STOP IT, PLEASE. WE DON'T NEED TO KNOW.

Ex Girlfriend of Former Bachelorette Dude Rants on Social Media about How He Hurt Her 

Read about it if you can be bothered. It's all here. Personally, there is little I care about less.

But what I do care about is the way people air their personal grievances on social media. Why do people do this? When did private lives cease to exist? And how will anyone ever be able to trust anyone again if we all just run to social media every time we are hurt or disappointed?

I see it all the time, on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Celebrities and regular people, with or without huge followings, sharing with the entire online universe the most intimate details of their lives. The dates. The sex. The passion. The hurts. The breakups. The betrayals. The disappointments. The fights.

It doesn't sit well with me. As someone who literally makes a living from writing about my life, I am very, very clear about my boundaries. And let me tell you, I'm sure it's cost me a click or two. I could fascinate you all with tales of my romantic adventures over the past couple of years. I've had highs and lows you wouldn't believe. (Or maybe you would - you've seen similar scenarios played out on other people's accounts ad infinitum.)

I've had great sex and awful sex. I've been deeply in love and hideously hurt. I've had fantastic first dates and quite shockingly bad ones. I've had all sorts of experiences that I could have played out, blow by blow, on your social media feed.

But I haven't, and I won't, because it's just plain wrong. It would be undignified for me, it would grossly unfair to the men involved, it would be humiliating for my kids and parents, and - most importantly of all - it is none of anybody's business.

Why would I need complete strangers to understand my perspective on a relationship? How would that help my pain or healing, or allow me to move on with my life? And whilst yes, there is a definite salacious titillation in knowing why two people broke up - I mean, which one of us hasn't wondered about Tom and Nicole, or Princess Di and Charles, or Jennifer and Brad - how does it help the actual parties themselves to share their secrets online?

Have some dignity, please. Keep your private lives private. The world doesn't need to know every single detail of your lives.

And we also don't need the inevitable 'Bouncing Back from Heartbreak' stories or the 'Brave Jilted Girlfriend Rocks Bikini Body On Beach'. But trust me, people. They are on their way.

Dr Sexville Is In. Today: What is up with foot fetishes?

Dear Dr Sexville*,

What is up with foot fetishes? How did that become a thing?

Toey

Dear Toey,

When I was 15, I dated a boy who had a foot fetish. Except that I didn't actually 'date' him, I pashed him a few times at the pub (where I shouldn't have been, because I was underage, so let's just say I was 18.) Oh, and except that he didn't call it a foot fetish, because he was only 16 (or 18, if we're still at the pub); he called it a 'foot fallacy'. Clearly, he was either not very well read, or he was prone to constructing elaborate, invalid arguments in which feet played a key role in the flawed logic. But I digress...

The point is, he liked to play with my feet when we kissed. Which means that foot fetishes have been around since at least my teens, which was approximately 70 billion years ago.

Fetishes occur when a persona becomes sexually aroused by any thing or body part that is not specifically genital, like feet, earlobes, bunny costumes, or a really clean living room floor. And fetishes are very common, even if the object of the fetish is not. There are fetishes for elbows, morbid obesity, the Eiffel Tower, even harpsichords. All of the men I've dated have all had fetishes, for objects as diverse as Lamborghinis, Porsches, Ferraris, and Honda motorbikes.

Foot fetishes, or podophilia, are the most common type of fetish, and they can be excellent fun. I slept with a man once who liked sucking my toes, using 'once' in the sense of 'many, many times' and 'toes' in the sense of 'yes, I mean toes' and it was thoroughly enjoyable.

The only thing to remember about foot fetishes is that, like other objects to be sexually enjoyed, they are best experienced clean. So if there's a chance your partner will be want to get dirty with your feet, perhaps a little wash with some nice peppermint foot scrub followed by a pumice and some soothing cocoa butter moisturizer wouldn't go astray. Unless your partner is a purist, and likes that straight-out-of-the-shoe smell, in which case rip off those socks and get into it.

And remember, a foot fallacy is something completely different. But we can talk about that another time.

Dr Sexville

*Note: I am not an actual doctor, though I have performed the occasional minor self surgery, only once with catastrophic results

Leave your questions for Dr Sexville in the comments, or send to k.sack@live.com

The Seven (Eight?) Steps of An Internet Date

Note: This is not a manual. This is my personal experience. This is probably why I am still single. I know, I know...... 

Stage One

Receive kiss/smile/nudge/message/swipe from person on Internet Dating site. Think, "Oh, he's cute! Thank god! There are still cute people left in my age group!" Respond positively.

Note: If the person is repulsive, terminate here.

Stage Two

Begin messaging the person. Think, "Oh, he's funny and can spell! Thank god! There are still funny people left on the internet who can spell!" Casually ask what the person's job is to check he is not in jail, unemployed or a real estate agent. Breathe sigh of relief. Casually how long the person has been separated/divorced/widowed/single to check he is not married, 'separated but still living together', 'looking for some threesome fun' or needing solace after the sudden death of his wife last week. Breathe sigh of relief.

Note: If the person is illiterate, married, grieving or a real estate agent, terminate here.

Stage Three

Exchange real names. Immediately Google the person to check they are, indeed, who they say they are. When LinkedIn profile matches Internet Dating profile, breathe a sigh of relief.

Note: If the person does not actually exist on the internet, terminate here. Everyone who is a real person has some kind of online footprint. I mean, some people actually don't, but they are to be approached with the utmost suspicion and caution and I ain't got time for that.

Stage Four

Exchange phone numbers. Add person's name to phone with helpful reference details such as 'Phil the Accountant from RSVP', 'Mark the Podiatrist from eHarmony' or 'Simon the Hottie from Tinder'. Commence texting.

Note: You probably wouldn't really save 'Simon the Hottie from Tinder' in your phone as he probably won't be around for long, but I'm trying to be comprehensive here.

Stage Five

Exchange witty texts for a couple of days. Forward the choicest texts to your best friend with captions such as 'He's so funny!' and 'He's so clever!' and 'Look how cute he looks holding a wombat!'

Note: If he can't spell for shit, is boring, or doesn't respond to your texts within an hour, terminate here.

Stage Six

Speak on the phone.

Note: If he sounds like something out of Kingswood Country, if there are massive, awkward silences, or if he has a higher voice than you, terminate here. 

Stage Seven

Meet.

Note: If he looks twenty years older than his pictures, if he is six inches shorter than specified, if he is obnoxious/rude to waitstaff/boring/arrogant/disinterested in you, if he has no sense of humour, if he doesn't get your humour, if he cries when talking about his ex, if he becomes purple with rage when talking about his ex, if he doesn't ask you anything about yourself, if he talks excitedly about your future babies, if he proselytizes about God/clean eating/manifesting your own truth, or if he simply does not resonate with you for whatever reason, terminate here.

Stage Eight

Fucked if I know. I guess you meet again?

Ask Me About Dating!

So... a couple of weeks ago I was approached by eHarmony to participate in a series of videos about dating and relationships. At first I assumed I was chosen because I am such an expert in matters of love and sex - after all, I have written extensively on the subject and been on about 17,000 dates with 16,999 different men.

As discussions continued, however, it became clear that the videos would feature a REAL expert in love and sex, and that I would be there as an example of someone who needs help.

Which is fine. Really. I'm totally cool with that. As is my cat, who will probably eat my body after I die alone....

Anyway. I like eHarmony. I've actually met a couple of really nice men through eHarmony (and one dude who turned out to be a complete and utter nob, but that really wasn't the fault of the website). And I'm excited to be meeting Melanie Schilling, the Proper Relationship Expert. I have all sorts of questions for her, like:

1. How long should you chat to someone before you actually meet them?
2. Do you need to give someone a reason why you don't wish to see them again?
3. Why was that dude such an utter nob?

Even more excitingly, as the video won't be shot for another couple of weeks, I can ask any questions that you have for Melanie. You can write them as a comment here on the blog, in Facebook or on Twitter, or email me directly if you want to remain anonymous, at k.sack@live.com and we will address them in the video.

For those of you who do not require dating advice, after you finish celebrating your paired-up status, feel free to ask me about my own dating experiences. I have some super interesting stories to tell.

Begin!

12 Reasons An Electric Blanket Is Better Than A Man

1. It heats up super quickly when you are in the mood.
   
2. It never gets hot for anyone but you.
   
3. It gets turned on even when you're in your old pyjamas and bedsocks.
   
4. It exists purely for your pleasure and seeks nothing for itself (except power, which is kind of attractive).
   
5. It doesn't complain that its legs have fallen asleep when you lie on it.
   
6. You are its first. The warranty says so.
   
7. When you need a break it will sit on the shelf and wait for you indefinitely
   
8. It will never get you pregnant.
   
9. It gives you exactly what you need when you are sick or cranky.
   
10. It is adjustable.
    
11. It is only very rarely combustible.
    
12. It will keep performing for you until it dies.

Stop Policing Women's Sexual Fantasies

Several years ago, I read a story about an incestuous father-daughter relationship. It was beautifully written: simultaneously disturbing, compelling, and – in parts – erotic. It was supposed to be erotic. It was in a collection of erotic stories. I found myself being strangely aroused by this horrible story of abuse. Such was the skill of the writer.

But obviously that doesn’t mean I want to sleep with my father. It simply meant that a particular piece of writing could have the power to both arouse and disgust . It meant that sometimes, we are turned on by awful fantasies.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve observed the rising outcry over the Fifty Shades movie with interest. The movie is based on an erotic novel that sold millions of copies. In other words, millions of readers – primarily women – found the story of a damaged, violent man to be arousing.

Now that the movie has been released well-meaning critics are up in arms. “This movie condones domestic violence!” “It’s dangerous for women!”

But I disagree. No work of fiction can condone anything. It is simply a fantasy. It is simply a story that is both disturbing and erotic. And it is okay for women to find it arousing. Women are allowed to have their fantasies.

I resent this policing of other women’s erotic thoughts. Women are not stupid. Women know that Christian Grey is not a real person. And they know that the 50 Shades storyline is implausible to the point of ridiculous. They get that. No-one reads the book and takes it as a blueprint for living. They find it arousing, because fantasies of domination are common and completely normal. But the readers no more wish to re-enact the storyline in real life no more than I wish to actually sleep with my father.

Sex, for so many women, is steeped in shame. Sexual thoughts, for so many women, are steeped in embarrassment. Yelling “Fifty Shades is dangerous!” at women who find it erotic is just shaming them further. It is implying that there is something wrong with them for being turned on by a story.

This shaming, to me, is far more ‘dangerous’ than any movie. This shaming, to me, is what truly damages women. Yes, domestic violence is evil. But a fantasy about being dominated by a crazy, handsome man is not domestic violence. It is a fantasy. Many, many women fantasise about being tied down, or smacked, or sexually bullied. Many, many women fantasize about lesbian encounters, or group sex, or even sex without consent. Some women will enact one or more of those scenarios in a safe environment; some will keep them forever lodged in the most private parts of their minds.

But either way, fantasies are not reality. And it is okay to feed fantasies with a bit of visual stimulation. If you get off on Fifty Shades, there is nothing wrong with you. You are okay. And you are not condoning domestic violence. You are just having a little erotic fantasy.

Don’t be ashamed.

Real Single Mothers of Sydney

From the makes of The Biggest Bully and Embarrassing Doctors comes a brand new reality TV series: The Real Single Mothers of Sydney.

Follow single mothers Kerri Duckbill, Nicki McDonkadonk, Sassy Bonercrusher and Lucy 'One Date' Levi as they navigate parenthood, dating, sex, careers and the 5/2 diet whilst warding off existential angst and the advances of that sleazy old guy down at the cafe.

Watch as they struggle with weight, go on bad dates, drink too much coffee, drink too much wine, drink too little water, and tend to their ailing parents. See them argue with their ex spouses, fight for child support, attend family court, and have sex with emotionally unavailable men who are excellent in bed.

Cry as their self esteem plummets and they question their ability to ever connect with anyone on an intimate level ever again. Laugh as they swipe left on Tinder and notice married men who are fathers at their children's school. Cheer them on as they squeeze into a mini and push up bra to go see a man they met on the internet. Nod as the man they met on the internet turns out to have the personality of a lightly seared chicken fillet, which, incidentally, is their son's favourite meal though their daughter won't eat anything 'juicy'.

Synopsis: Episode One

Nicki McDonkadonk is told by her doctor to lose five kilos and consoles herself with high calorie hi-jinx, and a surprising method of self-pleasure. Sassy Bonercrusher rejects an intriguing proposal from a younger man, and argues with her son about vegetables. Lucy 'One Date' Levi flirts with her family lawyer, who has a shocking revelation about Nicki McDonkadonk's sexual performance. Kerri Duckbill spends hours wandering around Westfield, goes to therapy, and sobs in a variety of locations around Sydney.

To interview the stars of Real Single Mothers of Sydney, leave a comment below, or go to the school gates this afternoon where they will all be congregating after 3.30pm.

Candace Bushnell. But no Sex.

Today I attended a Business Chicks lunch to hear Candace Bushnell speak. For my Amish readers, Candace Bushnell wrote a little book called Sex And The City which became a rather good TV show. For my non-Amish readers... SEX AND THE CITY! WOO HOOOO!

The event was incredible. There were 1,000 women in the room, successful, strong, independent business women*. The energy in the room was fantastic. The food was absolutely divine. The Skinny Girl cocktails were quite nice, actually (despite being lo-cal). The wine was excellent. Kerri drank too much wine and ended up stumbling home...

But I digress.

The session was a Q&A with Ms Bushnell conducted by Natarsha Belling. Natarsha gave the introduction, and then Ms Bushnell walked onto the stage in a candy pink strapless mini-dress, escorted by a half naked man.


Candace Bushnell has the body of a thirty year old - a super skinny thirty year old. Her body is amazing, and kudos to her. She has the face of a forty year old. I won't speculate on how she achieved that look, but it's young. And she has the gravelly, very slightly tremulous voice of a sixty year old.

She is fifty-four.



She is 54. Seriously.

One could argue that age is irrelevant, but it is still fairly discombobulating to be looking at someone who is fifty-four but looks thirty-forty, sounds sixty, and is wearing a pink strapless mini.

Ms Bushnell answered all questions with practiced grace, but I had the odd sense that I was listening not to her, but to Carrie Bradshaw of the TV series. This was odd because Carrie Bradshaw is very largely a creation of Darren Star, the producer of SATC. The Carrie of the SATC book is very different to the Carrie portrayed by Sarah Jessica Parker on TV. And yet Ms Bushnell seemed to be channelling SJP, so effectively, in fact, that I felt confused by what I was watching.

There were a couple of strangely discordant moments. At one point, Ms Bushnell referred to seeing a man's 'hoo hoo' for the first time. This is the woman who gave us Sex And The City. SEX. Lots of SEX. She was wearing a pink mini and held the arm of a naked man. And she couldn't say 'penis'?

She also talked about how she didn't really approve of teen sex. "I'm a bit of a prude when it comes to teenage sex," she said. But... but... SEX! She IS sex!!! How can she be a prude about anything?

Candace Bushnell has made a massive contribution to pop culture. She wrote a book that generated a TV series that is hugely significant for many women of my generation. I have watched each episode at least three or four times, and some at least five or six. They comfort me. They make me happy. I could watch each episode a dozen times more.

I just got the feeling that Candace Bushnell is still back there in the 90's, forever Carrie living the life in New York. Unlike, JK Rowling, who is working to transcend her Harry Potter roots, she will never move on from the book that made her famous.

But Candace Bushnell is incredibly successful, and seemingly content, and she still fits into a tiny pink mini.

If she could only learn to say 'penis' instead of 'hoo hoo', she'd be completely damn fabulous.

*I was not one of them. I was there as a guest of the Australian Writers Centre. WOO HOOOO!

Last Night. It ALL Happened.

It's been a tough year. I'm doing well, but it's not easy being a single parent. I'm tired a lot of the time. I'm lonely some of the time. And I have needs. And not just for a cleaner or maid or personal chef (though I seriously could use one of those).

I have needs. Other kinds of needs.

Well, last night marked a turning point for me.

Some of those needs were met for the first time.

It started with a phone call. My friend Mike telephoned the United States, and asked if I was free to take someone out for drinks.

"Why would I take them out?" I asked, "when I can drink at home perfectly well?"

"Bring him home then," he said. "I'm sure he won't mind. He just wants a bit of company while he's in town."

"Who is he?" I asked, and wondered whether I needed to change out of my Uggs.

"He's an actor. He's Australian, but he's lived in LA for a while now. You actually met him briefly when you were here last. I'm not sure if you remember, but you liked him a lot."

I thought for a moment. I was pretty shattered. I'd had a long, hard day, blogging and doing laundry and trying to get Penny the cat to take her worm pill. But then I figured: I've been a bit of a hermit lately, so I should probably make an effort.

I called Gab the Wonder Babysitter, changed from my Uggs into boots, and whacked on some lippy. For a minute I considered changing from my tracksuit pants into jeans, but I didn't know the guy, and it seemed like a lot of effort.

"What's his name?" I asked Mike.

"Soren," he said, but the line was a bit crackly.

Not very Aussie, I thought. He must be Swedish.

I drove in to the city to where Soren was staying in a hotel, and parked my car in the parking lot. The rates were exorbitant, and I worried a little. I really can't afford $80 for parking right now. Most websites only pay about $50 per blog post. But I couldn't cancel at the last moment. And besides, I didn't have Soren's number.

I walked into the lobby and checked my face briefly in the mirror. I looked okay. My hair was clean, there was no food on my top, and I didn't have lipstick on my teeth. I had the winning trifecta.

I was nervous, because I hadn't been out in so long, and also because I realised I hadn't washed my trakky pants in about a month. But I proceeded to the bar, because a promise is a promise.

The bar was empty, but for a blonde guy drinking beer. He was gently tapping his credit card on the counter. I noticed that it was from ANZ.

"Soren?" I asked. He had nice thick hair. Most Swedish men do.

He turned around. "Simon," he said, and leaned in to give me a kiss. "Don't you remember?"

It took me a second to place him, and then suddenly it hit me. "Simon! Of course! Simon Baker! How are you?"

He took me in his arms. "Let's skip the small talk, shall we?" he murmured into my ear. "I've been waiting for this for a long, long time. Shall we go straight up to my room?"

I started to agree and then remembered that I hadn't shaved my legs in six months.

"I... I..."

Simon placed a finger on my lips.

"No excuses. Just love."

He picked me up, carried me to the lift, and then up to the Penthouse where he gently undressed me. The last thing I remember before the waves of bliss rolled over me was the look of delight as he pulled down my trakky pants.

"Hairy legs! Oh yes! My favourite!"

It was, indeed, a night to remember.

Disclaimer: This post is entirely fictional. But fun, huh?

Sex. On A Plane. Interrupted. By My Husband.

I have written in the past about my imaginary friend Cherie and her totally inappropriate sex dreams. Well, I don't know what Cherie was up to this morning, but I was sure having a doozy. Because when my husband woke me up at 5.20am by turning on the TV*, he disturbed one of the most fantastic dreams I've had in a long time.

And it was about a man I find extremely unattractive.

Except, clearly, in my subconscious.

Actually, the dream was about two men. Three, if you count my husband (which, if you were conducting a census, you would). One of the men is someone I do find quite attractive, so it wasn't that odd that he popped up in my dream (um... metaphorically speaking).

My husband, Handsome Man and I were all on an aeroplane, and my husband and HM were arguing about which direction we were heading. (Freudians, you can just shut up right now.) Then a third, unattractive man boarded the plane via the emergency exit, which was peculiar as we were mid flight.

UM walked straight up to me, took my hand, and began kissing me.

"This is strange," I thought to myself as I passionately returned his embrace. "This man quite repulses me. And yet this is rather erotic." (Note that I didn't find it 'strange' that he had boarded a plane mid flight. So goes the shaky logic of dreams.)

Artist's impression of WHAT MY HUSBAND RUINED

I lay down with UM on the floor of the plane (we must have been in First Class because there's certainly no such leg room in Economy) as my husband and HM argued away, oblivious. And then we started to engage in some quite heated sexy-type business, and it was going really promisingly, until... oh god, oh god, oh GOD Melissa Doyle on Sunrise!

And then I woke up.

There is no moral to this story. There is nothing you can take away from it and use to enrich your own life.

Unless, of course, you are the Unattractive Man. In which case, you should feel mighty good right about now. And hope that next time, bloody Melissa Doyle doesn't interrupt our rendezvous.

*which is a whole other post in itself - I mean, not very considerate, huh?**

**and before he starts bombarding this post with comments***, yes, he had the earplugs in, but the light from the screen was still dazzling

***assuming he will read this post, which he probably won't****

****which is a good thing, considering it's about inappropriate sex dreams

Kristen Stewart, Prince Charles, and LOVE

Poor Kristen Stewart. Seriously. She is twenty-two years old, has made a stupid mistake, and is now dealing with the consequences in front of the whole world. Can you imagine that? I've had shocking times with my husband, and it's bad enough when the kids come in and see us fighting, but I can't even conceive of the pressure of paparazzi waiting outside my home to catch us in the act, and teenage girls screaming at me because I've destroyed their fantasies about perfect love. It would be hell. Utter hell.

Kristen is twenty-two years old, and she had sex with her director - an older, handsome, powerful man - when she was off on location. Now, I've been on film sets, and let me tell you, they are seething hives of infidelity. Everyone is doing someone else. I'm not saying it's right, I'm not saying it's fair on the partners, but it is like summer camp for adults, with a lot of stress and late nights and alcohol and spectacularly good-looking people thrown into the mix, and a certain amount of bed hopping is bound to happen.

Everyone interprets things differently, but I read Kirsten's apology and felt sick for her. To me, it wasn't a publicity stunt, or a manufactured statement, it was a direct appeal to her boyfriend to forgive her for being such an idiot. 'I love him, I love him, I'm sorry,' she said, and I wanted to cry.

love love love

I love love. I really do. It kills me when people who are truly meant to be together are kept apart by circumstance or error. I am such a sucker for a happy ending. I must be one of the few people in the world, for example, who celebrated when Prince Charles and Camilla finally got married. Charles had loved Camilla all his life (as a good, loyal tampon does), he had been pressured into marrying the wrong person, and in the end, he was reunited with his true life partner. That, to me, was a fairytale, no matter what a dick Charles was, no matter how completely un-fairytale-like he and Camilla are.

Charles married the wrong person, and Kirsten had sex with the wrong person. The stories aren't similar at all, except that they're both about true love being thrown off its path. I just sincerely hope that, like Charles and his bride, K Stew and R Patz manage to find their way back to each other.

Love is too important to let die over a stupid mistake.

Meet The Lingerie Author

This morning I had a revelation. I was listening to an interview with two of the bunnies athletes from the Lingerie Football team touring Australia. They totally won me over. You see, I had thought they were just glorified Pussycat Dolls who can't actually sing (which, to be fair, doesn't really distinguish them from the real Pussycat Dolls), but it turns out they are much more than that.

Apparently Lingerie footy is a totally serious sport, and the only reason they wear undies lingerie is that 'society has made it necessary to market things like that.'

And that's when it hit me. Of COURSE! That makes perfect sense! Society has said that sex sells, so the only way to get men to a women's footy game is to put the women in sexy knickers. It's so obvious. I mean, sure, you could refuse to demean youself just because 'that's what society is like'. And sure you could consider that by buying into it, you are creating society, rather than the other way around.

But that's just silly philosophising. And I don't have room in my head for all that kind of stuff. It's man's work.

They are, like, totally right. Sex sells. I mean, just think how much better my books would sell if I sexed it up a bit? I've been going about this all wrong. I've been relying on stupid things like talent and hard work to get me through. I've thought that wit and insight and well constructed sentences would me a readership, when really what I should have been doing all along was donning a g-string and hopping on the panty train.

But it's never too late. For now I have learned. Finally, I have seen the light. From this day forward I shall be writing in nipple tassles and shaking my little toosh on the keyboard.

Lingerie Reading

People, I give you..... the Lingerie Author.

Lingerie Writing



Lingerie Brainstorming

My New Venture

It was alleged today that Chinese actress Zhang Ziyi was paid more than $100 million to sleep with several powerful men (presumably not at once). The world has reacted with shock and horror. She's a prostitute! That beautiful, talented actress is just a whore!

I have also reacted with shock and horror. You can earn $100 million from sex??? Oh. My. GOD. It's a revelation. So far all I've earned from sex is an orgasm or two and a grateful cuddle from my husband at the end of the night. $100 million??? Seriously?

Bring. It. On.

I have nothing against prostitution in either theory or practice. It's a service like any other, there is a market for it, and provided that the service providers are acting out of free will and not coerced by slavery/drugs/pimps etc (which, of course, they so often are), then all power to them.

Still, it's definitely not for me. I mean, if Simon Baker wanted to pay me for sex I'd be all for it (and Simon, if you're reading, my current fee is five cents per day), but I wouldn't want some random, sweaty, hairy man in my bed for a couple of hundred dollars an hour. Ugh.

But that's before I read about Zhang Ziyi. Because it's not a couple of hundred dollars an hour at all. It's a couple of million. And I don't care how sweaty or hairy you are, for a couple of million I'll put up with you. Hell, it's just an hour of my time. And quite frankly, if you're so desperately into me that you're willling to pay a couple of million dollars, I suspect it's going to be a lot less than that.

So men, I am up for sale. Two million dollars a pop.

But Simon, I am all yours. For free.

A Very Short Post About Sex

Tomorrow is Boo's birthday and we bought her a rocking horse. For two weeks now I've been asking The Architect to assemble it, as I want Boo to open a horse, and not bits of tail, legs and a head. So far, The Architect has ignored me, as he is wont to do.

This morning, as he left the house, I looked at him meaningfully. Boo was clinging to his leg, so I couldn't say it directly, but I needed to make myself understood.

"Tonight you have to... you know..." I said, and I mimed the action for riding a horse.

The Architect looked delighted. "Have sex?" he asked.

"NO!" I said. "You have to make the thing! You know! The thing that goes giddyup?" and again I mimed riding a horse.

He grinned. "Sex! You want to have sex tonight! Okay!"

I sighed. "NO!!! You have to put together the thing!" and I mimed riding a horse, together with slapping my own butt and yelling "Neigh!"

In his dreams

He reached over and slapped my butt too. "Sex it is!" he said.

Looks like I'll be putting the damn horse together myself.

Why I Need A TV In My Bedroom

Those of you who follow me on Twitter will know that the television in my bedroom died the other day (and yes, I thank you in advance for your kind wishes at this very difficult time in my life).

I do not watch an enormous amount of TV, but the television in my room is irreplaceable (though I hope not literally so, as that would be bad news indeed). And having gone forty eight hours without it, I can specify why:

Top Reasons I Need A TV In My Bedroom

1. My husband and I have been married for nearly fifteen years, and our kids and work aren't interesting enough to sustain us through a long evening. Without television, we would run out of things to talk about within about ten minutes.
2. The door to our ensuite bathroom is not very sound proof. Without the television volume turned on high, I might hear souns emanating from that room that I just won't be able to ever unhear again.
3. When my husband and I both read in bed, he tries to read me passages from his book, I try to read him passages from my book, we both get annoyed at each other for not showing interest in each others' books, and the whole thing descends into chaos.
4. Without television in the bedroom, until we are ready to sleep there will be nothing to do in bed but talk (see point 1. above), read (see point 3. above), or have sex. As mentioned, we have been married for nearly fifteen years. There's only so many times a week we can have sex before it gets old.
5. Without a television in the bedroom, I can't warm up for sex by watching The Mentalist.
6. Without a television in the bedroom, my husband can't warm up for sex by watching one of those BBC 'Documentaries' he is so fond of (though quite frankly, Top Gear seems to do it for him just as effectively).
7. Without a television in the bedroom, there is nothing to watch while I actually am having sex.
8. Without a television in the bedroom, we can't turn on the morning shows as we get ready for the day, which means that all we can hear from 6.30am till 8am is the crazy-making sounds of Spongebob Squarepants.
9. If I can't turn on the the morning shows as I get ready, I don't know what the news of the day is, or, more importantly, what the temperature is going to be.
10. If I can't turn on the morning shows as I get ready, I can't pretend that I don't hear my kids above the noise of my television, and I might have to actually respond to their demands for food, bag-packing assistance, conflict mediation and retrieval of lost shoes, and quite frankly, I'm far too tired.

Do you have a TV in your bedroom?

A Sex Dream.... About WHO???

Have you ever had an inappropriate sex dream?

No? Oh.... er.... no, no, neither have I. But my... er... friend has. Her name is... um... Cherie. Yes, Cherie. And Cherie's had quite a few.

Now, some may argue that any sex dream that is not about one's partner is inappropriate. Others may argue that any sex dream about one's partner is inappropriate. Others may argue that any sex dream at all is excellent, and that we shouldn't be looking a gift bonk in the mouth.














In my Cherie's opinion, however, an 'inappropriate' sex dream is one which stars someone one should not be dreaming about - a relative, a close friend, a close friend's parent, someone of the same sex (if one is heterosexual), someone of the opposite sex (if one is gay) or just someone one finds really unattractive.

Cherie's inappropriate sex dream was the last kind. Oh, though she may have occasionally had the second kind too. And maybe, once or twice, the fourth. But if so, she didn't tell me.

It's always disconcerting to wake up from a dream in which you have done something utterly bizarre. I mean, dreams are not visited upon you from beyond. They arise from your subconscious. You create them. So when you dream that you're doing the wild thing with someone really, really unexpected - well, you can't help but re-examine your mind. You wake up and wince and think, where the hell did that come from?

At least, that's what Cherie tells me.

And then, when you see the person you had the dream about, you feel all weird. You look at them in a completely different way, because you've suddenly seen them without their clothes on (except that you haven't, of course, your subconscious has, and even your subconscious hasn't really seen them, it's just seen some version of them that it created). But it still feels weird. It's almost like you really have had sex with them, except that you haven't at all, or at least you have, but they haven't had sex with you (unless they have too, in a dream of their own, which is getting into a whole different realm of bizarre).

Or at least, that's what Cherie tells me.

Happily, though, I haven't had any such dreams. I dream only of my husband, and of failing my university exams (even though I finished uni about a hundred years ago). Oh, and of houses floating in the air, which really freaks me out. But that's a whole other story.

As for Cherie, however, I'll make sure she keeps me posted.

So tell me - have you ever had a totally inappropriate sex dream?

My Morning Of Porn

I have a confession to make. I've been watching porn all morning.

I tried to look away. Truly. But I couldn't. I became positively addicted. I watched vid after vid after vid, so intensely excited that I forgot to eat lunch, and lost hours sitting at the computer.

The players in the porn movies weren't particularly attractive, but that didn't bother me at all. They still knew how to move, they sounded great, and besides, it was the leather and metal hardware that drew me in. I could practically smell it, feel it, taste it (okay, not taste it, I wouldn't really taste leather or metal, but it was a very vivid sensory experience).

Now, normally I'm not into porn. Watching two (or three or seventeen) people have sex in a poorly lit room after a preposterous set-up just doesn't do it for me. But this porn wasn't your standard, male-on-female-on-female-on-cable-guy sex movie. It was one-on-one, and it was incredible. And it left me frenzied with desire and desperate for more.

Specifically, the vids were woman-on-bag, and featured on a fashion website I stumbled upon. Now I've been on many fashion websites, and I've looked at many bags. But I've never before seen movies of women holding the bags, playing with them, opening their flaps and unzipping their pockets. I'm shivering just thinking about it. Click here to see!

I loved the bag porn for the same reason that anyone loves porn. I could see myself in it. When men watch porn they relate to the male star, fantasizing about having sex with the three blonde flight attendants as voraciously as he. When I watched my bag porn, I related to the women. That could be me, I thought. I could be slinging that hobo over my arm. I could be sauntering down the road with the satchel in my hand. I could be caressing that sleek, smooth leather and sliding my cell phone in and out of the handy, fully lined inner pocket ("For organisation!" the girl beamed).

It was an amazingly satisfying morning. And for those of you wondering: yes, there was a climax. I got out my credit card and bought a beautiful Calvin Klein bag, which shall be delivered to me in just a few short days.

And unlike the other type of standard-issue orgasms, my bag will keep me twitching with delight for months.

So tell me: can your porn do that?

Let Me Go The F**k To Sleep: A Wife's Lament

By now most of you should have heard of the magnificent new children's book (that is definitely NOT for children) "Go The F**K To Sleep". Author Adam Mansbach and illustrator Ricardo Cortes have captured the frustrations of parents everywhere, longing desperately for their kids to go the f**k to sleep so that they can get some f**king rest.

Well, I have come up with a new version of "Go The F**k To Sleep". I don't yet have illustrations, but you'll get the general idea.

"Let Me Go The F**k To Sleep: A Wife's Lament"

The kids are finally in bed
With sweet relief I weep.
I go up to the bedroom.
Time to go the fuck to sleep.

In only seven hours my
clock radio will beep.
I need to catch each minute
of my precious fucking sleep.

It's been a long, hard day
of work and chores and problems deep.
I cannot wait to get to bed
and go to fucking sleep.

I tiptoe through the door and
to my bed I softly creep.
Don't want to wake the hubby
who - thank god - is fast asleep.

I slide beneath the sheets
and fall into a crumpled heap.
I close my eyes then hear a voice:
"Hey babe, are you asleep?"

I lie there very still and then I
start to count some sheep.
I'm hoping he will take the hint
and let me fucking sleep.

Just as I drift into my dreams
his hand begins to creep.
He thinks it's time for making love!
It's time for fucking sleep!

He snuggles in and nuzzles me
and out of bed I leap.
"Don't even fucking THINK of sex!
I want to go to sleep!"

He looks at me so hopefully,
his boxers torn and cheap.
"I bet I can convince you
that you're not ready to sleep!"

I shake my head and climb back in
and lie on pillows deep.
"There's not a chance in hell," I say,
"now let me fucking sleep!"

"We never do it anymore,"
says hubby. But he'll keep.
Quite frankly I don't give a fuck.
I'm already asleep.

Marriage, The Eruption

Yesterday I was in a delightful bookstore and bought several very delightful books (actually, that's not quite true - one was on drug addiction and prostitution, one was on suicide, and one was a series of essays on social phenomenon. But they all had very nice covers.)

I also bought a tiny book called 'Don'ts For Wives', written in London in 1913. Despite its fairly negative title (I would have thought 'Do's For Wives' was rather more catchy) it is a marvellously upbeat little tome, full of nuggets of wisdom that need only minor modernisation to stay relevant today.

So, for your elucidation, education and entertainment (and a totally gratuitous use of alliteration) here are some of those nuggets, helpfully updated by me:

"Don't moralise by way of winning back the love that seems to be waning. Make yourself extra charming and arrange delicious dinners which include all your husband's favourite dishes."
= After you've been married for a while, you and your husband will go off each other. Find solace in food.

 "Don't argue with a stubborn husband. Drop the matter before argument leads to temper. You can generally gain your point in some other way."
= Don't bother fighting with your husband because he'll never give in. Withhold sex instead.

"Don't be shy of showing your love. A playful caress as you pass his chair, an unexpected touch on the shoulder, makes all the difference between merely knowing that you care for him and actually feeling it."
= Oral sex will keep your husband happy.

"Don't get angry if your husband says that he never now tastes cake like that his mother used to make. Write and ask her for the recipe."
= Live far away from your mother-in-law.

"Don't try to excite your husband's jealousy by flirting with other men. You may succeed better than you want to. It is like playing with tigers and edged tools and volcanoes all in one."
= Stay away from other men's tools or you could cause an eruption....

"Don't arrange for the chimney sweep to come on the day your husband happens to be staying at home. He won't like either the sooty smell or the subsequent upset for cleaning purposes."
= Ignore the above.

The Husband Speaks

Hopefully by now you all will have rushed to Booktopia to pre-order my book and watch the instructional video I made (using 'instructional' in its lesser known sense of 'rude'). Of course, if you're coming to my launch or planning to buy the book in a bookstore then you are excused from pre-ordering, but I highly recommend you still watch the video.

The video is a re-enactment of a dissertation I once gave called "Marital Advice" (you can tell it's a re-enactment because, well, it's a cartoon). I presented the dissertation at a Women's Function a year ago (using 'Women's Function' in the sense of 'Girl's Night Out').

However, the video offers only one side of the marital story - the female's. So, in the interests of journalistic fairness, I give to you: Marital Advice Part Two: The Husband Speaks.

Watch. And learn.