MEN I WISH I HADN'T SLEPT WITH

Sorry, I've Been A Bit Tied Up...

2010-12-30T12:00:00.000-08:00

Right. First of all I really must apologise- I know I haven't posted in an excruciatingly long time. I'm sure you must all be totally outraged and devastated that I have been depriving you of my witty repartee and tales of various sexual exploits. And there is a good reason behind my silence. I recently met an incredibly handsome, funny, independently wealthy man- with no emotional baggage and a burning desire to be in a serious relationship- and we are dating. *Falls over and cries with hysterical laughter*

Clearly this is not true. The fact of the matter is, I haven't had so much as a snifter of action in what feels like an eternity. I have also moved house and started an incredibly time-consuming new job...which is really a poor excuse for my practically nun-like existence, but I am entitled to be as deceitful with myself as I like in order to prevent myself from self harming/binge eating.

But enough of that. I do need to thank you all for your amazing responses to my Facebook shag dilemma. I feel that I have to share some of your advice, because a) frankly it is too funny not to and b) I need a subject for a blog post. I would like to preface the comments by saying that I did eventually reply to him and told him that under no circumstances would I sleep with him on a pre-arranged cyber sex date but that he was welcome to pick up the telephone and call me like a normal human being. He replied saying: "Thats OK, I like to work for it as it well brings out my A game." Needless to say, I have never answered any of his calls (as he is clearly more of a social mutant that I remembered if he thinks that was an appropriate response) and am going to be focussing on searching out fresh meat in the new year, about which I promise to update you regularly.

Below are my favourite responses- thank you all, and Happy New Year!!!!

-Be thankful he didn't create a public Facebook event page with the "Attending", "Maybe attending" and "Not attending" options. I actually think I might have preferred it if he had done?

-The words 'steamy passion' gives me literally the dry boak. This made me laugh out loud, even before I had looked up what "the dry boak" was...

-In reply to your most recent post:

a.) He used the term "steamy passion" which in my book deserves a clean slap with a brick (for his own good of course).

b.)I was recently in the predicament of wanting to ask a girl out for a drink but couldn't bring myself to do it over facebook.

c.)NO.

d.)Just NO.
I should point out that this was the only post from a male reader that didn't encourage me to go and sleep with him immediately.

-Wank. And then tell him to go grout his own asshole! My unrivalled favourite comment.

And the nominees are....

2010-08-18T14:32:00.000-07:00

I was incredibly flattered to find out that I have been nominated for a Cosmo Blog Award. Quelle honour- a nomination from the home of the sex quiz!! I am duly humbled. Feel free to vote for me if you fancy it...

SHOULD I OR SHOULDN'T I: THE FACE BOOK F*CK

2010-08-11T15:46:00.001-07:00

Now, I know that I haven't posted in ages and that everyone has probably forgotten about me by now. BUT, in my defense, I'm trying to buy a house, which it turns out is MUCH less fun than buying shoes, and MUCH more expensive. In short, it blows. But maybe, just possibly, I might end up with a walk-in wardrobe. Probably not though. Sigh.

Anyway, I digress. As I said, I'm far to busy with trying to become a mortgage-slave to be going out meeting men, which is why I haven't posted anything in about a million years (in blog time, that is). HOWEVER- I got a message today on Facebook, and to deal with it,I really need your help. Frankly, I'm too wrapped up with Vishal, my overweight mortgage broker, to even think about my sex life, so I've decided to let you make my decisions for me.

So- below is a message I got today, from a boy I have slept with once or twice (OK, maybe three times), but not seen or heard from in two years. TWO YEARS people. Have a read and let me know what you think.
*Please be aware the reference to grouting refers to a witty DIY-related status update, and not anything more sinister.

"Hi ya how’s it going,
Long time I know but I was thinking the other day just how much fun it would be to go and have a drink with you and then on for a night of steamy passion. I think we had fun last time and have been practising so it should be even more exciting this time. I could even do you grouting well help fill your gaps.
What you think?xx"

SO- bearing in mind, I'm in a massive drought, and am not likely to get laid any time soon (despite my efforts Vishal seems to show no interest, which is really rather rude)- can I even stoop so low as to reply to this message?? What do I do? From memory, he was a 6/10 in bed, which is not bad going. The issue is that fundamentally I'm not sure I can deal with an Internet based sex-invite, nor the cringe-fest that the wording above incites (steamy passion? really? not quite how I remember it). However, I am at this moment watching My Best Friends Wedding at home, alone...which feels like some kind of omen. What should I do???????

HELP!!!

Advice to MIWIHSW@gmail.com

Results will be posted soon!!!!

Thank you!!!

Love

Miss V

TIME OUT INTERVIEWS MISS V!!!

2010-07-05T13:55:00.000-07:00

For those of you who didn't see it (SHAME ON YOU!!!), I thought I would show you the interview with me in Time-Out magazine. Why yes, that is the cover story, thank you for asking. I'm mildly concerned that I sound like a slutty Sloane, but I'll get over it.

RE-DATING

2010-06-18T12:27:00.000-07:00

The other day I was corralling the herd of empty wine bottles in my kitchen into a recycling bag, along with the entire Sunday Times (untouched- I only ever read the Style section), packets of Vogue Menthol Cigarettes, 3 empty cans of Slim-fast and a Dominos pizza box (what can I say- my life is a vicious cycle), and I got to thinking about what else I have thrown away...or what I may have thrown away, but really should have recycled.

Everyone is recycling crazy these days. Going green has never been sexier- I even think that Sloane who runs The Ecologist is hot- not to mention all the celebs who are constantly wittering and Twittering on about how we should be saving the environment. I suddenly realised that I shouldn't be worried about making sure my hummus is organic and my shoes are Stella McCartney- I should be addressing my own poor polluted landscape: my dating landscape, that is. I have to say it is looking rather burnt out and congested of late... I fear if I carry on at this rate it may be in danger of not being able to sustain any life whatsoever. Thus I decided it was time for me to get on-trend, stop moaning about not having a boyfriend and start recycling my old ones, or as I like to call it: Re-Dating.

My first step was to take stock of (some) of the men I have known in my life and decide which, if any, could possibly be salvaged and re-processed into a new relationship, or at least a decent summer liaison, without cluttering up my sexual environment with yet another rotting failed-date carcass. All of the cheaters were immediately ruled out: relegated straight back to the dump. Ditto the narcissistic photographer with a hairy back who in 2 years only told me he loved me when he was on ecstasy. I also cast aside a jealous rugby player who used to spell 'something' with a 'k' (somethink) and 'coleslaw' with a 'd' (coldslaw)- I just can't date a bad speller, no matter how good his body; and a man who just too short (I felt like I was sleeping with the cute blonde hobbit from Lord of the Rings) and also seemed to think we were still in a serious monogamous relationship 4 weeks after I had dumped him, i.e was quite possibly a bit mental.

I consider an incredibly sweet boy I dated at university who looked like a more attractive version of Screech from Saved by the Bell, but a quick check on Facebook rules him out- married (cue mild panic: how is Screech married, when I am still single????????). I reminisce very fondly about a gorgeous medical student who was in my top 3 all time shags, until I remember that he dumped me via text message. Actually debate contacting him for old times sake, until my self-respect calls and tells me to put down the phone.

A bar-man remains in the running: he was very sweet, attentive and a respectable 7/10 in the sack. I try and remember why I stopped seeing him and recall that at the time I decided that a) his hair was too curly, though in fairness he did cut it off when I asked him to, b) he lived too far away- East London to my West, and c) his skin was a bit too shiny (I am aware of how ridiculous this sounds but at the time it used to drive me crazy). A handsome banker was sidelined because he was always late, and even though he took me to fabulous places and was both intelligent and funny, and at the time I thought it was much more amusing to sleep with my slightly over-weight boss (I'll tell you about that another time).

It dawns on me that I have been much more frivolous than I thought! I am living in my own carbon dating foot-print! It was time to break the cycle: and quickly. Within an hour I had arranged a Saturday night date with the banker: he wasn't late and I enjoyed an evening of witty conversation at a wonderful restaurant (as opposed to the 24 hour McDonalds I visited after one of my more recent dates). The universe was clearly rewarding me for my sex-ecological behaviour, because after dinner I climbed out of a taxi and bumped straight into the aforementioned Dr. Text, who promptly took me home for what can only be described as a very thorough physical. And after this very enjoyable evening as a re-dater, I didn't wake up with another notch on my bedpost, or disillusioned with yet another man- already being familiar with and having accepted my re-dates faults. I felt something akin to the smugness I associate with women who carry those Anya Hindmarch "I Am Not A Plastic Bag" totes: and it wasn't half bad! Positive change is in the air, readers: you may think of me as the Al Gore of casual sex, if you so wish.

In short...

To REDUCE your dating pollution, REUSE your old boyfriends, and RECYCLE past shags into present ones!

Image by Doug Inglish, customised by Miss V.

GAY OF THE MONTH: HENRY HOLLAND

2010-06-17T10:57:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know who Henry is (shame on you!) I thought it would be helpful for you to read what Wikipedia has to say about him:

Henry Holland (born 26 May 1983) is a fashion designer from Ramsbottom, Lancashire, England. He has attracted notice with his bold, '80-inspired T-shirts with catchphrases such as "I'll tell you who's boss, Kate Moss". He is well known for his work with model Agyness Deyn and for being gay (thanks for that Wikipedia, I don't think I would have worked it out otherwise...). His latest collection features a number of tees with acronyms such as 'ctfo', meaning 'chill the f*** out'.

What they neglect to mention is that he is charming, hilarious, and one of my best friends! He has agreed to take time out of his busy schedule of jet setting, posing for photographs, sending obnoxious twitters to make everyone jealous about his lifestyle, oh, and designing majorly fierce clothes- to be my Gay of the Month.

His current dating mantra is: "If he's not the one- jog on." That's right people- he's too busy for small talk. I for one, like the cut of his jib. Henry, I salute you.

Send him your questions!! MIWIHSW@gmail.com

Image by Rankin

FRIENDS IN NEED, FRIENDS INDEED: THE ART OF CASUAL SEX WITH YOUR FRIENDS.

2010-06-11T04:57:00.000-07:00

I was doing a little bit of research the other day about having sex with your friends (research you say? yes! research! That university degree was bound to come in handy eventually…), and I was a bit disappointed to find that everything I read seemed to be about 'Fuck Buddies' or 'Friends with Benefits' and a variety of other tragic 90's clichés. Now, I’m a big fan of the Fuck Buddy, don’t get me wrong- but I wanted to talk about what to do when you accidentally shag one of your friends. Not someone that you have a sexual relationship with, but the glorious, totally un-premeditated 2am “oh wouldn't it be hilarious if we just had it off” / oh-Christ-did-we-just-bonk kind of accident. However, I became increasingly disturbed because all I came across were scary pieces of advice like the one below. I have taken the liberty of highlighting phrases that make me want to vomit:

"How can you avoid potential confusion and pain? First, spend lots of time discussing up front the pros and cons, and the considerable emotional risk. Talk about the possibility of falling in love and how you would handle it. Talk about whether or not you’re comfortable dating others while being lovers together. Be brutally honest about how you feel and what you want. In short, have a direct, straight forward You and Me conversation and hold nothing back. Make your decision based on the reality of the choice, positive and negative, not the fantasy of it."

WHAT ARE THESE PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT???????? Have they never slept with a friend simply because they were hammered/had taken loads of ecstasy/were bored??

Well, my research has taught me two things- 1) don’t ever look for relationship advice on the internet and 2) there is a cyber-conspiracy to try and take the fun out of casual sex. These vile sites are spewing out “advice” which is surely designed to end the spontaneous friend shag: if I have learnt one thing in 28 years, its that nothing repels a man more that a “You and Me” conversation. Forget all of this rubbish about “discussions”, and long live the meaningless ménage a deux!

Luckily for you, I don’t shirk my field research either. As you may have read in my recent post (5 Women I Hate), my social circle isn’t exactly teeming with straight men. I have of course indulged in the odd friend-fling here and there (purely in the name of research, of course), but with my limited resources its imperative that I make sure they can stay friends- as I’m literally one homo away from being Liza Minelli. A while ago I found myself on holiday with a gentleman, who I adore but had never slept with -possibly because he was too busy shagging all my other friends, often in my spare bedroom at parties. Perhaps it was really only a matter of time, as we are two of a relatively small number of straight single people working in the fashion industry, and also often the only people still up at 4am (ok, 6am. sometimes later). Now, I'm a hoot- but after a while even the best of us run out of decent banter. Factor in WAY too much tequila, a bit of a tan, and next thing I knew we were having sex in the swimming pool (and possibly behind the pool shed) faster than you can say "Young British Designer". I climbed out of the pool with as much dignity as possible (difficult when you are barely able to walk- luckily the endowment rumors circulating LFW were true) and took myself off to bed with a chaste kiss on the cheek. We have never discussed it and continue to be great friends.

The reality of the situation is that if you want to stay friends with someone after you’ve crossed the sex boundary, your post-coital behavior is paramount. You must remember to suppress all of your normal post shag affectations – mine include some kind of weird chemical reaction that makes me want to whisper "I love you" every time I have an orgasm (does this happen to anyone else??)- and bitch-slap the part of you that wants to cuddle.

Once you've got yourself under control, you now have to make sure that your counterpart also knows what is acceptable. As long as you are both able to do this, we can all continue to mate with mates with no consequences. To this end, I've come up with some handy guide-lines: think of them as casual-sex commandments, if you will.

• He should from the moment of intercourse, refrain from referring to wanting to sleep with other women (especially your friends, and in particular, models) in your presence. Nor will he ask you to set him up with your friends.

• He should occasionally try and sleep with you again. This is so that you can have the option of having a shag, or if you're not in the mood, the opportunity to shoot someone down (revel in it. Sometimes it’s better than sex).

• He should invite you to any and all fabulous parties that he gets invited to.

• It is acceptable for him to refer to you as a "very close friend" in front of other people and wink at you saucily. You, in turn, will laugh graciously and pat his arm.

• He must always tell you that you look thin and/or pretty.

• He must always be available to accompany you to events where your ex will be present, and once there, lavish attention on you, perhaps occasionally uttering some of the following phrases:
- I know, she's breath-taking, isn't she
- I'd give my left ball to date her, but I couldn't bear to lose her as a friend
- She is a sexual goddess. She has ruined me for all other women.

If he breaks any of these rules you can tell everyone that he is impotent. And there you have it.

Image by Helmut Newton.

SEXENOMICS

2010-05-27T06:24:00.000-07:00

MIWIHSW has run into a bit of a dry patch of late. This may have something to do with the fact that I generally prefer the company of gay men and women, or possibly that I have a fairly unique ability to repel all men that I am actually interested in, and attract only those who suffer from personality disorders that should legally prevent them from mixing with normal society. Either way, it has left me with some spare time to think about the alternatives to dating....namely male escorts. The more I have thought about it, the more it makes sense- and not in a kind of creepy, 45 year old spinster with cats and a moustache who has to pay men to talk to her kind of a way- in a genius MIWIHSW way. Brace yourselves.

As you may remember from my recent entry: "Tit for Tat", I am concerned with helping women find inventive ways of economising (I'm fairly sure there is a Nobel Prize on the horizon). I believe that the male escort could in fact be our financial saviour, a way to get rid of the need for two expenses which have become the staple of the modern working women: the personal trainer and the therapist.

A therapist is usually acquired because your friends have grown tired of you droning on about the same old crap, year in and year out. At first it was wonderful- one glorious hour a week talking about yourself. It felt luxurious! Sophisticated! However, once the honeymoon is over, horror of horrors, this woman expects you to DEAL.WITH.YOUR.PROBLEMS...or worse...WORK.ON.YOURSELF. I object to paying someone over £100 an hour if I am expected to do any work whatsoever- especially when all I really want is for her to tell me that I am wonderful and rather hard done by, and that it is fact someone else's fault that I suffer from minor alcoholism/abandonment issues/cellulite.

The original purpose of hiring a personal trainer was so that I would be motivated to go to the gym, shed a stone, and look like Daria Werbowy by bikini season. He and I would flirt innocently, and he would probably fall in love with me as I effortlessly shed weight and emerged majestically svelte, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. The harsh reality of it is, that after 3 months I have actually gained weight, and "Dave" has started to bark offensively at me while he degrades me publicly with a humiliating series of lunges and burpees. Nor has he even had the decency to flirt with me- and is obviously brazenly dating the gym receptionist, who has the gall to wear lycra shorts and a crop top every day, showing off abs you could grate cheese on and a bottom like two hard boiled eggs in a handkerchief (mine is more like two wombats fighting in a sack). Any way- I digress. The point of the matter is that I now realise that I can get what I actually want from both my shrink and my trainer from an escort, and at a fraction of the price!

Here come the maths...

A therapist costs on average, £80- £120 per hour. A personal trainer- between £60- 80 per hour. According to my research, you can hire a reasonably good looking male escort for around £60 per hour. So for the bargain price of £120, I could engage in an hour of vigorous sex (burning approx 400 Calories- the same as an aerobics class), followed by an hour of cuddling- during which he has to listen to me talk about my problems, while simultaneously stroking my hair and occasionally murmuring that I am beautiful. It is quite literally, win win. According to my calculations, replacing your therapist and trainer for a weekly encounter with an escort will save you £200 a month. Over the course of a year, that's £2400. Which is roughly the cost of a classic Chanel 2.55 bag!!!!!*

X - (trainer + therapist) =

I feel like I may have just single-handedly revolutionalised the working women's economy! I imagine this lightening bolt moment is similar perhaps to how Marie Curie felt when she discovered radioactivity, or when Nicole Ritchie realised that being thinner makes you more popular. It feels glorious.

*If you don't have one, get one. I'm quite convinced mine makes me a better person.

5 WOMEN I HATE

2010-05-18T05:32:00.000-07:00

1. The "Reformed Slut". A woman who has conveniently forgotten that prior to meeting her current boyfriend/husband, she used to nail anything in trousers, or as my father would say, "had more cocks that John Wayne's gun". Now, however, she looks at you with pity and says things like: "You know that you'll never get a boyfriend if you continually sleep with men as soon as you meet them- just look at me and My James- he really respects me." You are waiting for the right moment to tell her that "My James" tried to stick his tongue down your throat on New Years Eve.

2. Women who get sent drinks in bars. I hate women who this happens to (mainly because it NEVER happens to me): they tend to be over groomed, over dressed, and overly pleased with themselves. It also propagates a distorted version of city living in which men lavish attention and expensive drinks on women at the drop of a hat. In reality (or my reality), you are lucky to get bought a warm glass of Pinot Grigio without a Rohypnol in it.

3. Women who make fun of other women for being fat. This is only acceptable when I do it, because a)I am generally quite amusing, and b) I am myself, a little bit fat.

4. The "Boys Girl". The kind of girl who always has more male friends than female friends. This is because most women can't stand her as she has very little interest in talking to anyone who doesn't have a penis. She is incredibly irritating as she flirts outrageously with everyones boyfriends, yet "the boys" somehow don't see this as flirting. Thus if you mention anything about it you are branded jealous and unreasonable.

5. All Women Who are Thinner and Prettier Than Me. I am aware that this includes almost all of my friends, but like many women before me I have long since mastered the art of burying my real feelings and relying on humour as a defense mechanism. It really works! You should try it! I leave you with the immortal words of Dawn French: "As far as I'm concerned, there are two types of women: the ones who like chocolate and complete bitches."

Image by Patrick Demarchelier

How To Breakfast When You Are Entertaining A Gentleman Caller

2010-05-14T05:07:00.000-07:00

I feel like is time to make sure you realise that MIWIHSW is not just about sex and dating disasters...I do in fact have many other interests. As well as reading to the blind, weaving my own clothes from hemp, and whittling toys for Nicaraguan orphans, I also enjoy cooking. I'm actually rather good (which is why if the way to a mans heart was really through his stomach, I should by all rights have a boyfriend...but I have obviously ceased to listen to such archaic, misogynistic phrases, sob). Rather ingeniously, I have thought of a way to bring this skill into my blog, and thus I present to you a MIWIHSW three step guide: How To Breakfast When You Are Entertaining A Gentleman Caller.

STEP 1: Nothing. This is what you should do if you wake up next to a man who you have absolutely no interest in (or perhaps do not remember bringing home), and wish to get rid of quickly. Do not offer him anything. Not even water. Hopefully this way his hunger/dehydration will drive him from your bed as soon as possible. If he lingers, get up, put on some vile tracksuit bottoms (the ones you've had since school that might possibly have curry stains on them), and put something like Loose Women on TV ( form more extreme cases a DVD of "Beaches" or "Steel Magnolias" should be utilised). I guarantee he will leave immediately. If he doesn't, he's mentally unstable and you should call social services.

STEP 2: Tea and Sympathy. This is a no-nonsense breakfast. It says, "I like you enough to get up and make you a cup of tea and possibly some toast, but not enough to actually cook." This breakfast is usefully employed to make you seem aloof and not too needy. It can be accompanied by some low level banter but does not invite the recipient to hang around. It gives the message: "I am strong independent woman, I have many better things to do today than cook for you". He does not need to know that once he leaves you will probably sit on the sofa all day, eating bacon, waiting for him to call.

STEP 3- Breakfast of Champions. Ah- the king of breakfasts, one for which I have a particular penchant. This is the nuclear weapon of breakfasts- to be used very carefully. Used correctly it is a force to be reckoned with, but deployed in the wrong circumstances, it can cause irreparable damage. The Breakfast of Champions (also known as the Please Fall in Love with Me Breakfast), will possibly involve you waking up before the object of your desire and will probably (unless you're a freak who actually has food in their refrigerator on a Saturday morning) involve you going to the shop. You have to strike a particular balance- it should be impressive, yet it must appear to be effortless- and here is the cunning part...it should render him so full and content that he may want to cuddle on the sofa or even go back to bed.

I have been honing this breakfast for a number of years now, and have two tried and tested menus. Both should be accompanied with orange juice (don't squeeze this yourself- it will not make you look attractive, unless he is after some kind of sex-crazed Martha Stewart), and the paper (I like make sure that it has a style section for you and sports section for him- this way we can both read over breakfast and I can pretend that we are a married couple and 'absentmindedly' say something like "oh darling, can you pass the salt", without him really noticing).

A) Eggs Benedict. For this, you have to turn to the oracle that is Delia Smith. She may not be sexy, but she is a self-made millionaress AND she has a husband. Respect. Don't buy your hollandaise- its really easy to make it, tastes much better, and is much more alluring to be able to say you whipped it up from scratch. The secret is timing- make sure that you have it assembled before you nonchalantly call out that breakfast is ready- then slide it under the grill to get a nice caramelised top to the hollandaise.

http://www.deliaonline.com/recipes/cuisine/european/english/eggs-benedict.html

B) The All American- Bacon, Eggs and Blueberry Pancakes. The blueberry pancakes are a particular hit- though be careful you don't make the same mistake I did and let a man walk in on you sobbing because you couldn't get them to form perfect circles. You should look effortless and chic, not OCD.

http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/other-recipes/pancakes-usa-stylie

*however, if you can't be bothered to make them from scratch, I'm not above asking my good friend Betty Crocker for help.

http://www.bettycrocker.co.uk/product_detail.aspx?range=8

Enjoy!!!

The One Night Wonder

2010-05-09T05:38:00.000-07:00

The One Time Wonder is a particularly tricky and dangerous type of man. He employs a number of techniques that render him almost IMPOSSIBLE to identify. I like to think of him as sort of the box jelly-fish of the dating world...drifting along, looking harmless...but what you must remember is that he is both toxic and spineless. He has a complex and varied ritual which I will try and simplify for you- but please be aware that while I have been a victim, I am by no means an expert on this vile and merciless beast.
The scenario will possibly go something like this:
You go out on the town and meet a man. He is most probably not a demi-god, but you're no oil painting yourself. You drink enough to find each other attractive, use all your best flirtatious banter and before you know it you've invited him back to yours for a "drink" [for this read riding him like Sea-Biscuit]. In the morning, you awake with all your normal fears- will he think you're a slut for having slept with him right away? does he think you're hideous in the harsh light of day? has he noticed that you haven't had a bikini wax since Ugg boots were actually acceptable footwear? However, the OTW does not appear to have noticed these things. Instead, you engage in witty pillow talk, and a morning shag [surely a good sign that he is not physically repelled by you]. Afterwards, you cuddle...he strokes your hair, and over breakfast you make plans for a "proper" date. When he kisses you goodbye you are quite, quite sure that this is the start of something. That evening you receive an adorable message about how much fun he had and how he is looking forward to your date.
You spend all week preparing for the date. Gay Best Friends are called over in order to tell you which outfit makes you look the most like girlfriend material and less like a girl who got drunk and dropped her knickers 5 hours after meeting you. You pay a visit to Ellie, your Turkish waxer, who may have no boundaries while applying lotion but leaves you smoother than you've been since puberty. You wait for him to text and confirm...and you wait. When it gets to a day before your proposed date, anxiety sets in. You spend all day looking at your phone, constantly checking to make sure that you have reception. You may even have someone text you to make sure that you are, in fact, receiving messages. If you're anything like me, you might even stoop as low as calling his phone from your work phone (with-held number...cunning), in order to check that his phone is indeed on (clearly you hang up when he answers and feel your dignity slowly starting to ebb away).
By that evening you simply cannot take the pressure any more, and send him a veeeeeery breezy text message (that took you and 2 friends over half an hour to compose), asking if he is still on for tomorrow. Your phone becomes a ticking time bomb. It mocks you. You scream down the phone at your sister (how DARE she phone from Australia and tie up your line? So what if she's knocked up!!). Still nothing. Tumbleweed rolls through your living room. You eventually drag yourself to bed (clinging to the thought that he may still get in touch-perhaps he left his phone at home? Been in a car accident? Contracted gangrene and suffered a double amputation of the hands rendering him unable to use the phone?) and sleep with the phone on your pillow. When you wake up there is still nothing. NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You go through everything that happened in your head. Can you have imagined it? Are you that tragic that you have projected a possibly relationship onto a man who was clearly uninterested? NO- you didn't. May I remind you, ladies, that this man not only slept with you in the morning, but also STROKED. YOUR. HAIR.
Soon you realise her will NEVER call. Or text. You have simply fallen victim to The One Time Wonder- a man who drifts into your bed...and then drifts out again...leaving only a tentacle-like trail of despair behind him, which if you are really unlucky, can be accompanied by a stinging sensation when you pee.

THE PERILS OF INTERNET DATING

2010-05-04T13:31:00.000-07:00

I'm what I like to call a Social Darwinist. What I mean by this is that I think we should find our mates the old fashioned way- out in the wild (or drunk in a bar), not from behind a computer screen. I know many people do find love like this, but this is my blog so I can say whatever I want, and I think Internet dating is creepy- and I'm going to share a little story a very close friend told me the other day...firstly because it illustrates my point and secondly becuase it is one of my all time favourte dating diaster stories.

Let me paint a picture for you: you meet a man through a popular Internet dating site. He is tall, dark and handsome (to be precise- 6 ft 3, athletic build). You arrange a date and arrive to find him sitting at the bar. As you make your way over to him, you find it curious that he has not got up to say hello. You find it even more curious when you see that there appear to be wheels on his chair.
This may not have been a problem, were you not thinking that you were going on a date with a man who listed his hobbies as kick-boxing and mountain biking. Even more perplexing still, he makes no reference to the fact that he is in a wheelchair/handicapped or that he may have mislead you. In fact, after an hour, when you finally bring it up (something along the lines of: "So- you're in a wheelchair." or something equally subtle), the only thing he does bother to explain is that he is still able to "perform" sexually.

Being a kind and liberal girl, you continue the date, and as your companion keeps wheeling himself off to the bar coming back with shots of sambuca, find yourself plastered. Now, this is where it gets awkward. Instead of listening to your inner voice of sensibility (ah, that's right, you drowned her out with alcohol, didn't you?)- you decide to go back to his flat for a drink- once here, you feel compelled to give in to the "pity snog", and subsequently find yourself astride him (in the chair) with your legs over his shoulders.

Suddenly you come to your senses, untangle yourself and make your excuses to leave. Unfortunately, once outside you realise that you are stuck in the middle of nowhere without a taxi in sight and have to be at work in less than 4 hours. Reluctantly, you call your date, explain your predicament and find he is incredibly enthusiastic about you return. Ten minutes later he opens the door, completely naked, complete with a massive erection. Alarm bells get louder as you spy a packet of Viagra on the counter, with one missing. Despite repeatedly explaining to him that you don't want to have sex with him, he spends the next half an hour chasing you around the flat...head first, so to speak. When he finally pauses, you hear a rustling noise and look over to find him sliding on a cock-ring. At that point you decide that you would be better off walking home.

Now, who can tell me that doesn't sound like a wheely bad date?*

*(come on, you can forgive the wheely bad pun).

*please also note that I have subsequently heard of 2 other women who have been on dates with this man- he got them both drunk on shots and tried to get them to come home with him. While my friend was the only one foolish enough to actually do so, women of South London should know that there is a wheel-chair bound sexual predator on the loose, preying on lonely Internet-daters. Beware.

Image by Miles Aldridge

What Does Your STD Say About You?

2010-04-28T13:33:00.000-07:00

Gonorrhea: Gal Pal, you need to wake up. Your boyfriend has been sleeping with hookers while in Asia on "business". Also, that Chanel wallet he bought you? Its a fake.

Chlamydia: You obviously enjoyed shagging your way through the rugby team at Uni. I hope Rupert and Hugo were worth it, as you are now probably infertile.

Herpes: Foolish, foolish girl. He said it was "just a little rash" didn't he? And you believed him. Hows that cold-sore now babes? Next time- no glove, no love.

Crabs: You're a skank!! Sleeping with un-washed, under-nourished boys who live in squats and claim to be poets/artists/shamans is tacky. Wash your sheets, move out of East London, and get a Hollywood- stat.

Image by Rankin.

Tit for Tat

2010-04-26T14:56:00.000-07:00

The other day I slept with a boy that I did not find particularly attractive. If I'm honest with you, I have no idea how I ended up in bed with him (hangs head in shame). All I could remember was that he had a penchant for talking dirty, particularly enjoyed the reverse-cowgirl position, and was a hair-dresser (I know, dear reader, I know- my head is already hung in shame, please don't make it any worse). I was lying there, starting to berate myself for yet another needless notch on my bedpost when an idea came to me out of the blue. I rolled over and attempted to give him my most alluring face..."Darling, I don't suppose you fancy giving me a quick...trim?"

Its quite difficult to look alluring when you have slept in your contact lenses and have a just extracted a cigarette butt from your tangled hair, but we managed to come to a satisfactory agreement for both parties. Him: 2 orgasms and breakfast, Me: 1 orgasm and a new haircut. We have subsequently been engaging in a blow job for blow-dry barter system. I'm not quite sure what I'll have to do for a full head of highlights, but given the cost in London salons at present, I know I'll get the better end of the deal. Factor in the rosy post-coital glow and its actually better than an afternoon at Daniel Hersheson.

This has led me to thinking...there should be a way that we can get more out of a 1 night stand than a feeling of emptiness and the occasional case of crabs. Have I happened on a possible idea for a dating service where we trade sex for...well, trade? While the straight hairdresser is, in my view, the sex-trade holy grail, the possibilities are endless. I can see it now: "Ikea- addicted SWF seeks TDH carpenter w/ GSOH and a big tool". I already know women who sleep with personal trainers to avoid paying for gym membership in the run up to summer, while come tax season its: Hellooooo, Mr Accountant! I have to confess, if my drug dealer wasn't balding and didn't always smell of beets, I would totally consider it. This is a harsh economy ladies: everyone is looking for a little something extra- make sure you're taking advantage. Leaky tap? Let a plumber lay some pipe! Teeth need whitening? Do a dentist! Too lazy to leave the house? See if the pizza boy can really deliver!
Remember: its not slutty, its just good economics.

GAY OF THE MONTH: TIM CLIFTON-GREEN

2010-04-16T07:23:00.000-07:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged that every woman is in need of a Gay Best Friend. I'm lucky enough to have an abundance of these, and I've decided that I'm going to loan them out to you (I'm just generous like that), so they can give you the unique, brutally honest advice that only a GBF can give.
The inaugural GBF of the month is my closest confidant, Tim Clifton-Green. Admire him! Be in awe of his stylishness!

I thought I would start the ball rolling with two questions of my own...

Me: Timmy,I love this season's Celine show. Do you think I can pull off a leather short?

Timmy: Darling, unless you have the legs (and height, and come to think of it attitude too) of an ostrich I would steer clear of leather shorts. Even Celine's buttery soft offerings this season will add bulk and I can't begin to imagine how they would look after a journey on public transport / or at the end of a working girls day. Ultimately, these are a look for a woman that has a car waiting outside at all times.

Me: I met a boy the other day but didn't get his number. Will looking him up on facebook and sending him a message make me seem both tragic and desperate?

Timmy: Now before the advice can be served on this subject two questions need to be clarified. 1, are you a slut? 2, is he a slut? If you've answered yes to both of these, then stalking on facebook is totes fine, in fact I would highly recommend it. Nothing better than a bit of hot Internet exchange to liven up a dull afternoon in the office?
If however you are looking for love, forget it. If he was that interested he would have made sure you had his digits. Simples.

He's at your disposal all month...email him your questions! MIWIHSW@gmail.com

Image by Josh Olins.

A TRULY FANTASTIC POEM

2010-04-14T07:22:00.000-07:00

I love this poem. I wish I could say that I found it myself, but I actually came across it in the December 2004 issue of Vogue Paris* that Sofia Coppola guest-edited.

So it was one of her favorite poems first. And she does cool shit like guest editing Vogue Paris. What a cow.

I'm quite sure her life is actually really boring though. I bet she doesn't get drunk and send inappropriate sex texts to men, get depressed when they don't reply, and then attempt to obliterate her depression with an entire bucket of M&S "Extremely Chocolatey Mini Bites".

*I love the way its called Vogue Paris, not French Vogue. Like the rest of France doesn't even exist. Tres chic.
** Seriously, why are they a) coated in crack or some other highly addictive substance and b) sold in a massive bucket so you end up eating 25 of them? Its a conspiracy.

Image by Mario Testino for Vogue Paris, December 2004

BREAK-UP EXCUSES: TRANSLATED

2010-03-28T12:49:00.000-07:00

EXCUSE: Its not you- its me.
TRANSLATION: Its you. Time spent with you is time which I could appropriate to other, more worthy pursuits: such as sleeping with other women or playing video games, and I resent this.

EXCUSE: You're amazing- I just can't give you the level of commitment that you need.
TRANSLATION: You are WAY too clingy- in fact, you are starting to make Glenn Close look like the ideal girlfriend. The other day I was fairly sure that I could acutally smell your desperation: it did not smell good. And please give me back my tshirt/boxers/hair from my hairbrush that I saw you steal the other morning when you thought I wasn't looking, crazy stalker lady.

EXCUSE: I just don't feel the same as I did when we first got together.
TRANSLATION: You have gained 10 pounds since I first met you, and this, combined with the fact that you no longer let me do you from behind, has rendered you surplus to my requirements.

EXCUSE: I'm just not ready.
TRANSLATION: I will never be ready, for you. I will, however, be ready for the 24 year old waitress I propose to 2 months after we break-up.

EXCUSE: I think that we should see other people.
TRANSLATION: I already am.

Image: “Forget It! Forget Me!” (1962) by Roy Lichtenstein, modified by Miss V

The Man Who Should Be Into You

2010-03-10T14:13:00.000-08:00

I would like to discuss the mysterious phenonmenon of The Man Who Should be Into You. This is a man that you sleep with simply because he is there and you have no better offers. He may in fact be fairly ugly, or a little bit fat. Or be wearing a Ben Sherman shirt. Either way, the basic premise is that you are, say, a 7, while he is, at best, a 5.

You sleep with him because:
a) you have just broken up with your boyfriend and will sleep with anyone who tells you you are pretty
b) you have low self esteem and will, as a rule, sleep with anyone who tells you you are pretty
c) you are 28, single and you have just found out that your ex has got engaged
d) you have found a grey pubic hair. This means you are ancient and will die alone.
e) you have drunk 2 bottles of white wine
f) all of the above.

Another reason that you sleep with this man is that he will undoubtedly shower you with affection, and will definitely call. You don't actually want to see him again, so you will not answer, but will secretly enjoy the attention, and may show his fawning messages to your friends, while laughing ( perhaps saying something like: "My God, I was SO drunk...he was vile, and now he says hes going to start self harming if he doesn't see me again, how utterly HILARE!" ) This will make you feel wanted and superior.

IN THEORY.

In reality there seems to be some alarming disparity. With frightening frequency it appears that these men, who by the laws of nature, Should Be Into You- are NOT.

Women: if you encounter a Man Who Should Be Into You- beware. What you envisage as a flippant exercise to raise your self esteem, can turn into a disaster. There is nothing worse than NOT hearing from a man who:
a) has a ponytail
b) wears a fedora
c) has a tattoo of the Jamiroquai symbol
d) plays 'war-craft' or any other of those tragic on-line games
e) has a 2 inch penis

The utter shock and degradation when one of these men doesn't even ask for your number can cause lasting and permanent damage. And may cause you to re-offend. Its a dangerous spiral. Tread carefully.

PROS AND CONS OF HAVING SEX WITH A MALE MODEL

2010-01-31T09:49:00.000-08:00

PROS
-He is thin and pretty.
-Its kind of like sleeping with the hottest boy at school.
-He looks fantastic naked.
-Taking him to a party is like carrying the latest Prada bag- while you are aware that it is totally shallow, you feel incredibly superior as you acknowledge sheer jealousy in the eyes of other women.

CONS
-He is thinner and prettier that you. In reality, next to him you are elephantine.
-It reminds you that the hottest boy at school had no idea you existed.
-He is more concerned with how he looks naked than how you look naked. In fact, it is quite possible that he wouldn't notice if you weren't there, were it not for using you as a receptacle for semen.
-Taking him to a party is like going WITH the latest Prada bag. Except you are fairly sure that the bag would make better conversation.

Image by Bruce Webber for VMAN

Why the NHS is Against Me

2010-01-06T14:36:00.000-08:00

My suspicions about the NHS began when I received a mysterious envelope on Valentines Day last year. This was my only piece of post on this auspicious day, so you can imagine how pleased I was when I opened it to see that it was a reminder that I was due for a smear test. Which is just what you want to hear on February 14th when you don't have a boyfriend.

I am quite convinced that this was in NO WAY and accident, and that the NHS sent this in order to a) remind me that I did not have anyone to send me an actual Valentines Day card and thus b) taunt me and ridicule my lifestyle.

These suspicions were confirmed the other day when I received a phone call from my ex boyfriend. This was unexpected, as we no longer speak and now generally refer to each other as 'douche bag' and 'fat cow' respectively. He called me to say that some post had arrived for me at our old flat. I told him that it wouldn't be anything important and that he could go ahead and open it, and wondered aloud if this was some pathetic roux to get me on the phone. There was an incredibly long pause, after which he asked me if I had ordered anything from the NHS, and started laughing. After 5 minutes of hysterics, he informed me that my 'at-home chlamydia test' had arrived and hung up.

I did NOT order this test. Apparently the NHS sends out random free tests to all women of a certain age. RANDOM MY ARSE!!! As far as I am concerned this was a deliberate act of sabotage by an evil institution.

And that is why the NHS is against me.

Men to Avoid and How to Identify Them

2009-12-29T17:10:00.000-08:00

1. The 'Arty' Student Who You Will Later Realize is Gay

- His jeans are tighter than yours.
- He watches True Blood and has seen all the Twilight films. Also "doesn't mind" watching Gossip Girl or Sex and The City, "if it happens to be on".
- You slink towards the bed in a black negligee. He puts down his copy of Brideshead Revisited and tells you that you look just like Audrey Hepburn. Then turns over and goes to sleep.

2. The Unemployed Man Who Has No Desire to Get a Job

- He was made redundant 6 months ago, and his biggest achievement since has been growing a beard. (Apart from the time he went down on you for, like, 2 hours. Now THAT was an achievement.)
- He returns from his 5 week golfing holiday for 1 day in order to sign on at the Job Centre.
- He lists his ideal job as 'Medieval King'.

3. The Army Officer

- On duty he is in charge of over 100 men. Off-duty he has a penchant for cross-dressing, and gets so drunk he wets the bed.
- He refers to his biceps as 'guns', and asks you (and complete strangers) if you would like a 'ticket to the gun show'.
- His nickname for his penis is Corporal Punishment.

One of Life's TRUE Injustices

2009-12-16T09:03:00.000-08:00

I am casting models today. I like doing this, because it gives me a cruel sense of power. Also, I get to sit at my desk eating chocolate while I decide who I think is the prettiest. Its shallow, yet satisfying.

However, sometimes I get a bit depressed...like when I suddenly realise that it is one of LIFE'S TRUE INJUSTICES that I do not look like Maryna Linchuk, and never will. I am very sure that my quality of life would be much better if I did. Sigh.

I realise that this is not on the same level of injustice as, say, mass genocide in Rwanda...but believe me, it really blows.

THE Urban Date Myth

2009-12-04T09:57:00.000-08:00

I think this is, without a doubt, one of the funniest adverts ever- I'm sure that everyone has heard this story as one of those urban myths that happened to 'a friend of a friend'...

I, however, have a TRUE story that I'm going to share with you...

One of my very close friends suffers from terrible hangovers, often making her throw up continually the following day. When we were at university, she went home for a night of wild passion with the captain of the rugby team [score!]. The next morning, he had to get up early to play rugby: however, she was so hungover he told her to let herself out when she was ready. Soon after he left, she needed to be sick- but was unable to make it to the bathroom in time, so threw up into a pint glass instead. She then went back to sleep, only to be woken by her phone ringing, reminding her that she was late to meet people for lunch. She got dressed quickly, made the bed nicely and left her number on his pillow. It was only once the door had shut behind her that she realised she had also left the pint of sick on his bedside table.

Needless to say, he did not call.

I Wish Him The Best (The Cheater's Haiku)

2009-10-22T06:01:00.000-07:00

I am quite happy
For both of you. I do hope
She gives you herpes