Category Archives: Sex

I woke up like this… Unfortunately.

I recently ran into a friend from university. Twice. In one day. Having been ‘alone’ for a while I took that as an invitation to end up in his bed. Not overly proud of it but, hey, girls just want to have fun, right!?

Normally, my golden rule is to bring the man to yours: always play a home game. There are multiple bonuses to this strategy: having your beauty products at the ready the next morning being one of them. (Not having to do the walk of shame another).

When I awoke the next morning I was suffering something much worse than ‘buyers remorse’. I had a tongue that could sand a table. My lips were caked in skin cells. My contacts had shrunk into my retinas. On top of that, my head throbbed and I couldn’t find my underwear (withhold judgment, please).

I couldn’t find anything remotely sexy about the situation. The previous night might have been loads of fun but the morning light was just far too harsh. My dear old companion didn’t seem to have so many qualms about his appearance – while I shied away from all human contact he was begging for round two.

I was infinitely concerned that he was thinking he’d gone to bed with a 10 and woken up with a 2. I wish in that moment I could be photoshopped into the woman I’d been on the dance floor only hours earlier.

I retreated to the ensuite and utilised the minimal arsenal I had in my clutch – bronzer, lip balm and contact drops. No transformation is complete without the old ‘toothpaste on the teeth’ trick. I emerged looking only slightly less dishevelled that I had been going in.

My friend quipped that I hadn’t taken long to which I wryly replied “you can’t polish a turd”. Classy.

There is a reason I never play an away game and my appearance that morning was it. As my friend so gallantly drove me home, I couldn’t even bring myself to give him a kiss goodbye. That furry feeling I had coating my teeth and the taste of last nights tequila didn’t the ideal kissing situation make. If he misinterpreted my cold farewell as a lack of affection I don’t blame him – I’d have been confused too!

If I’ve lost a potential date because I didn’t have access to baby wipes and a decent BB cream I’m going to be seriously pissed. And Beyonce – I blame you!

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Would you like a side of sex with that?

At a recent friends birthday party, I happened upon his attractive friend. There was instant chemistry, mainly assisted by a roaring fire and copious amounts of alcohol. After a good half an hour flirt, he asked me to the bar. My rubber arm didn’t require much twisting.

Once there however, the night went from normal to strange very quickly: Alice fell down the rabbit hole. He offered me a sample of the illicit drugs he’d been toting around. Now I’m no angel but I also don’t accept MDMA caps from someone who is essentially a complete stranger. However I decided to run with it and let him pour it in my glass of chardie: which I promptly proceeded to pour down the sink of the nearest women’s bathroom without taking a sip.

I’ve since learnt that being high and pretending to be high are two completely different kettle of fish. I don’t think I’ll be winning an Oscar for portrayal of a drug addict anytime soon. I had no idea how someone on caps is supposed to act but I obviously wasn’t doing it. Within a few hours I was blatantly boozed while my tall, handsome drug-dealing pash was clearly off chops.

The birthday party moved back to an apartment in the inner city and before long I was kissing the mysterious stranger. Kissing, and yawning. It was, after all, almost 3 in the morning and I’m not known for my stamina. My wannabe lover enquired as to whether the effects had ‘worn off’, having no idea that they’d never kicked in! He was still clearly relishing the effects of the chemical reactions while I was on my way to the Land of Nod. Not ideal. After a couple of minutes he promptly stood up off the couch and declared that he was leaving to go back out. I had no issues with that, clearly myself wanting to make a dash for the door and my bed some few blocks away. Preferably alone. He walked to the door of the apartment before turning and somewhat dramatically returning to my side where he ever so politely enquired:

Did you want to have sex?

Not your normal invitation. I think he was just trying his luck, of which he didn’t have much. Needless to say he didn’t get lucky that night but I did have a giggle the next morning relaying his proposition to my girlfriends.

That was until I got a text at 8 am asking if I’d care to drop round to his place.

He might have been ridiculous, but least he was a gentleman.

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Alone again, naturally…

Apologies for the hiatus. I was, you see, temporarily not single. For someone who writes a blog about the hilariousness, awkwardness and otherwise fabulousness that it is to be solo, suddenly getting a boyfriend puts a little spanner in the works.

It was the age old story: boy knows girls for 10 years. Both become single. Boy asks girl out and, despite having him firmly in the friend zone for a decade, girl agrees to be in a relationship. Almost instantaneously. A week before he leaves for three months abroad.

So, maybe not the ideal start to a relationship. I really should have cottoned on to our incompatibility after realising that there was a reason he had been friend zoned since first year of university. But, I yielded to his requests to “go steady”. I’m not proud of it but I liked the attention; it was nice to be wanted. It was nicer to be talked about by our mutual friends: our union caused quite the stir.

After a few months talking on the phone, receiving extravagant posies of flowers and French champagne on Valentines Day, I flew interstate to meet him. It was a bizarre 5 day reunion. I was almost sick on the plane ride over. We’d decided to wait to get jiggy until we met again, all very romantic. Turns out, if you haven’t wanted to sleep with someone in 10 years of knowing them, there’s probably a reason. We had less chemistry than oil and water. It just didn’t work, at all. While I’m the first to concede that sex isn’t the be all and end all in a relationship (I should know, my first boyfriend is gay) it isn’t great when you aren’t wanting to rip each others clothes off within the first 4 months.

The decision was made for me. After we returned home and settled into normality with my new man home, I realised how much physical compatibility was critical to a relationship. Within 11 days I was having the chat and ending it. I cried for about an hour, then hardened up. I haven’t come this far to be with someone who the thought of being intimate with excited me as much as having to pumice my feet.

Lesson learned: once in the friend zone, it’s just not worth letting them cross over into lovers.

Alone again, naturally.

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Not fucking plastic

Three Auckland law students getting beautifully funky and feministic to the hit track Blurred Lines. You Tube is in the process of deleting the video due to its sexist nature, so watch a pop up pirate one quickly before it goes: here

The ABx

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“Please, God, don’t let anybody see me Please, God, I’ll do anything you ask me I promise no more walks of shame” – Walk of Shame, PINK

If you haven’t experienced this, my hat and heels off to you.

My worst “accompanied” walk of shame involved the guy I was seeing insisting of walking me home after a particularly large night. I could barely see straight let alone trying to make small talk. All my energy was devoted to keeping last nights kebab out of the public eye. This guy (in typical male fashion) was completely unperturbed by the fact that we’d downed enough tequila to kill a Mexican the night before. I had to sit through him ordering a large breakfast with all the trimming while I stirred my lemonade.

Still, it couldn’t be worse than being made to do the walk ALONE! I will never forgive this particular gentlemen for thrusting me out into the daylight like a new vampire one several separate occasions. I know, you’re wondering why I would put up with that on multiple occasions. When you figure it out, would you let me know. Anyway, having to hail a cab wearing yesterday’s suit and requesting to be dropped home rather than at work is, frankly, mortifying. I came accustomed to packing sunglasses when I thought I might end up out with him just to have facial cover up the next morning. The arsehole had every excuse under the sun for not driving me home in his perfectly functional Land Rover: “I lost my keys”, “the car is smelly this week”, “my parents are expecting me at the dock in like, 5 minutes” (I shit you not).

The dreaded walk of shame is something guys will never truly comprehend. They can muster the bed hair without so much as a second glance in the mirror, whilst girls skulk out into the sunlight dragging their dignity in their Phillip Lim 3.0.

If it can’t be avoided, follow the anthem blog’s golden rules:

Always pack fold up flats in your bag, heels in hand is a dead giveaway!
Sunglasses. Or a burka
Don’t under any circumstances get on public transport. Fork out for a cab no matter how far away you find yourself. You are trying to limit human interaction not encourage it.
Master a fake phone call scenario. This fantasy conversation should include stating loudly that you’re off to a event such as a wedding, birthday party. Anything that will excuse your current attire.
If your skirt is so short you can see your ovaries, borrow a big T or a pair of trackies, the boyfriend look is in even if you’re single.

If all else fails…fucking own it. You can guarantee all the joggers and mothers groups sipping on babycinos you strut past at 8 am are jealous they weren’t up all night to get lucky.

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Easy does it

“You could put a blond wig on a hot-water heater and some dude would try to fuck it.”
― Tina Fey, Bossypants

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Reow. Sexy tune.

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She’s up all night ’til the sun
I’m up all night to get some
She’s up all night for good fun
I’m up all night to get lucky

We’re up all night ’til the sun
We’re up all night to get some
We’re up all night for good fun
We’re up all night to get lucky

We’re up all night to get lucky
We’re up all night to get lucky
We’re up all night to get lucky
We’re up all night to get lucky

Man, I feel like a woman!

Today, Vivian Norris, writer for the American publication, The Huffington Post, advised Texas women to withhold sex from men who vote against their best interests, in order to sweep aside entrenched gender inequality.

Texas Women: Stop Having Sex With Men Who Vote Against Your Best Interests

Huffington Post

I am politically minded, and have no hesitation stating that I am a feminist. Who shaves. And enjoys the company of men (gasp). However, I do have a hard time swallowing Ms Norris’ advice, from a purely personal perspective.

See, if I withheld sex from men who were voting against my interests, I would be limiting myself to those who believe in a women’s right to a legal abortion, same sex marriages, paid maternity and paternity leave. In addition, there would be a few other less political gripes where I might be forced to slam on the sexy brakes. I mean, if you’re going to refrain from making your man’s life more, ahem, pleasurable due to widespread social deficiencies, why stop there? I mean, for heavens sake, why would I want to sleep with a man who would willingly wear a onsie? Or put his shoes on the bed? Or wee sitting down? How could I possibly get jiggy with a man who’s idea of a date night outfit is a freshly pressed footy jersey? Or greatest teenage achievement was figuring out the pass code for the porn channel on cable? I’m worried that if I start withholding sex on men, they’ll retaliate. And then my dry spell might turn into a drought with catastrophic self esteem consequences.

Without casting a wide brush over the intelligence and compassion of the not-so-fairer sex, there may not be a lot of men left in Sydney that would share my fierce political agenda, and then I might be forced to send out a search party for my sex life. So for now, I’ll limit my sex embargo to those with bad shoes, unimaginably bad breath… And anyone that donkey votes.

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