I Don’t Write About My Vagina To Turn You On

The fact that I choose to write about my sex life is not an open invitation to the internet's perverts.
Avatar:
Author:
Publish date:
Social count:
144
The fact that I choose to write about my sex life is not an open invitation to the internet's perverts.

404

Sometimes, I write about dating. To illustrate my irrational, yet debilitating, fear of loneliness, I might make light of my romance-less future by being silly and referencing wanking for the rest of all eternity. You know, to ease the tension. And if I do that, it’s important that you understand: it’s not an invitation for you to email and say “You can’t write about having your hand in your knickers and not expect me to pop up and say hello.”

Because errr, yes I can.

If I write, “Hey, I’m fat and I still get laid!” that doesn’t make it okay to use the comments box to ask for my number, just the same as when I pen a story about the time I used promiscuous sex to heal a broken heart it’s not cricket that you Tweet, “Shame your heart isn’t broken anymore- you seem like fun.”

I’ll write about looking for love, and bad sex, and job crushes and dating and daddy issues and pussy, cunt, fairy garden VAGINA if it serves to illustrate my point, and guess what? I’m not doing it to turn you on.

I’m not a “dirty little slut” gagging for a pervert like you to come and give me the good seeing to that I’m obviously desperate for. Number one, get over yourself- you wouldn’t know what to do with me anyway, pencil dick. And number two, I’m smart, and articulate, and, you fucking idiot, being deliberately provocative to demonstrate a point about something we all feel. I’m making language my bitch- but that doesn’t mean I’ll be yours.

I’m a writer. A creator. An artist. I pride myself on communicating honestly. I’ll say what somebody else could be afraid to say if I think it helps tell a bigger tale- if I think it’s worth talking about, needs to be brought to the table. If that means frankly discussing sex, owning the fact I have a lady garden, communicating at a sexually base level, then I will. And I’ll do it proudly, unashamedly, because I’m a grown woman and NEWSFLASH! can exist as more than one thing. Though I might say vagina a lot, that’s not all there is to me. I’m bigger than my vagina. Vagina, vagina, vagina.

I’m not on the Internet to be objectified, to be hassled and flirted with. Well- I am, but that’s on a very specific forum designed for other people who want the same. I digress. My point is that you’re letting yourself down when you fail to distinguish between art and real life. You think you’re being funny when you say those things but you’re not. You’re sexually harassing me. And make no mistake- that’s what it is. Over-the-top, unwarranted sexual advance, to an individual who doesn’t. bloody. want it.

You might think that I’m asking for it, actively courting the sort of attention you’re giving me. Nice girls don’t talk about the way the man working the counter at the corner shop has the kind of forearms that makes a gusset wet. A chick who recounts having to take a pregnancy test in the loo at work is obviously a screwed up slapper. The lady who dared to be nice to the man at the blood bank probably wanted her nurse to touch the top of her thigh like that- had it coming to her, even. Men don’t act without provocation, after all. You’re wrong.

More...

5 Ways To Approach Women Without Coming Across Like A Perv

Why I'm Going On The Man-Wagon

I’m not sharing these stories for the select few asshats of the Internet who use the vocalised vulnerabilities of a female writer to get their rocks off. There is a plethora- a veritable smorgasbord- of emotionally tuned, intellectually impressive contemporaries of yours who get what’s happening when the women of the net cream themselves to talk about their sexual feelings. You’re missing the point.

Know that if I wanted to turn you on, I’d stare at you across the bar, not giving you the chance to do anything other than come talk to me because my eyes demand you come play with my brain.

If I wanted to turn you on, I’d adjust your collar as we laughed, letting my fingertip graze the soft, gentle bit just behind your ear as I look beneath my lashes and bite my lip and hold my breath and force my chest a little bit higher.

If I wanted to turn you on, I’d act coy at the moment our lips meet, giving you an exact second and a half to doubt yourself before I say, breathlessly, “I was hoping you’d do that.” The way I say it will make you hard.

Put that in your wank bank.

I could go out with a skirt up my arse crack and a top down to my nipples, sucking on ice cubes and fanning myself like an extra from La Isla Bonita and it still wouldn’t be alright for you to tell me I seem like I’m “DTF”. Don’t be rude. Don’t be disrespectful. Don’t show yourself up for the small-minded arrogant prick that you are. Go learn some manners from a real man.

But then, that’s the point, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have the courage to do that, to say those horrible, hurtful, abusive things to my face- you’re only a masochistic chauvinist pig when you’ve a computer screen to protect you.

I’ve not got my period, I’m not a cock-tease, and I’m certainly not frigid. What I am, molesters of the World Wide Web, is absolutely, categorically, 100% not interested.

More from me at Superlatively Rude