hear about him either. I don’t care if he bought you flowers, or took you to see a cute rabbit at the farm, I don’t even care if he’s really nice and likes all the same crap you like. I JUST DON’T CARE. If this sounds a bit extreme, let me break it down into exactly why I don’t give a toss.

1. They’re your boyfriend not mine.
No matter how sweet, caring, hot, amazing in bed, this person is, they aren’t doing any of this stuff to me. I don’t want them to do it to me, and I’m glad they’re doing all this supposedly great stuff to you, no, really I am, but it impacts so marginally on my life that to have to hear about, read about it, and get twittered at about it, all the freaking time is about as useful to me as you telling me about how relieved you after your first piss of the day.

2.  All this talking about them is eating into my valuable time.
And your valuable time, and dare I say it? our valuable time. We could be talking about how shitty Lady Gaga’s dancing is when compared with that of Beysus or why everything on the internet comes from 4chan. We could be having an intelligent discussion on the link between yamambas and Essex girls. We could teaching me to burp the alphabet. We could NOT be talking about how psyched you were when Tarquin ran you a bath after work.

3. I don’t know them.
When a friend goes out with a mutual friend there is a slightly more vested interest, I liked both of you enough to be friends with you in the first place evidently. But if I’ve only ever met him with you then I don’t have a clue what he’s like. Maybe in time we’ll get to be best buds, sharing a cup of cocoa in the kitchen before bed. It’s unlikely, he wants to stick his dick in you, I don’t: we are very different people.

4.  Are they really that amazing?
Really? Really really? If you wrote down their qualities objectively on paper would they be more amazing than Cory Doctorow? I mean seriously, think about it, he gave you a chocolate bar cos he called you a mean name when he was angry, really, it’s kind of douchey.

5. Unless it’s exciting, funny, or gross, I just don’t care.
Boyfriend fell over and farted on you? Great! You both dodged a speeding motorbike that nearly mowed you down? Amazing! He fell over while naked and arguing with you? Jackpot! Just think of the rule “Tits or GTFO” and you’ll see my conversation criteria.

Please don’t go away thinking I hate your other halves, or you, I really don’t. Your relationship is probably super exciting… to you and them. I’m sure that they make you see stars and fireworks when you kiss not pencils or empty ketchup bottles because, yeah, I get it, you’re in love. But don’t blame me if when I ask you how your weekend was and you reply with “Well, Rory Boring and I…” I high-tail it out of your presence.

Pictures from these three brilliant tumblrs: Vogue Weekend, Living Loving Maid, and Super Woodbinda.

It seems that no matter what time I leave work my bus is full of teenagers. No matter if it’s girls or boys, they’re always talking about girls: who’s a slut, who’s a priss, who’s not even worth mentioning. On and on and on. I feel like I know about the sexual lives of every teenager in Dalston at the moment. No matter how hard I bury my nose in a book I hear them, “She slept with him yesterday is it?” “Oh, my, god! What a slut!!!” Nice girls, nice.

This is something that I guess I keep going over on this blog: what the fuck is a slut? What does that word even mean? As I’m too much of a nerd to ask the teenagers themselves I turned to the next best thing: Urban Dictionary.

This is by far the most popular answer. A slightly confusing backhanded compliment, but hey, it’s not terrible just sort of shitty.

Things get worse however…

Leaving aside the idea that someone could disassociate from their body quite at will (can someone teach me that?) this is a textbook definition and raises so many questions. Why does engaging in sex frequently and sharing your body with more than a handful of people make sex less special? What makes someone’s sexual preferences discriminatory? What about all those girls who make their boyfriends wait and wait and wait and then get cheated on, treated badly, and dumped? Should they have worked harder beforehand? Probably not. If you give it up on the first date or after the wedding it doesn’t make a shit of difference. Some people are douchebags, some people will be horrible to you. Sometimes you can sniff them out in seconds and sometimes it takes years. The amount of time you wait between meeting them and getting acquainted with their genitals makes no damned difference.

Now for ‘meaning and significance’. I think that often sex can be likened to food. Some meals you wolf down, on the run, barely tasting them or appreciating them, others, like Christmas dinner, leave lasting memories each time it’s consumed.

Sex is the same. Sometimes yes, it has meaning and significance, the first time you have sex after you fall really truly in love with someone is magic. For me in that moment the whole world seems to stop and there’s a lightbulb over head feeling: this is it, this is me and the person I love being totally, utterly together. It’s one of the most precious moments you’ll ever have, I think. I don’t know what having a baby is like, but I guess it’s like a non sexual version of that. With added pain.

But yes, sex can have meaning it can have significance, it can be an exploration of trust, an episode of mutual discovery, and a fun filled rollercoaster ride, sometimes all of the above at once. And other times it can be like scratching an itch. An itch you just can’t let alone. Do you have to scratch that itch with someone who understands you? Who likes you? Who thinks you’re hot? One out of 3 generally isn’t bad, but no, not really. Sex is sex, a strange, heady concoction that  can be tied up with emotions and meaningfulness, but mostly is about being in the moment and something going on around your genitals.

Firstly: chill the fuck out! That guy was being nice to you, and you just pissed on his dreams!

Secondly… what people say about sluts, and by extension sex, says so much more about themselves than ‘sluts’. Here we have someone equating sex with personal validation. The intricate way that her self-view is built into her idea of sex makes me think that for her having sex is a minefield: she at once wants to be accepted and loved and sees sex as a way of expressing this, but is also caught up in the idea that to give it away means that she doesn’t respect herself. She’s trying to withhold sex in order to get sex. Confusing? You bet.

FYI ‘man’ next time you see that lady give her a hug, she needs it.

SHIT! WE’RE ALL SLUTS!!!! Not you men. Don’t worry, you’re safe.

Amen. Read it, memorise it, and if neccessary tell people it, but in a more condensed manner because it’s kind of long, and leave out the bit about nipples showing, because sometimes we just can’t help it ok?

Stop calling other girls sluts, stop judging people by how many people they’ve slept with, and stop using it as a catch all insult. If you must call someone something nasty, and sometimes you must, then get creative! Call them a slinky eyed bottom feeding mouth breather, a higgedy piled rust bucket of pity, or a banana split on a cupcake, whatever feels right!

Or just move to Sweden and start confusing people.

When I was a kid I told my mum that when I grew up I wanted ‘a red car, red dress, and red stilettos’ much like, it turns out, Cassandra in Wayne’s World. Though she looks totally sweet in a hair metal groupie sort of way, and I have always admired the work of Bebe Buelle and Sable Starr, I’ve found over the years that I’ve gravitated towards clothes with much less stretch lace, and a lot of bows and ruffles. Gradually the older I become the more childish my clothing choices. Only the other day I was thinking about getting my hair cut and the only photo I could find that in any way related to what I wanted was the youngest girl from The Chronicles of Narnia. Looking at that photo I would actually kill to own that cardi and dress too. Phwoar. Amazing.

Although wearing childish clothes could imply I’m some sort of infantilised, sexless, girl-child, forever trying to recapture a youth I never really had, it couldn’t be further from the truth. I don’t want to start deconstructing my outfit choices because I dread turning this post into Pseuds Corner, but it seems that both men and women are obsessed with judging people on the way they dress. It is apparently imperative that we all have a distinguishable look, one that is solid, unchangeable, and instantly recognisable. There is not scope for moods, changes of attitude, or concessions to comfort. If you want to look sexy, and attract men for one night stands (it appears) you need to wear something short, tight, or low-cut, and preferably all three. If you wear glasses you could maybe be a ‘sexy secretary‘ (extremely NSFW link!!! hint: it features a video of Sasha Grey) but if you fail that test you’re relegated to quirky, cutesy, or worse: interesting. Wait, you can only be one of these things by the way! If you were both things surely that would mean you were not only sentient and possibly interesting but also a sexual creature. Madness. We all know these things can’t go hand in hand.

I’m not saying men get off much better than women in this ridiculous charade, however the manners in which men have to dress to be considered sexy, seem to be a lot less time consuming than they are for women. Really everyone gets a bum deal, forcing us all to either feel dour and neutered or constantly on and aware of our sexuality. What we need to do is recognise that much like with sex itself different things can make different people’s heads turn. Whether its a ruffle along a neckline, or an pea-coat hitting a hipbone at a certain angle there’s something to float everyone’s sartorial boat.

For the last week and a half I have been looking for a lipstick. Not any old lipstick, I found 100s of those, but the lipstick. One that will make me look like a lady, and that will not rub off all over cups, cigarettes, and boys’ faces.

Back in this post I mentioned a party so terrible that I forgot sleeping with someone at it. While I erased most of it from my mind I have never forgotten a lipstick related mishap that nearly stopped that entire sorry blog post unfolding (why didn’t it?? why??).

At the start of the evening I bumped into someone I thought was my ONE TRUE LOVE. We’ll call him Chet. My primary reason for thinking this was because I’d met Chet while blissed out on some Es. The moment I met him was amazing: I looked up from my scrabbling hands and in a split second the world slipped away. For a few hours I followed him around, hands in his pockets staring at him like there was no-one else in the room. It was probably pretty creepy. A few days later Chet invited me to this now apocryphal party and most of the sheen had worn off him I was still fairly smitten. When I arrived he’d necked half a bottle of Ritalin and was gabbling at me about everything under the sun. I was horrible disappointed but followed him into an empty room anyway to put my coat down. Inside Chet grabbed me by the arm: “Nadia just kissed me.” My heart sank as he was smiling broadly. “She kissed so badly; let me show you.” and before I could say anything he was lapping at my face like a St Bernard. I seized the opportunity as he broke away: “How would you prefer it was?” and so we kissed. We kissed for some time stood in the dingy light of Nadia’s bedroom surrounded by coats and shoes and someone sleeping under a curtain. In my head I was going “Yes! Yes! Yes!” because I am an idiot and do things like that.

Then someone stepped in to drop a bag off and we stood about awkardly talking about how this was a terrible idea and that we should just be friends. Well Chet said that and I said “Oh yes I suppose so.” Mortified that I could have misread a situation so badly I had been staring at the floor, and when I finally had the courage to look up I realised my lurid red lipstick was all over his face. He was telling me, all serious like, that this was just something that we’d done in the moment, and that it would be best if we didn’t think about it again, blah blah blah. I gave him a tissue, told him to clean himself and left the room. It wasn’t until days later that I realised I too must have looked like Robert Smith when I walked back into the party. Subtle.

And so to avoid this ever happening again I have been looking for a matte lipstick that doesn’t smell like crayons, isn’t neon red, won’t dry my lips, and yet won’t leave a trail of smears everywhere I go. Any ideas? It’s rather important you know.

Photo from Le Smoking.

Someday, in my uterus, where nothing other than blood, lining, and maybe a few lonely sperm cells have been, there may be, A BABY. Although I don’t particularly want one any time soon, or for a long time at all really, the thought sometimes enters my head and plagues me for days. Maybe it’s a sign that I’m getting older and more mature friends but I know of a handful of people pregnant in real life, and a few of my favourite bloggers are either getting ready to, or have just popped one out.

Excited as I am for them the idea of one day having one of my own freaks me out. Making a life? With someone else? And then looking after it for the next eighteen years MINIMUM? BEING RESPONSIBLE FOR CREATING SOMEONE WHO WILL ONE DAY GO ON TO BE A MEMBER OF SOCIETY? I’m having palpitations at the mere thought of it. What if you or your future baby daddy has a disease that you didn’t know about and you give it to your kid? Or you fuck them up badly when you thought you were parenting them in all the right ways? What if you drop the baby, or feed it the wrong thing? What if you just don’t love it?

But never mind any of that what about being pregnant? My mum said that she watched Alien not long after conceiving me, and sometimes when I kicked she would freak out and worry that I was an alien going to burst out of her stomach. It’s a thought I return to frequently when I see my friends bursting out of their dresses, waddling to the supermarket. They look amazing, but what if? what if?

People have always been around pushing babies out left, right and centre, which leads me to believe it really can’t be that bad. I try to soothe my anxiety related thoughts by telling myself that if it was so dreadful people would have stopped once effective contraception had been discovered, and we’d have slowly died out as a race.

So many people make it look like a fun, enjoyable way to spend time, rewarding even, but then there are the slew of programmes

that make it look like the worst idea you’ve ever had. In fact anything involving teenagers, or god forbid teenagers having babies, makes it look like hell.

All in all I think my paralysing fear of having a baby because it will a) inhabit my body like a parasitic host, b) change my life FOREVEREVER, is a good thing. This way I’m extra vigilant about making sure I don’t get in the club, and if and when it does happen I’ll have thought about it so much over the years that hopefully I won’t fuck it up. Or maybe I’ll fuck it up worse? Oh no, now a whole new can of worms has opened up in my brain!!

I really need to stop watching things like Teen Mom, 16 and Pregnant, Kizzy: Mum at 14, and reading things like Love It!, Hello, and old issues of Closer, and looking at other people’s baby’s with a stink eye while on the bus. I might get a reputation…

I have no idea where either the photo of Dakota Fanning or Lindsay Lohan came from, sorry!

5. Thieves Like Us – Your Heart Feels
This song is best listened to mid-way through the broken heart process: you’ve moved on long enough not to sniff things they gave you and weep, but not enough to talk to them without wanting to pee. It’s a bit like a 2000s The Rat, but about feeling shitty about seeing your ex-boyfriend everywhere instead of getting bored of ‘the scene’ after breaking up with your girlfriend. There’s a difference, ok?

4. Patsy Cline – Three Cigarettes In An Ashtray
Obivously this song is only applicable when you’ve been cheated on, but shit, Patsy Cline knows exactly what’s going on in your heart and if you smoke it’s even better because you can look at all the gnarled butts in your ashtray and sigh. Even better if some are still his. If you smoke his left overs, you are officially disgusting fyi.

3. Amy Winehouse – Tears Dry On Their Own
Let’s just pretend for one second that after writing this Ames dumped Blakey and got on with her life, because this song is pretty much a distillation of everything heartbreak is: your whole life is grey and horrible, you love him so much but he’s a giant douche and doesn’t care about you, and you keep telling yourself you’re going to be an independent woman, but all you do is sit and cry. But hey! There are topless men in the video! Bonus!

2. Blur – To The End
Although you are nowhere near as cool as Justine Frischmann it’s nice to think that you could be sitting there, louche, drinking whiskey, listening to your ex wonder why you broke up, in classy way. This will probably make you cry if you’ve been heartbroken for less than a week though. (Another bonus from the video: Graham Coxon in a suit. Grunt.)

1. Chet Baker – But Not For Me
Bright Eyes – Landlocked Blues
Listening to these two songs got me so emotional it felt unfair to pick one over the other so it’s a joint top spot. And yes I know this is a cop-out but if these two songs don’t move you then you have no soul.

If you really want to wallow in misery then there’s always my self-compiled Saddest Playlist In The World on Spotify which contains all these, and more! And which always reduces me to a jibbering weepy wreck.

Recently I gave up drinking. At first I stopped drinking at all, just to see if I could. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, so since then I have been allowing myself a maximum of one slightly drunk night a month, no more than 3 drinks at other times, and both of these things only on weekends. If this system sounds complicated you have to remember that a) I am obsessed with patterns and structures. I don’t believe in chance or random luck: everything follows a course and consequently I think rules are great. Oh and b) I’m English. This is practically a 12 step programme over here.

Two days into my new found sobriety I came down with H1N1 aka swine flu. However with a house guest from Amerikey over, and feeling totally fine, I broke my NHS imposed curfew after 5 solid days of sitting in my room alone eating Ritz crackers. That evening, after foolishly standing all afternoon in a rainy park watching hipster bands play 10 minute long sets, my friend (Joanna) and I went to the pub, met up with some friends, and hunkered down in a corner giddy on fresh air and diet cola. Next to me was a boy who was quite obviously a lot younger than me, but insanely beautiful. Like a deer with cheekbones that could cut butter. God that sounds horrible. Whatever, he was BEAUTIFUL. Beautiful I tell you! Ahem. Half way through the evening most of our friends had trickled away leaving myself, Joanna, and this boy, who we’ll call Justin Bobby, his friend, and a group of insanely loud Italians clad entirely in metallic spandex. Justin Bobby and friend were drunk, the Italians were drunk, Joanna and I were not.

The evening wore on and towards closing time Joanna and I decided it was time to walk home. As we got up to leave Justin Bobby mentioned he had missed the last train and wasn’t sure where he was staying. Being a shmuck I said he could sleep on my sofa if he wanted. Justin Bobby looked unsure, he said he needed five minutes to think about it. Joanna and I sat down with the crazy Italians. FYI I’m not being xenophobic they were mental. One, the most shiny spandex covered of them, kept doing yoga moves like putting her leg behind her head while sitting on a rickety chair and making gooey eyes. Justin Bobby’s friend was entranced. Ten minutes slid by and Justin Bobby was cracking onto another of the Italians. Joanna and I reasoned that we were no longer needed. We took him aside and said that though we were leaving the offer of a sofa still stood.

Justin Bobby thought long and hard. He ushered me outside to have a cigarette and thought about it. He then dragged me back inside, still thinking. “It’s really nice of you to say I can stay on your sofa.” He said eventually. “But the thing is, if I came to your house I don’t think I would be able to sleep on the sofa.” I reassured him it was really comfy. “No, that’s not the thing. If I came to your house I might not,” He paused and took my hands in his. “I might not want to sleep on the sofa.” In case the point was totally lost he looked into my eyes. “Do you understand?”

My face turned scarlet: I understood. He squeezed my hands and his eyes turned wide as saucers. It was like being seduced by a puppy. A really hot puppy. I took a deep breath and told him that he might not have to sleep on the sofa, but I couldn’t guarantee it, and that he was very nice and I did like him rather a lot. His unflinching honesty was making me flustered and I had no idea how I would normally answer this sort of thing.

I kept thinking that if he came back he would probably not end up on the sofa either way as it was where Joanna was sleeping. Then I thought about how drunk he was and felt horribly guilty. Then I thought about how pretty he was. Then about H1N1. And finally how if I was drunk I would probably not even be here thinking about this at all. Thankfully Justin Bobby was also thinking hard. “No, I don’t think I will come with you after all.” He walked us outside and lit my cigarette. Suddenly he seemed sad and I hugged him. “It’s not cos you’re not pretty, because you are, and you’re really cool.” He bleated into my hair. All I could say was “You’re really really pretty too!” in a high and tight voice.

When I woke up the next morning I looked at the ceiling, “I love not drinking. I love not drinking. I love not drinking.” I told myself. At one point I almost started to believe it.

Photos by Annabel Mehran and Erin Jane Nelson.

Back in the day, which was a Wednesday if you check, men assumed their wives were virginal, and women that their husbands were super studs, so I hear. Blissful sexist ignorance it may have been, but everything changes with time. These days everyone wants to know what came before them (literally and figuratively) and so the dreaded ‘number’ conversation comes up.

Everything will have been going swimmingly, you might even have changed your Facebook relationship status (!!), and then he asks you, “So, how many people have you slept with?” Maybe it’s just me, but that question always feels like a punch to the gut.

Firstly it’s so open to interpretation. What does ‘slept with’ mean? Are we just counting full penetrative sex? What about if you were naked but didn’t get round to that? What if you had your clothes on, things got a bit heated, but again, no actual penis in vagina action? Why is the term so loosely defined? There should be rules so we don’t have to get bogged down in semantics like this.

Then there’s idea that there’s an ideal number. Unless you are both virgins (and if you are, you’re not having this conversation, duh) it’s unlikely your numbers will match up. Who’s will be greater and by how much? Will telling him change his opinion of you? Should you lie? So many questions!

As for what counts as sex it’s up to you. Sometimes it’s easier just to say that if a genital didn’t go into another genital area then it wasn’t sleeping with someone, no matter how intense or moving the experience was. It just makes everything easier; that’s the scale I’m using anyhow. I mean of course it’s easy for me to say that being a straight girl, but hey, I can’t solve everyone’s dilemmas, sorry! Just decide on something and stick to it. Easy.

Now then, as for the ‘correct’ number? There isn’t one! Come on, you knew I would say that, right? If you’re worried that one of you will be more experienced than the other then remember it’s quality, not quantity, that counts. Whether you’ve slept with three people or three hundred you can still be crap in bed. What matters is listening to the other person, asking questions, and giving a shit about their enjoyment; otherwise you might as well just have a wank.

If the number thing bothers you because you think he’ll think you’re a slag then who the heck are you dating that is so narrow minded? When someone asks you a personal question, and you reply honestly, throwing the answer back in your face is cruel. In fact why does it even matter? As long as you’ve been careful, (or even if you haven’t yet you’ve managed to miraculously avoid any STIs), it just isn’t relevant how many people you’ve shagged. A high number doesn’t mean you’re going to cheat on him, and a low number doesn’t mean that you’re going to get obsessed and turn into a bunny boiler. They’re just fucking numbers!!

You and he are here and mad about each other in the here and now which is all that matters. Sure you are an amalgamation of everything you have seen and done before today but the you that is standing in this moment is the most important one. The reasons someone fell for you still stand true. After all no-one falls in love with someone because they’ve slept with exactly 15 people, so to fall out of it for the same reason is stupid.

There is one minor exception to this rule: when someone tells you a number over 100. At this point I’d be wary. Once I met someone who claimed they had slept with 500 girls. Five. Hundred. I mean the logistics of that alone are mind boggling, the only person I know who’s slept with more (around 600 at the last count) is seven years older than that bloke, and one step away from Sex Addicts Anonymous. Either way both of them have such sketchy dating habits that I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy. But I’m sure there are some people who’ve slept with a thousand (Peter Stringfellow maybe?? Gag.) who are absolutely lovely, just beware of the rest.

Anyway the moral is that it’s just a fucking number! A number which means nothing! A number you don’t really even need to know! So don’t ask the question, and if you do, don’t get upset by the answer. The person answering it is still the same as they were five minutes ago, nothing has changed, so just let it go and get back to making out!

Photos by Michela Heim and Kelley Smith.

While there will be times when your diary is as barren as a desert and you find yourself accepting almost any invitation at others there’ll only be one word to describe life: mantastic!

Dating two, three, or four, or more, people at once is not for the faint hearted. Skittering from date to date with an ever-changing cast of hotties will take all your skills to keep things from spiraling out of control. So take a deep breath and read on…

The key to multiple dating is honesty. While you and I both know you’re going to make each lucky man feel as special as a first born baby, you need to let each of them know they are not alone. It’s just the done thing. Some douches will run to the hills calling you a hussy, but the smart ones will breathe a sigh of relief knowing they’re not your only source of entertainment.

As for attempting to split your time evenly between each beau, well – it’s impossible and unnecessary. There are some people you will want to see once a month and others twice a week so don’t feel guilty about having favourites. Everyone has their purpose, you included, and whether that’s a geeking out over Paul Pope or a sweet sweet arse to tap, it’s a valid one.

There are some downers to dating multiple people at once and one is the immense amount of organisation it requires. Although your menfriends know they’re not alone it’s unlikely they’ll want to bump into each other while you’re around.

This is where your super organized side comes in: date boys from different parts of town, colour-code your diary, and vary what you do and where. If on the crazy off chance you do cross paths take a deep breath, smile, and try to think what Joan Holloway would do. And that would not be stand frozen in time, smiling awkwardly.

Speaking of awkwardness, sometimes four need to become one. While I’m sure everyone you’re sticking it to (or not) is a smart, sensitive, mega hunk, some are bound to be hotter and brighter than the others and so at some point you may find yourself wanting to become a one man woman. Whatever you do, do not ditch the others without a backward glance. No matter how little you cared for them they are people with real feelings and they deserve a little courtesy. Oh and FYI? Finding out they’re no longer in the running via Facebook doesn’t count. Be a woman not a coward! The guilt and weeks of weepy 4am phone calls should be deterrent enough.

But hey, it’s all fair game, and once you all know the rules you can all play along happily. So whether you’re getting on, or off, the honky-tonk merry-go-round remember: be honest, plan ahead, and keep it casual. The world is your oyster so go ahead and shuck it!

Kissing photo by Terry Richardson, Photo of Brigitte Bardot & Jane Birkin by unknown.