Ched Evans: A mirror of our society?




Regardless of what’s been said about the controversial Ched Evans case, it does hold a mirror up to all of us and it ain’t pretty.

We’ve all seen very drunk people on the streets after a night out, even been one of them ourselves. I have to admit, that at times, I’ve looked at drunks falling over, vomiting or pissing in shop doorways, with something like disdain. Have you?

This disdain turns into something uglier when young women are the drunks. There’s a residue in society mindset that still thinks it’s somehow shameful. What’s worrying is that’s endemic even amongst those younger than I.

We have to ask what happened to us? Why does a drunk/drugged and vulnerable person, over-ride what should be our natural, human, instinct to help them?

It’s as if a drunk becomes less than human and if they fall under a bus, lie in a gutter choking on their own vomit, or are sexually taken advantage of, it is somehow ALL THEIR OWN STUPID FAULT. We absolve ourselves of our empathy or responsibility to help someone vulnerable, male or female.

If the vulnerable drunk was your friend, your sister, your partner; would you feel differently? Haven’t you ever scraped a friend off the pavement, taken them home in a taxi and made sure that they came to no harm? Did you judge them? Were they suddenly sub-human for having a drink too many?

I didn’t think so.

Let’s imagine we are observing the girl in the Ched Evans case.  She was considerably drunk. She was in her teens. Witnesses said she fell over several times, in the middle of a crowded Kebab shop, in the street and she squatted and urinated in a shop doorway.

I can’t help wondering why no-one had the humanity to help someone in such a state, someone who was so obviously vulnerable. Is it that disdain, again? Who are we to judge? What would we do in that situation?

Unfortunately, she ran into a predatory man. Rather than help, he saw an opportunity. He took her, in a taxi, to a hotel room booked by his friend Ched Evans. She left her bag in the taxi and he had to go back for it. We’ve seen her unsteady on her feet in the hotel lobby CCTV.

Tellingly, the man texted his friend, very simply: “I’ve got a bird”.

If we examine those words, it gets very disturbing. The girl is not seen as a person. She’s already a “thing” that has been “picked up” on a street. She is a “kill”, he’s the successful hunter.

She’s a flesh and blood wanksock that offers no resistance. She’s a slut, fair game.

The man takes full advantage, he says she was willing and enthusiastic. We don’t know. Whatever happened, he treated her with no empathy or respect. She was just an “easy fuck”, so out of it, she remembered nothing waking alone and naked in the morning.

During this sexual act, Ched Evans comes back. He lies to Reception to get a key and lets himself in. He knows his friend is there “with a bird”.

Two other friends attempt to film the sexual action on their mobiles, through the window.

Ched sees the woman just like his friend did, a hole to be fucked. He thinks he is entitled to “hop on” for “sloppy seconds”. She is not a human being. She’s a sex doll.

If she was seen as a person, he wouldn’t assume she was “fair game” being naked and in a sexual situation with his friend. He afforded them no privacy. He assumed the spoils of the “hunt” were to be shared.

Afterwards, he snuck out through the fire escape. His friend left her behind, too.

It’s a horrible, sordid, story.

Empathy, humanity and respect for another human being was conspicuously absent.

Terrifyingly, there are people who see this as a perfectly acceptable situation.

If we imagine the girl had met a different fate, if she had crossed paths with a decent, humane man, woman or group, she could have been put into a taxi and arrive home with nothing but a hangover.

When and why did we lose kindness and respect towards each-other? Are decent, kind people a species of human on the brink of extinction?

The rest of the story is even worse. The girl concerned has been bullied, threatened and publicly humiliated.  Presumably, the men and women expressing such vitriol towards her would find it acceptable if a similar fate awaited them, a member of their family or friends.

But that would be different, wouldn’t it?


I am from Mars and you have a Penis

Why do men and women seem to worry so much about communicating with each other? I was in a bookshop today and couldn’t believe the amount of books on this subject – starting with the ubiquitous “Men are from Mars” … Continue reading


image I’m a “Tantrika”. In case you don’t know what that is, it means that I have trained in various esoteric practices that involve meditation and breath control to…um…reach various “blissful” states.

Tantra is confusing as it means different things in different cultures, to the Buddhists it is about death, to the Hindus about life and the body and to the West – sex.

In some respects, it helps to have a sense of humour about it. Especially when attending classes and workshops. It does attract a wide range of people (and a few weirdos) but it’s not an orgy and no-one actually has sex. It’s all in the mind and the theory.

There are some groups where more ‘open’ participation takes place, but I haven’t been courageous enough to attend those. “Juicy women” groups are an example, where one ‘celebrates’ one’s ‘yoni’ (i.e vagina) with a small group of other women and a coach. It works like one of the original 1970’s female consciousness raising groups, knickers off and hand mirrors to explore your own nether regions. I’d die of embarrassment and/or get a fit of the giggles – so perhaps not. I don’t think any of my female friends would want to cum with me.

Another movement is the Sex Positive group with “OM” meditation. This consists of building a nest of cushions with a partner, then using lube, indulging in a 15 minute (it’s timed) masturbation or oral sex session (with the man doing all the work) and once this is learned, you are supposed to do it every day. Chance would be a fine thing!

One of the most unusual groups is ecstatic BDSM, that combines bondage and S&M with tantric techniques to push your boundaries sexually and open yourself up to new experiences. There are private sessions available, but most of the activity takes place within groups, with various ‘specialists’ to tie you up with ropes, stick needles in you and give you various forms of corporal punishment.

The difference between this and standard BDSM is that it involves deep mental states and emotional connection, so it is aimed at couples.  Apparently, it’s very popular in parts of Europe and they hold private ‘festivals’ – a sort of Glastonbury of sex! Wonder if it’s muddy?

All of these unusual activities are happening in and around London, as we speak and it seems to be a growing movement during times of austerity. After all, staying in and having adventurous sex is very budget conscious entertainment!

As for amusing, I have to tell you about the first Tantric Workshop I attended, because it was funny and not erotic at all. I learned a few things, which I have saved in my brain for the future, but at the time it was one of the strangest days I’ve had for a long time.

It was a Sunday morning and we were in a photographic studio, sitting on yoga blocks on a padded floor; 12 men, 12 women, the ‘guru’ plus one male and female ‘helper’. There was a wide mix of ages and nationalities, from very young, painfully shy, guys, to women and men in their fifties and most ages in between.

Apart from two girls in their thirties that had that ‘smug yoga look’ the beatific smile, tie-dye hippy garb and a tendency to wear very little in all weathers; all the other participants looked petrified. I was in one of my “So what” moods and was approaching the scene with a mix of cynicism and curiosity.

We started by being paired off randomly, male to female. I got a doggy eyed Italian man, who looked twitchy and nervous. This didn’t improve as we began the exercise, which was to match our breathing rate and stare into each other’s eyes for 10 minutes.

I just took it like one of those staring competitions from school days and just smiled and looked right at him. It was weird, but not a big deal, all I felt was an ache in my jaw because I had a smile stuck on my face, which set rigid as I realised how bothered my ‘partner’ was getting. His eyes were darting everywhere but towards my own, his jaw was clenching and he was biting his lips.

After a while, he started to shift from foot to foot and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His breaths became shallow and fast and I was getting tense trying to keep up with him and doing my best to slow him down. I kept smiling, I hoped kindly, although I was staring, I was doing my best to soften my gaze.

By the way the poor man was squirming, I might as well be beaming death rays out of my eyes. 10 minutes lasted forever. Well, reader, the Tantric Goddess of Medusa (to mix myths) must be strong in me, because my ‘partner’ then left the building, never to return! I don’t usually have that effect on people. Honest!

I was then paired with the male ‘helper’, who looked like a young, blond version of Richard Branson, all beard, teeth and patchouli. We had to continue the breathing/staring thing, this time for five minutes then we had to move to the right and ensure we ‘met’ every opposite sex member in the group in 3 minute increments.

The reactions of my male counterparts ranged from hysterical high pitched laughter (the helper), to one of the young ones that gulped continually like a turkey, the elderly Jamaican man, with the gold teeth just stared back warmly and the really creepy Greek man (who looked just like a satyr) made my skin crawl. The others were sparkly and flirty or like small bunnies in headlights.

I learned that I seemed to scare the hell out of at least half of them.  Note to self, don’t stare at strangers. My mother was right.

The next exercise involved walking around to some music and getting into our ‘female energy’  which meant holding our bodies softly, concentrating in breathing into our heart chakra and greeting the others in the group as we passed. This was an easier exercise, as everyone relaxed, I felt the urge to greet people with a smile and a touch on the shoulder or arm; which is how I tend to behave naturally, if I like people, I’m automatically tactile, unless I sense it makes someone uncomfortable.

This was followed by ‘masculine’ energy, where we all swaggered about like lads and nodded curtly at eachother, while breathing from our root chakra (based in the perineum!) which had more than a few of us laughing.  Interestingly, no one touched. That’s male energy for you.

The morning was spent in various exercises like this and breathing along to drum beats and through various energy chakras. It was easy and fun and by lunchtime, everyone was energised and we were connected as a group.

Lunch was, of course, a vegan affair and we ate outside at tables in the courtyard. I got talking to the guru, a bald ex insurance salesman, who had been made redundant, took off to India to ‘find himself’ and ended up at a meditation retreat. He took to it, changed everything about his life, including his name and set up a school of spirituality that held various groups like this on a regular basis.

The problem was, he was very literal and somehow quite an innocent, when one of the girls was joking with me about what the male and female energy would be like in a threesome and I said I’d let her know as I had one every other Saturday; he took this very seriously and asked why every other Saturday? I had to gently inform him, we were joking. He looked very confused.

Of course, the afternoon got weirder. Two of the exercises particularly stand out. One was the “flower and the bee” that consisted of all the girls standing facing outward, with eyes closed in a circle and the boys had to be bees visiting each flower.

They could touch us in a non sexual way and we could say STOP to any wandering hands. We didn’t know which man was the bee. I got a lot of hair stroking and some inept shoulder massages and someone tickled my neck in an annoying way, but that was it. A most peculiar experience.

When the girls were the bees we were much more adventurous. I was having fun making men shudder by breathing on their necks or stroking their spines lightly and one poor chap had the confusing experience of me and another girl tickling him and giving him bear hugs from behind. It was all quite innocent, like being children, not erotic at all. Maybe it was because I wasn’t in the least bit attracted to anyone.

The breathing exercises got more complicated and we had to pair off to do them. Everyone eventually got paired with everyone else, the soundtracks got weirder, the drumming more intense and we were supposed to learn to breathe ourselves through an orgasm, without the orgasm. Yup. That was odd.

The two ‘yoga’ girls, that I mentioned earlier, seemed to go into full “Meg Ryan in the Deli” mode with much screaming and moaning. Definitely fake though and owed more to a dodgy porno soundtrack than Tantric bliss. It made everyone else laugh and we discovered later they had been specially invited to make up numbers.

So I learned a bit and continued with further discoveries. I’ll tell you about that another time. Suffice to say, I have a lot of theory, but lack practice, but you never know when I’ll be able to release my “juicy female Goddess forces” …..

An open letter to a Tweeter

Dear Spunk Licker @arsefuck

Someone who should know better, retweeted you into my timeline today. Reading what you say and seem to need to let the world see, has made me feel very sad. Before you ‘do a Miley Cyrus’ and tell me I’m a past it old hag that’s simply shut shaming; know this. I would say the same things to your male equivalent “Cock Thrust @Yourhole.”

You’re not even a porn star, or selling sex. I think that photograph is actually you. As are the photographs of various bits of your body, in the level of detail that only a gynaecologist would be interested in studying.

You look young, college age, I would guess and I think you are American, by use of your idiom. For all I know, there might be a lot more to you, than this sad exhibitionism. Maybe there’s an interesting mind and personality that no-one ever gets to see?

By using your own picture, you are making quite a statement to the world. It’s not a positive one. In a year or two, you’ll be looking for people to employ you. Right now, the people on your college campus or at school are talking about you and your reputation.

They’ll not bother to look beyond your arse and crotch shots. They will see you as you seem to see yourself, as a cheap piece of meat of little value. You might get hundreds of retweets every time you show your vagina, but is that what self esteem means to you?

You portray yourself as a hyper-sexual person, but from the frequency of your Tweets, I doubt that is the case. For if you were, in fact, enjoying and celebrating your sexuality; you’d be too busy having sex to be on Twitter so often.

What I’m really saying is that you are not a one dimensional human being. You’re better than that. You will have talents and attributes that people will love you for. You may not get as many retweets as showing pictures of your sex organs, but the responses and comments you get will be about the real you. And they might help you feel a bit better about yourself.

You are doing yourself a disservice. Please think and understand you have many gifts to offer the world, not just sexual ones.



* original Twitter name not used

Will the real men please stand up?

imageI think is must be difficult to be a man.

Once everything was very clear cut. Males were hunters and protectors, evolved to group together for the cause of the tribe. Sexuality was very simple and probably predatory, with the male instinct to impregnate as many fertile females as possible. I’m sure there were alpha and beta and possible omega males in the tribe and a fair bit of competitive jostling to be king of the cave.

My mother’s generation varied very little from those primal origins. Women were educated to a point but, most importantly, were schooled by older siblings and peers to find a mate, a provider, so they could give up work, have a family and ‘keep house’.

Sexuality was somehow shameful and secretive, but men were expected to ‘sow their wild oats’ whilst women were expected to be loyal and virtuous. Women could ‘look’ sexy, but better not ‘be’ sexy or they would risk being a social outcast. Men were certain in their breadwinner roles, socialized with other men, in mostly male environments and met women at traditional gathering places like dance-halls and parties. The sexes were a bit of a mystery to each other.

Then the sixties happened and everything changed in a few years, but missed my parents who retained their 1950’s mindset, even though they were young at the start of the “Summer of Love”.

Both sexes enjoyed a new freedom in terms of work, self expression and sex. Men could embrace their feminine energy and women their masculine energy, it must have felt very wild and exciting. But that freedom wasn’t everywhere. There were still people living in traditional roles and society was completely male dominant. Hence the growth of feminism.

My mother and father were somewhat bemused at how Women’s Rights were addressed in the media at the time. They adopted the caricature of the angry women burning bras and eschewing men, whilst wearing dungarees and plaiting their spouting bodily hair.

A lot of men took it very badly and found it threatening, but as long as their wives or girlfriends didn’t start being ‘radical’ they still assumed their dinner would be on the table when they got home from work and that they had a sex drive but ‘nice’ girls didn’t.

Growing up, I discovered that things were “unfair”. As a woman, I was supposed to ‘look nice’, be quiet and be adept at cooking, keeping house and doing the chores, just like Mother. I was angry about the way my younger brother could continue playing, while I and my female relatives were expected to “help get dinner ready” or “do the washing up” and it wasn’t cool for me to climb trees in my pretty dresses, I was supposed to play with dolls that looked like babies.

At around the age of 12, I became aware there was a different way. At an all girl’s school, we were encouraged to be academic and plan for the career of our choice. The women who taught us were strong, university educated and had impressive Doctorates. Some of them sowed the seeds of feminism. Some were, ‘shock horror’, devoted entirely to God (nuns) or lived with each other in covert lesbian relationships.

Still a virgin, I remember speaking at a heated debate about abortion and a woman’s right to choose, I subscribed to Spare Rib and I rejected all my mother’s propaganda that my sole aim in life was to marry a nice rich man and have children.

I felt the equal of any man and I noticed that my brother now had his own share of the household chores and was no longer deferred to. The masculine head of the household had been deposed as my remote and quiet father left. We were living in a crazy matriarchy, that was really a patriarchy, now.

At art college, my male peers appeared to be ‘enlightened’, where perhaps some of the male lecturers weren’t and I enjoyed being strong, independent and in charge of my sexuality. There were hints of old fashioned oppression, but my friends and I were strident about rooting it out and usually won. We did as we pleased, in that safe little bubble.

I came up against the Patriarchy later. Firstly, there was unwanted and scary sexual attention from men and secondly in the world of work, when I started a job as a journalist on a local paper. I was the only female and younger than the other writers by a decade or more. They would consistently make leery comments whenever I went out on a story with a male photographer or other colleague, it was always assumed that, sooner than later, one of them would ‘conquer’ me and we’d have an affair. Needless to say, I strictly kept my work and personal life separate.

Two things happened later, that brought this to a head. One was a policy at the NUTJ college, where I studied for a few months; where the male principal insisted that all women should wear skirts (it was Winter in Hastings and freezing) – which I refused to obey. I wore smart trouser suits and, pathetic though it seems now, this caused a furore, with me being carpeted by my editor, but I stuck to my guns and earned a reputation for being ‘difficult’.

The second was a staff Christmas lunch, where, as the only young woman present, things got a bit ribald with drink and some of the male journalists were going too far with the sexist comments about me and young women that were passing. I needed to get up my nerve with a few drinks, but when I had, I put my hand under the table and started stroking the thigh of the worst offender and watched him panic, with some amusement, as I moved my hand further up.

He soon ‘made his excuses and left’. It was a risky strategy, he may have enjoyed it and reciprocated, but somehow I knew, even then, that the biggest blusterers are also the most insecure and the bantering stopped after that. I don’t know if he told the others, but as he was a fat, unattractive, man in his fifties, they wouldn’t have believed him. Yes. I sexually abused a man and I should be ashamed!

I had more than my fair share of abuse in my early days in advertising, especially as a junior account handler. There were clients that assumed ‘client servicing’ included sex, I got good at ducking slobbery kisses and learned that even if a drunk male colleague slept overnight on my sofa, I’d be defending myself against rumours the next day. One rumour started because a male colleague and I were seen walking down the stairs to the stationery department one evening. By the time the rumour of my ‘office lover’ had reached me, it had blossomed into us being seen having sex in amongst the files and biros! I did trace it back and my colleague joined me in dressing down the (male) gossip in front of the agency.

My male friends tended to defer to women and were more ‘gender neutral’ than traditionally masculine. I carried on carving out my career, standing up for anything I thought sexist and unfair and having long term relationships with men around the same age, who wouldn’t dream of asking me to take on a ‘housewifely’ role or stand in the way of my ambition. I was always stronger than they, which consistently disappointed something in me.

By living my life independently, I ensured I kept my own bank account, managed my own money and bought my own property. None of the men I dated earned more than me, I don’t think they resented it, but because of that, there was always a difficult situation when it came to holidays and household budgeting. I didn’t want to be the breadwinner, to pay for everything, to give my boyfriends a better lifestyle than they would have ordinarily had, but that’s how it always ended up. I did end up resenting it after a while.

I didn’t generally date people from work, I avoided flirting with bosses or senior people, because I found it unprofessional. My boyfriends tended to be iconoclastic musicians, writers, artists, which are, unfortunately, usually broke and outside the corporate world I was being swallowed up by.

I dated a couple of wealthy guys, but they were wealthy as a result of family wealth, which breeds a certain kind of lackadaisical ennui. They didn’t HAVE to work, they didn’t NEED anything, it was all taken for granted, so although I had some flashy dates like being flown to Paris in a private plane or expensive weekends away; I was bored by their lack of fire and drive.

Later on, as I rose through the ranks and ended up running a profitable agency, I found that my male peers much preferred beta rather than alpha women. They didn’t want their partner to be an equal. The MD’s and CEO’s dated much younger receptionists, PA’s or those spoiled rich girls who pretend to work at ‘hobby’ jobs in PR and publishing, whilst looking to marry well, as soon as possible and take up a career as a wife and mother and, disturbingly often, being traded in for a younger, more vapid, creature later on.

I began to ask myself, should I dumb down, be more ‘girly’ or even earn less? However, this would somehow be a disservice to myself. I wasn’t interested in dating substantially older men, or men on their second divorce, being bled dry by their ex wives (see hobby jobs above).

It seemed to me that there was a generation of men and women still stuck in the 50’s and the men I knew were more feminist friendly, but just not very ‘manly’ or responsible for themselves. The women I knew were much more ‘together’.

Talking to younger generations today, makes me believe there are still issues around equality. Many young women are generally stronger, more self sufficient and overtly sexual than we were and many young men are threatened by this. I was speaking to my nephew and his friend (22) and they both said they found girls of their own age a ‘nightmare’ and quite ‘threatening’.

I am wondering whether I am a freak, or if other women and men feel a bit lost in our vaguely defined modern roles? If we look to the media, pre feminist roles are still prevalent, women are out to marry wealthier, high status men (the footballer phenomenon) or give up their careers to have ‘Hello’ featured families. Ninnies like Kate Middleton or Sam Cameron are in the same roles that Jackie Onassis or other vapid handmaidens through history have taken on. An accessory to their men.

What I want from a relationship shouldn’t be impossible. I’m earning half of what I used to and have realised that there’s more to life than work. I’m not some monstrous ball-breaker, but I offer and expect respect. I can be soft, dippy and silly as well as intelligent, passionate and outspoken. But I do like men to be men, not little boys looking for a mother substitute or a cougar to take them in hand sexually (!)

But what IS a man these days and what is a woman? Maybe, somehow, we need to move beyond this and accept that both sexes have a bit of both going on, that sexuality and, even gender behaviours, have become a bit blurred? I’d like a man to treat me as a person, that if I show my softer side, it doesn’t mean weakness or a need to be dominated and if I am strong, it doesn’t mean I want him to be emasculated. It’s a tricky one and something I have yet to achieve.

Is it ridiculously egotistical to want a man who appreciates me as I am?

Cat woman or Dog woman?


Since antiquity, there has been a general unease about single women and cats. It possibly started with the medieval witch trials, with the cats seen as familiars and all the European superstition around black cat’s and bad or good luck. The cat seems to embody the mysterious female power that many fear.

Cats are the ideal pet for a modern woman. They are independent, can fend for themselves, are content to come and go, or spend long periods alone, sleeping.

At times of need, they quietly give their affection as a warm and tactile companion. They are emotionally contained and selective, both intelligent and cruel as their circumstances dictate.

If their owner is away for a weekend, or on holiday, they are easily managed if someone pops by and feeds them. Outdoor cats are easiest of all, with no litter tray and detritus to cast an unappetising pal over a woman’s inner sanctum.

And they are elegant and beautiful. Enhancing a home, rather than wreaking havoc.

I find single women with dogs, far more suspect.

Dogs require as much attention as a recalcitrant two year old. They require their owners to stay at home or pay a dog sitter. Those women who stay at home and treat their dogs as canine children will often comment that ‘animals are better than people’ and lavish all their unrequited love on the poor animal. It smacks of loneliness and desperation.

Single women with dogs, that I have known, treat their pet as if it was a child they have never had. The dog also takes the place of a man, they sleep with the creature and their homes have dog hairs, half chewed treats and toys around and to non-dog owners, there is that unmistakable smell.

Twitter is full of such women. Some even prefer a photograph of their dog as their avatar. I personally speculate that says a lot about the owner’s self esteem and the position that the canine creatures have taken the place of a yearned for human beloved, long since given up on.

To want such a dependent creature also tells a tale. Dogs are foolishly loyal. And manic. Without exception, single women’s dogs are badly behaved because they have been over loved and spoilt and lack discipline and training. They will clamber over visitors, lick them in the face and pounce on anyone that enters the home. It is almost like they are acting out the inner desperation for affection of their owners.

If I were a single man, I would steer clear of women that promote their dog as the centre of their lives. There is a big hole in such a person’s life. Watch how the creature behaves and you will get a good idea of the dog-like devotion your presence will inspire if you become involved with the owner. Get out while you still can. Or get a leash. You’ll need it.

Gender benders


I’ve always felt like a gay man in a woman’s body and occasionally a bi-sexual man in a woman’s body. Confusing? Should it be?

If every aspect of personality, mental quirks,physicality and sexuality is on a spectrum, why should we have to rigidly define ourselves? Why can’t you be a little bit gay or a girly man? Why do we have to plant down flags and gather a tribe around them?

I used to be (on paper, anyway) an Alpha woman. Ran a profitable multi million consultancy, had a telephone number salary, chunky bonuses, flashy sports cars, over specced London flat and the lifestyle that went with it.

My male equivalent would have been a similar type. Suited and booted with an unfeasibly large watch and a taste for exotic holidays and electronic gizmos. And a bigger car than mine.

But never the twain shall meet.

Mr.Alpha finds Ms.Alpha’s success threatening, he hates it when she takes command of the menu, the wine list, the bill. If her salary or career eclipses his he has big problems. By knocking her up and encouraging her to be a parasite wife, it’s just one more opponent out of his way.

Ms Alpha (well, my version) loathes Mr Alpha. She sees through the suits, the boots, the car, the gadgets and is not in the least bit impressed. He reminds her of the dorks she has to work with as her male peers are so often considerably less talented than she.

So Mr Alpha finds solace in a young Beta, who gives him the uncritical admiration he desires and Ms Alpha has the choice of all the Mr Betas, who, after a while, either despise her for her success or take full financial advantage of it. And they bore the pants off her.

These days, I’ve retired from Alpha land. I’m softer now, gone are the trappings, the designer clothes are in a suitcase in the loft, the London flat sold, the car is an old one and I live in a modest cottage in the country. I’ve dropped the business mask and now indulge in my hippy, earth mother, dreamy writing side. I am content.

Now I am less ‘threatening’ and potentially more of a gentle soul, who do I pick for a partner, next?
The cougar role, although very easy, is not for me. I know what kind of partner I need. Someone big enough to not only be my equal, but also my protector. Rare? Probably. But I can wait. There’s no point in deluding myself about second best. And baggage is best left away from my door. I’ve dealt with mine and I’m too busy living to deal with unpacking anyone else’s.


Small and strangely droopy This week the world has gone mad about a pair of small and strangely droopy tits. Yep, I’ve seen the pics and they’re not worth all the hype, although I am grateful for the web traffic … Continue reading

Can anyone else control their mojo?

This has always puzzled me and please don’t let me be the only one. Do any of you have days when you seem to inadvertently attract attention and then others when you might as well be invisible? Maybe I smell … Continue reading

Do women have a civilising effect on men?

What is women’s role in suppressing sexuality in society? What would happen if women let loose, broke down the barriers and had sex with whoever they wanted and whenever they wanted? Would society as we know it come to an end? Continue reading