Hey, so, I have a question. And this is what it is:

How come submissive men aren’t the best looking bunch of fucking men in the fucking universe?

And I don’t just mean how come this isn’t true for my pathetic cheap frills in my otherwise pretty pointless window of wakey-wakey-consciousness.

And look, what I am talking about here is not submissive men being pulled from an above-average gene pool – I am talking about them taking care of themselves for the hottery. What I mean is why don’t submissive men dedicate themselves to looking hot? Like, a lot. What could be more submissive than that?

(And, don’t tell, but if you are really into humiliating feminisation, the tyranny of looking sexiliciously buffgasmic 24/7 is far more like what the submissive state of womenhood actually is than walking around knock-kneed in shoes you got off the internet, you woman-hating fucking twatburger.)

Look, just look! How come Club Pedestal or even one of those god-frighteningly awful looking footnight things (hmm, is femdom built on a fear and hatred of women, well I wonder… click for answers) aren’t full of the buffest most worked-on men available anywhere. How come the men on Men in Pain aren’t all modelicious lickables?

How come women aren’t queueing up for dominatrixing lessons? (Well they kind of are, vaguely, in palaces to offensively narrow definitions of female sexuality like Coco de Mer, to get their gas bill paid or project some kind of exotic sexuality on to their weary clit-worn selves.) But how come women aren’t all over this sexuality because the men are so fucorsomely hot, because their actual fucking kink – the thing that makes them hard and makes them wet – is to pay attention to what women want and deliver it to the best of their sweaty head-shaven muscle-toned genetic ability?

Wouldn’t that make the most sense? Every submissive man a strawberries and creamy dreamboat? More sense than the current eye-bleed inducing situation, no?

Hey you guys, female pleasure is your supposed thing, right? You’re all about it. All you want, you tell me, is to be a plaything for a superior mistress, a creature of delight for a harsh hatchett-faced horridious harridan. To put all your own wants and needs aside and exist purely for her pleasure.

Alrighty then.

So then how come so often you will see words like this – expressed, here, on the internet but that is not the only spot – in a written profile consisting of one sentence to that effect (why write more, when all you exist for is her pleasure, what else matters, right? You’re just fodder for her lust-canon; she ain’t going to want to be weighed down by the specifics of boring old you – little details like height and favourite colour and perso-fucking-nality), but, yuh, in this passionate urge to express nothing at all one thing will be expressed All I want is to please and serve and suffer and what the fuck ever and then, if there is a pic (mostly there isn’t a pic, but…) the pic will be, like, oh god here is me in a cheap pointless wig and a cheap pointy rubber bra – what a dumb slut, I am?

Er, whut? In what universe to these two things match? I just want to do whatever you want. I have preempted your desires by doing something to myself that no fucker in the known universe would ever require done. Seriously, you imagined that the first conversation with the woman of your dreams would go like this.

You: So I just want to do what ever you want and be your slave
Princess Amazing: Oh great, so could you dress up in ill-fitting man-made-fibred lingerie and stick a carrot up your arse
You: Baby, I am already two steps ahead! (Shows photograph)
Princess Amazing: Actually I was joking. And I am now crying so hard I can’t actually see the photo – so at least there is some benevolence in this cruelty zoo that is my sexuality. (Possibly you did not imagine this last bit – but there is no other possible ending.)

I present for your consideration, femdom, my hapless traveling companions: How did it all go so wrong?

But, look, right, let’s workshop. And by workshop I mean I’ll keep hitting these keys until feel less-sectionablely-hysterical and then we can all get on with our lives. What the fuck is an out of shape submissive man all about? How does that even make sense? If you really truly are all and only about my pleasure, how come you’re not all working out round the clock and living on egg whites just to see me smile?

How come you’re not all (or an above national average proportion of you) totally buff and groomed and lust scented like gay men?

How come submissive men aren’t all about well cut jeans and tight t shirts over their lickable torsos and expensively cut knicker-dampening suits and butchy boots and dirty looks. Yeah, not all women like the same thing, but their are vague ideas, there are archetypes women find hot and until you can buy a Hot Sissy Maid 2010 calendar in my supermarket I’m betting the look most submissive men are going for isn’t one of them.

I mean, why? Why are you doing something that no women want or like? Isn’t that, like, the opposite of your entire thing?

I mean sure, *you* might like the feel of silky fabrics on your skin or the restrictiveness of high heels or, god, those hideous zentai things – but this isn’t about you. How you feel, well that’s for you. How you look is for me. Oh and you might like filling your skin with curry and beer but don’t you get off on denying yourself just to please some goddess or other?

Well look, I’m not a goddess, but I have a vagina and that’s the same difference with you lot, isn’t it? If you want to please me, please my eyeballs.

If you’re a female supremacist – well one, you’re a fucking arsehole because deifying a culturally disempowered group is just as damaging as demonising them – but, hey, I’m not going to change your mind, because you are an idiot. But look, if you really do think you are inferior to all women, if you really do think that it is your role to enhance the lives of all women everywhere, why not take a tip from me. Here’s a way you can do that without having to dial down the ultra creepiness ten thousand notches so a woman who isn’t charging fee for being in the same room as you can speak to you without vomiting her own human dignity out of her eyeballs. Look hot. Work out and eat right and get an expensive haircut.

It. Is. So. Obvious.

Course I suppose it might be that the reason submissive men are not all toned, honed wonderlust-objects is because their sexuality is not really about satisfying female desire – whatever rocky course it sets them on – but about fulfilling some arbitrary crass and oh-so-often offensive set of dumb desires of their own. But that can’t be true, can it?

Look, I know you’re going to accuse me of all sorts. Of being shallow. Of buying into lamecore body-fascistic ideas. And I’d answer those points myself but I pretty much agree with (and was, in all honesty, partly inspired by) this essay on 1585 dot com. It’s not about kink, but the point he’s making applies so strongly to submissive men. And the overall point about how men feel they can’t be hot because it doesn’t work with some other image they have going, applies to submissive men as much as anyone. I can’t be buff ‘cause I’m a gimpyboy and who’d ever heard of a buff gimpyboy? Hey, honey, start a trend – and I’ll start saving up for a dungeon.

(Sort of disclaimer or warning or endorsement: I’ve been a fan of 1585 for a couple of years. I think they are genuinely very sharp and clever and do good atheism, which makes me wet and happy, but I’ve held off properly linking to them before because they seem so hung up on those ideas about female sexuality being all about being desired and male sexuality being not that. And those ideas piss me off mightily. And they have a bit of lame feminism-panic going on, which is a worry. Also they seem to think pics of the hot female author are far more important than pics of the hot male author. Clue: not they are not. And, for serious, couldn’t you just write a gender studies essay on the pics on the home page he = sexy in a private space, she = sexy in a pubic space. Oh, yes and WTF? Fugly shoes? Fugly shoes as tessellated wallpaper? Serious? Are you trying to turn me Christian? Because if it’s believing in supernatural oppressive dipshittery or looking at that graphic I’m kind of torn…

But if I haven’t completely put you off…, yeah this essay swung it. It was close (because OMG those shoes) but when I saw the illustration explaining that men should just make themselves into a cross between Wolverine and Shakespeare (just do this, dumbass), forget it. My link was so linking. And really, if you have ever read this blog thinking, OMMFG, how can I get Bitchy Jones to have sex with me, there is your answer right there. I would sell my house and charter a plane, motherfucker.)

*I’m kind of vaguely unhappy about using the word ‘boy’ when talking about submissive men. Just mainly ’cause my pref is all butchy and shit. And, hell, I am much more unhappy about the use of the word ‘girl’ to mean an adult woman. But I’m not going into that now because, really, if you don’t get that you’re just an idiot.

Recently I received some plaintive emails from some hapless lover of sane argument and sane sanity, saying, Bitchy Jones, please come and be on Fetlife and be interesting and engaging on Fetlife.

I said no. I’m mean. But also, Fetlife is horrible.

I do sometimes type my name into the search on Informed Consent. IC is like Fetlife except it does not have white text on a black background and so is infinitely superior. (Seriously how long have we had computers with monitors for? Why is it still even possible to make websites with white text on a black background?)

But yeah, anyway, I do that and I am glad I do because then I find stuff like this

I click-stumbled over a thread about forced fem (quick, moar pink nylon on the men, I heard a woman somewhere in the world might be finding this hot), where some sanes were good enough to cite me as the only fucker who talks any sense on this subject ever. Now, I’m often coming across what I proclaim out loud (to no one but the whirring of my laptop’s fan) as the best defence of forced fem in the world ever. But surely, surely, this has to be the best defence of forced fem in the world ever. I take it all back. For serious, colour me told: a man dressing up as a woman for the purposes of degredation is not misogynistic because:

(Seriously, pause, make a drum roll sound or something, gird things, brace self)

It’s nothing to do with females being held in lower esteem than men. Really if that were the case they would not be approaching what they mistakenly believed to be a female dominant.

It sort of reminds me of a previous post about cuckolding because a guy found it a turn on for his wife to be fucked by a black guy. Many jumped the gun with the race card and how it was degrading for him to see his wife fucked by a black guy. When infact it’s actually the stereotype of a physically superior male the guy was getting off on.

Oh, well if it was *that* racial stereotype that’s, of course, fine. That’s the good kind of racism. I expect all those foolish gun jumpers who called this person as if they were exhibiting *bad* racism feel like idiots now.

Good racism. That’s what we need more of. I bet the people who try and defend forced fem as not misogynistic but being about ‘being less of a man and having my masculinity taken away and being a slut and being ridiculous and, and, and OH FUCKING SHUT UP BITCHY JONES, JUST SHUT UP, are delighted to have this argument to add to there arsenal of utterly thoroughly convincingly utterly throughly extremely good pro-forced fem good arguments.

(The best of these is probably ‘Women wear trousers!’ Because when you’re trying to deconstruct and evaluate what the position in femdom of forced feminisation as a way of diminishing men and what kind of ideas about men and women it reflects and endorses there really is nothing like an irrelevant non-sequitur to stop you in your misguided tracks.)

I have no idea what the person who posted this is really trying to say in the first paragraph before the weird stuff about race. But, whatever it is I’m sure I have it all wrong. So, it’s pure guesswork but I think he means that forced fem isn’t misogynistic because it is based on thinking women are inferior *but* *also* superior, which is just great. It would probably just be spoiling things if I said I’d like my kink to think of women as human beings rather than whatever fits the fantasy from a grab bag of stereotypes of goddesses and sluts, but hey.

Anyway, that’s the kind of slippery slope that might lead to me wanting control over my own reproductive system and the vote or some other krazy dreamtime.

And – cuh – chanow, any prejudices and horribles you see in kink are just fine and okay, no really, because they turn people on, which means there’s no possible political or sociological agenda to them. And if you’re offended by the casual denigration of black people or women by a bunch of straight white men, just shut the fuck right up, okay, because these straight white men are actually perverts and therefore horribly oppressed in ways you couldn’t possibly begin to imagine. And stereotyping black men as ‘physically superior’ fuck machines and animalistic, white-woman-raping mandingoes is, in fact, the opposite of racism. The opposite of bad racism that is.

If only there were more of this big black cock for my slut wife style cuckolding (like there’s any other style? Like that could be called a ‘style’?) going on I expect the world would finally be in peace and harmony; probably just like fucking piano keys do or something else black and white. Say, penguins. At the very least we’ll all be too busy to be hating each other what with the white women getting fucked by the black men and the white men looking on and wanking.

(Obviously, we can ignore black women. It’s fine, there’s a social precedent for just carrying on as if women of colour don’t exist anyway. They’ll be alright, having a great time getting physically superior fucking off of black men, I expect. Well, until those black men realise they could be doing it with white women! But that’s just the tough breaks, I guess. (Someone call Kanye West! I’ve figured out an ending for that song.))

Oh world of perverted sex, this is why you still need me. Even after all these years. And I am as sad for you as anyone that you need a whiny, ugly, woollily liberal, bad-hearted, profanity-ridden anti-capitalist dominatrix to save you.
But someone has to collect these things and half-arsedly post them on a free blogging platform and ridicule them in front of a handful of lazy, uninterested bored office workers who’ve mistyped something into google. And if not me, then who, baby? Then who?

Surrender Dorothy
Forced Feminisation in Black and White
The Last Cuckoo 

I don’t like to seem ungrateful. No, no, I really don’t. And of course I love to be included in lists. Especially list of top 100 things. 

But I really cannot understand why I am officially one of the top 100 LGBT blogs. 

I mean, I can understand how maybe, maybe, the fact that I have some kind of ALT sexuality makes me sort of queer. (Although probably a lot less queer than it might appear.) But that list’s acronym has no Q! It is L G B T. Which of those letters apply to me?

I love cock – but I don’t have one. I love my cunt – but no one else’s.

This still hasn’t dropped off the front page FFS

Plus the fact that most dominatrix bloggers actually make some big point of their biseckshooality. And I’m the only one that don’t. And I understand that if you wanted to include a woman who gets off on manpain in your list you’d want me because of the whole asshat situation, but I am, I am sure, the least LGBT one. (Which is a fact not a boast – I’m not trying to dazzle you with my hetness. Someone has to be the least gay one, and that somebody is me.)

I’m not complaining. I’m just confused. And I don’t normally get confused about sexuality.

Oh Torchwood, I wish I could like you. I’m a huge Doctor Who fan (no, what? Does that make me sound like a geek? What, like there is some kind of huge geek/pervery cross over. For sereally? How come no one mentions it? (And talking of which, happy solstice, hippy types))

Also, I may have mentioned this before (you know how sometimes you lose track of what you’ve said to who) but I loved Doctor Who from a tiny age because of a scene where Peter Davidson was going to be executed. Beheaded. All kneeling and stuff. Woah and God, I do like kneeling. Real low. Forehead on the floor. Love, but… It frightens me, you know. That. How hard that fucking hits me. How deep it goes. Hate it, almost. Do not want. I push it away. Only glimpse out of the corner of my eye. It’s like the sun. It is for me. It’s too much and it overwhelms me and crushes me to bits and dust. My desires for strength and power don’t make me strong and powerful. They make me needy; make me weak. Wanting is weakness. Desire is misery. And I am nothing but a mess of desire that does not work because getting what I want destroys it.

When he kneels all I want is to be beneath him.

When he kneels, he’s my god, then.

(And this, you know, rarely flies with that average submissive man as a way to run happy times. And we haven’t even got to the fact I don’t do heels.)

Yeah, but I was writing about Torchwood. (See how I digressed off my digression into the thing this blog is mean to be about. ‘Mazin’ mind fuck.)

Yes, but really, Torchwood. Oh, if only I could like you. (Not just Doctor Who love really, also the whole British genre TV made for adults thing. Love that. So want it to be good.) Unfortunately the makers of Torchwood seem to have adopted a policy of never casting anyone with any acting ability or physical attractiveness of any kind. Which would be, you know fine, unless they were making a television program.

Oh, oopsiefuck!

Fuckers! I mean come on. It’s called television for a reason. And ‘tele’ I believe comes from the Greek for pretty looking people right in my field of

John Barrowman, for example, is apparently supposed to be some kind of version of attractiveness. But I think something must’ve gone horribly wrong because, even allowing for variations in human response, John Barrowman is about as sexually exciting as having nitric acid pipetted onto my clitoris. (And, god, you know, with my audience it is too fucking hard to find a neat metaphor to describe something sexually horrible. They’ll always be one. Or, well, with my blog a small faction. But I know you get what I mean so shut up.)

I don’t know how else to understand John Barrowman other than to assume he has some kind of super human cock sucking ability. I know that might sound like some kind of vague grazing homophobia, but it really isn’t. I just do wholly genuinely think there is no other explanation for his getting any work ever.

But the terminal unattractiveness (and intense unconvincingness – which is probably really the main problem) of John Barrowman is such a shame because he does get sort of chain up and tortured quite a lot. And normally, you know, I kind of fucking go for that.

But, just the once, I did kind of mildly enjoy this bit. (Bit, btw, is about a min and a half in.)

I seem to have lost my ability to embed things. But I’d feel dirty embedding some Torchwood anyway.

It’s probably the sideburns. Sideburns are my wolf in the woods. Nothing has made me stray off that path to grandma’s house as regularly and destructively as the right kind of facial hair. Although I never thought they were so powerful they would make me thrill to Barrowman. Even with electro torture. God.

I blame the 1970s.

Having said all this, how hot would that Edwardian-electrics thing be if Harkness was played by, well, by absolutely anyone else you can think of.

(I don’t moderate comments on this blog – mainly as a sort of high wire act – but I will delete you if you say you actually find a barefaced John Barrowman either attractive or convincing. I can do without your sort.)

Now, I know what you’re thinking: It’s just filler. Just bloody filler while I try and remember how to write a sex blog. And, you know, you’d be oh so wrong, because it actually mildly diverting, in fact, so screw you all to the nearest scratchy wall with jaggedy bits sticking out with a big fuck off power drill.

And that has, I believe, shown you. You’ll all be shutting up in my imagination now I’m sure. 

But forget that. Go: content!

Invite me to a dinner party (no, really, go on, I’m quite well behaved in person) and ask me if there’s anything I don’t eat and I will chippily reply that I like everything except pasta, prawns and unnecessary human suffering. And hur hur, you lose imaginary dinner party host because one of those isn’t even true.

But anyway and whatever the fuck and stuff, that was kind of the inspiration for this list. That and my lack of any inspiration for anything else and the fact this blog’s hymen had grown back. And because a list of two things isn’t really a list so much as a thing and an after thought – I trumped up a few more. Out of sheer love. Because I do love you. Every one of you. As soon as society crumbles to the level where marriage is so demeaned as to allow bloggers to marry all their readers I am so there with the fucking filth encrusted lot of you.

Pasta
Everyone in the world likes pasta apart from me. Bitchy, they say, with confused expressions on their bewilder-gogged faces, how can you not like pasta? 

I do not say, as I maybe should, by just not liking it obviously. Is what not liking is. I try harder. I say, I do not like the taste. They say, but pasta does to taste of anything. I say, exactly. That is the taste I do not like.

What is point of pasta? Instead of eating pasta why not eat the exact same meal without the pasta. There is no difference.

Tea in Starbucks
Starbucks and all other coffee places sell tea. They make the tea using that machine that they use to make coffee, which I am sure has some kind of a name, but I am equally sure I do not know what the fuck that name is. This machine does not dispense boiling water. This, I believe, would not make good coffee. (Did you see there how my crazy writins skills made it almost sound like I knew waht I was talking about there. No idea really – just vamping.)

But to make tea you need boiling water. (Or, technically I think just below boiling but surely it actually has to be just below boiling or would not be liquid water and no one wants tea in gas form, not unless it was either that or chai latte).

So, anyway, the tea in coffee shops is horrible. If you want tea you have to make it at home. Well, if you are British and therefore own a kettle. If you do not have a kettle you should not make tea. Trust me, if you really wanted tea you would own an electric kettle. Of this I am certain. Americans: that thing you make by warming water in the microwave, I have no idea what that is, but it isn’t tea.

Fizziness
No one will ever convince me that the adding of fizziness to any drink does anything except make it more unpleasant. I spent a lot of my teenage years with my first boyfriend smashing the bubbliciousness out of big bottles of cider, because that was the cheapest alcohol we could get and we both hated and were confused by fizziness. In truth that may have been all we had in common, but it got us through a good few years when we were so young that something like that was enough.

Brie
Actually it’s not that I don’t like brie, I just don’t understand why more people don’t ever mention how much it tastes like semen. It’s a very specific taste, and only found in these two places. And why, really, should this be? There should be science. Someone give me a research grant. Or really just some goggles and access to a bunsen burner and a naked man and a cheese board!

God, I would probably sacrifice a goat or something to make that last sentence come true. Just typing it has given me a happy.

Prawns
Okay, now, they look like aborted fetuses. I’m pro choice, but I don’t want to go that far. Any food where you cannot decide if its raw state (grey) or its cooked state (pink – and seriously WTF is going on there?) is the most disgusting looking is a food worth avoiding. I know you can get those big ones with claws and eyes and tentacles left on. I don’t know if they are shrimps or king prawns or crayfish or what the fuck ever, because I tend to avoid the whole grey-to-pink abortion issue, but, those, are actually, slightly better. Because they look more like dinosaur abortions than human ones.

I have no idea why that makes something slightly more acceptable as a food, but it does. And don’t mention eggs here. I don’t eat fertilised eggs, do I? Any kind of ‘roe’ is also a fucking bleegasm, but I’ve done five so I’m gone.

You are welcome to tell me your own lame food unlikes, but I probably won’t care very much. (I only care about the foods you hate when you’re tied up and your mouth is held open and then, really, well, who says it has to be food?)

*

Also there is this thing where I am sort of doing a Twitter thing. Mainly in a vain sort of hey, no, actually, I’m still alive, sort of way. (Which is kind of what Twitter is, all told, but hey, ’cause so are lots of things.) Anyway, obviously, as it is me, don’t get your hopes up. Ever. About anything. But, cuh, maybe I’ll make it into something scintillatingly good. (If that does happen please investigate in case some kind of Stepford blogger type scenario has taken place. K, thx.)

*

I am writing the novel (vaguely based on the blog). I have nothing to tell you about it yet except that I am enjoying writing it so very much. Catharsis, I has it. Oh fuck yes.

On damnit you know this* picture over on Male Submission Art is so fucking nice. I could stare at it my whole life and then start wishing for reincarnation. (I’ll be fine. I have good karma right? What? That? That’s just some strap thing. It doesn’t hurt. Anyway I bought it off eBay so it can’t really be a sex toy. What? I’m coming back as a horse’s arse. Fuck! I hate you Buddha.)

But that thing in that pic? I could do with some of that right now. You know, that thing. I’m itchy because it has been months now since I was mean to some guy while his cock was in me. But guess what, you poor misguided fans of me, that is how it is going to stay. Even though it makes me cry bereft tears of spoilt baby rage to write it, my forced hiatus from all that fun stuff has transformed into a self selected hiatus. 

(Though only after five long months of crying and whining and making a high pitched keening noise and contact details deleting and facebook unfriending and at one point I may have even watched Mamma Mia (so never say I don’t follow that dumb-assed white rabbit of my fucking emotions down any stinking rabbit hole it drags me for no good reason except to ensure I’ve felt every bit of it. In fact a friend of mine recently said I might be a super taster, but the truth is I think every part of me is calibrated wrong. Anyway, forget the Mamma Mia thing – I’m sure it was mostly incidental.))

Yes. I am saving up my temporal pennies in a bank marked: write your fucking novel, Bitchy Jones, if you think you are good at doing dumb fucking writings. I am really. I am writing a novel based on the stuff in this blog, but fiction so I can make up dweeby characters based on people I hate and then have them fall over. 

And I need the incentive of that right now (the falling over) because it is so hot where I live I feel like I am dating Vulcan (not *a* Vulcan – not that that would be bad, but it wouldn’t make sense here. Anyways they need to rebuild their race, they’re not going to be crossbreeding right now). Also, dating Vulcan, god, I wish! But look, forget that, it’s boiling hot outside and dubious looking men in skazzy gold chains are walking around with their tops off showing their prison tattoos and I am shutting myself away writing. So pity me.

I know, what is wrong with me? Could it be that for once in my life I have made a sensible decision re:life priorities. Maybe I’ve looked at too many hypnodomme free samples and gotten inadvertantly mind wiped.

Anyway, yes, so this is mainly an announcement in case you were frantically reloading this page waiting for the day I started updating with some sexomatic-antic with some kind of Jack-mark-two character (but slightly younger and sexier. And a brunette. With big thighs.) Well, that is not going to happen. No more perversion for me until 2010. Not even looking.

I will still be blogging though, no way I am neglecting this thing. I may well go back to my old much-loathed style of pissing all over other people’s kinks for my own dubious merriment. Yay! So expect, well, that, and some updates about my hard-worky writing life until I run out of uncreative swear words. (Oh, that’s weeks yet.)

*Okay so that pic I mean is at the top of the blog right now. But that’s not a perma-link because I am some kind of motherfucking brainache that cannot work tumblr. I am just hoping May will help me out with a proper link before anyone notices that I am some kind of hillbilly that has never seen the internet before and adjacently completely made of lose.

Right here

And while it makes this post look like a pretty little link farm, here I am in the Guardian. Oh, wait, there’s been some kind of mistake. It is not me, but a prodom in the media saying that women dominating men is not a sexual thing and if it *is* for sex and stuff that would be wrong, or, to use her (or that articles, not sure) word choices ‘non-traditional’. And that’s a shame, because I love traditions. Like Easter and pirates and capital punishment. 

(Are those things traditions? I started the list before I realised I had no idea. No wonder I’m a useless fucking dom. Also, when I say I love capital punishments, I don’t mean, well, you know, not in a tory back-bencher kind of way.)

Anyway, blah, blah, proper femdomming involves no female nudity (no pull back and reveal of the weak, wet cunt) – it’s just about men doing housework (which I have written about before). Anyway, yuh, I do apologise for taking the piss out of prodoms for dressing like the most unimaginative clod of a rugby player dressed as a fucking funny hooker for a stag night, or the fact they talk like sex is some kind of disease that infects weaker people, but, look, I don’t just make it up. I’m just not smart enough for that kind of creativity.

Once, I was at a party. It was a small party. A little group of friends. Nothing odd or kinky about it. It was not, let’s be clear, a femdom tea party. (I don’t go to those. Not that I get invited. Not that I’d go if I did – I’m allergic to other dominant women – it’s a sad, sad thing. No, really, submissive men complain about the deathly dearth of non-insane dominant women, but that sad fact is just as brow-furrowing for me. ‘Cause it’s lonely at the top and ten times more lonely for the fact that everyone else up here is a crazy, sex-phobic, materialist, asshatter-o-bot.)

But, so, yes, normal party. Little gathering of people. A cluster around a table. Drink flows. Conversation, uh, also flows.

So, you get it, right, everything that ought to be flowing, is.

The talk is, as it often is, of popular culture. Celebrities we’d like to fuck. We, are seven or eight of us at a table, urbanites, almost exclusively thirtysomething, artsy professionals – basically, if you handed any of us a latte we would drink it – and then one woman, a good friend, says, yeah, but we’d all fuck Angeline Jolie, right?

Next to me, Pan tenses and turns. Amber alert. An eye roll as micro-expression. Now Pan – Pan is drop dead smart. Smart like a superpower. Sometimes I think Pan is like Doctor Who or Dungeon Master (not in *that* way). Or a giant chess-playing computer. It’s like he has always worked out every possible next move and evaluated them all against a probability algorithm. Pan is so stupid smart, it’s only a matter of time before the military take possession of him.

But in this case, Pan has no need of smart smarts to flash me an easy tiger. This one is as predictable as lung cancer in the Malboro Man.

‘Cause I’m cross about the Angelina factor, oh yeah, I’m seething and I would say something. But my little bleat of, I wouldn’t, ‘cause of my straight, gets lost, lost like my lost love Sayid, under a quick-smart barrage of everyone else in the gorram fucking world saying that, yes, they would, but of course, and how damn true. So I never get make my point that if they’re all queueing up for Jolie jollies does that mean Brad Pitt is at a loose end, cause that’s the end I’d rather be at, frankly, even if he hasn’t be really properly, actually hot since Twelve Monkeys Thelma and Louise. No chance. Nah, hush up Bitchy, everyone, yes everyone, would fuck Angelina Jolie. Some cultural memes are just bigger than any one person’s personal sexual preferences.

And you know what, this happened over a year ago. And I have been brooding about this event twelve long seethe-heavy months. Because, although it could have been the case that all the other women present were into women – not actually that unlikely in that particular gathering. Like I said before, young urban, urbane, liberated trendoid women have a practical obligation to recreational lesbianism. Anything else would be bad!feminism. ‘Cause not sleeping with women = hating women. That’s why. That’s why gay men are all such misogynists and straight men are… uh, hang on…

(Ah, gee, straight men, you know I love you, but you’re so fricking clumsy. I know, I know, growth spurt in teenage years, never quite got your body image back – and yet you park like wheel-whisperers so what’s all that about? – but, hey, you clumsy old daddy bears, any chance you could stop breaking, like, everything, with your big clumsy man paws and emotional autism. Hey, for me? Is that a no? God you’re such fucking bastards. And I don’t mean in, like, a hot way.)

Anyway, after a year of sulking about it seemingly unproductively, I realised what this shit is about. (So take that, dismissers of sulking as a way to get stuff done.) Not just that conversation, but every time ever I have been talking to a woman about some other woman, a girlfriend or a celebrity that she admired and adored and the accolades would end with the claim that my companion was so enamored of this other woman that she had a girl crush, or even more simply put that she would so totally sleep with her, or go gay for her, or whatever. You know these conversations you’ve probably had them. And, don’t think I don’t know, you have probably said it about me.

And don’t think that I think that if you are a straight woman and have said this about another woman that you are dumb or lazy or stupid or bad!feminist of a breaker of one of Bitchy Jones’s rules because I have done it, but I try not to do it now, because I have realised why people do it.

It is because the highest compliment you can pay a woman is to proclaim that you find her fuckable.

Always and forever and as simple as that.

If you admire a woman and like her, if you find her witty and attractive, if you like the way she thinks, well obviously, you want to fuck her. Because if you were a straight man, that’s where that would lead. But if you’re someone who isn’t sexually attracted to women, you might think you are feeling that too, you might even feel that you are insulting that woman if you don’t want to sleep with her (dishing out the ultimate insult by calling her unfuckable).

And, you know what, hey, let’s bring this around to me: Say you’re a straight woman (or a gay man – this can apply to you too, buttercup) reading this post and thinking all how it is, hey, awesome, and you might be feeling all kinds of emotions about me and want to express how simply damn great you obviously think I am. Well, you can call it a crush or an urge to want to sleep with me if you like, but chanow, all you really want there is to meet me, hang out, talk shit with me, drink tea and find out if I’m really so clever and witty in real life. (Clue: no. Did you get the part where I mentioned that I figured this out a year after the even that triggered it.)

But, yeah, back on the point (this blog’s most overused phrase), which is that this I’d-so-sleep-with-her phenomenon is pretty much just a side shoot from the whole damn dirty deal where women are mainly for fucking and generally supplying sex and men are the choosers and enjoyers of that sex. And also the whole thing that every piece of expression of anything ever should be expressed in the kind of terms and ideas straight men would use, as if that is some kind of default language because straight men will get confused if you don’t because they have never learned anything else, and they’ve never learned anything else because they are the default so they don’t need to. Like the circles that you find in the windmills of mostly annoying things – yeah, those windmills, okay. Just like how if you speak English you don’t need to bother learning anything else, or how everyone converts into American measurements and monies on the internet.

Hemingways, remember I mentioned gay misogyny earlier, well, that kind of links up here too. I’m not saying gay misogyny doesn’t exist (*cough*drag queens*cough*) because gay men live in the same patriarchal wilderness I do, and are therefore just as likely to display a bit of casual misogyny as anyone (that likeliness: sadly, quite likely. Shoot!) but, what often gets called out as specifically gay misogyny is actually gay men expressing an active personal sexual dislike of women’s bodies. I’m not saying that saying vaginas=gross is helpful for anyone in a culture where women’s bodies are simultaneously deified and demonised, just pointing out that I also find the idea of putting my tongue in a woman’s cunt gross (seriously, even Angelina’s. I know. Freak me!) and I know what it’s like to have the world assume I would fucking love it and what it is like to feel the need to keep on pointing out that, no, I don’t think that tits are the fucking last word in a sexay design feature on a human body

Plus, god, do we live in a fucking culture where it is perfectly okay to laugh at the supposed grossitude of cocks – just let me check, why, yes we do – and do any of the lesbians or straight men who faux-barf at the idea of a warm bed and a hot man get accused of misandry. Why, no.

Oh.

And this is because saying you don’t want to sleep with a man isn’t a personal insult to him, particularly if sleeping with men isn’t your thing. And saying sleeping with men isn’t your thing (even with graphic penis-repulsion-reenactments) is never called misandry. In fact the average gross-out comedy’s compulsory gay-panic scene will often get (rightly) called homophobic – never misandric. 

Saying you wouldn’t want to sleep with a woman is practically a slight – even if it just isn’t your port of call. And thusly and conversely any stream of praise for a woman must end with the claim you would sleep with her, or surely that is faint priase. Saying you’re not into women in general – if couched in the right squelchy terms – is called misogyny. This is because rejecting women as unfuckable is a far bigger deal (their lives now have, like No! Meaning!) Than rejecting men as unfuckable. (Like, whatever, dude)

In some ways the compulsory recreational woman-fucking liberal culture assumes of all its female members is down to some misrouted idea that not wanting to sleep with women would mean hatin’ on women. And we liberal woman don’t go hatin’ on women, do we?

So we make sappy-sexless claims that women smell nice and have soft skin (I mean, oh fuck that noise, women (or, men) who are actually into women don’t slime around with that shit about nice olfactory and tactile sensations. Where is the lust? Shit, if you’re using the word ‘nice’ about any damn thing, check your pants, ‘cause you’re not experiencing lust, baby.) When, fuck that, men smell of sex and their skin is a sensation playground with the hair and – if I’m lucky – the work-wrought rough patches. I feel this way because I am straight.

Just because we live in a culture where all of everything ever has been defined by straight men doesn’t mean we have to fall for it. Dumb lies that women are just the sexual bullseye. And the dark heart of that is that even if you like being bully, even if you – no shit – find it empowering, when women get to be the sexual it thing, you know what, not all women get to be that.

I don’t.

I know this post can be read as somewhat, uh, dismissive of ideas of sexual fluidity. I do appreciate that there is a whole Kinsey scale and everything. And that wherever you might think of yourself on that scale it isn’t fixed for life, but I didn’t want to clutter up my beayootifuel writins with endless qualifications about how this might not apply if you are bisexual or some other kind of self identified sexual lucky dipper. But sexual fluidity can be used to wash away women’s own sexual identities. Too much fluidity, too much choice, ends – bizarrely – in homogeny.

And I hid, rather well I think, the fact that even I am blinded my own preferences to the point that I simply refuse to believe that anyone, anyone, not matter what their magic number would prefer Maggie over Jake.

Ah, damn me and my straight. Mea bloody culpa. As cupla as us all.

I’m so fucking lucky. There aren’t many niche sexualities that get so much coverage in the fashion pages. In fact, I can’t think of any others. Does that mean I win?

And when I say win, I of course mean, lose. At life. (What’s my prize? Is it getting to write a blog about it? Oh, say it is!)

Anyway, apparently this is what I am wearing these days. (Really, could they say ‘dominatrix’ any more often? Is it an SEO thing?) And I am so fucoresome that I am even influencing domestic violence victim pop stars to dress super stylishly and just like me in really fugly stockings. Like I do. Every day. Because my sexuality is, of course, mostly a costume. Like how Superman suits really make you actually able to fly.

Jezeus – these things look like crimes against humanity. There should be a trial at the Hague for whoever manufactured them. With death penalties. On TV. And that’s not my sado-shit showing – I just really hate those stockings.

And look, is it just me, or does anyone else think it is just bizarre that you can get horribly beaten by your boyfriend with revolting and upsetting pictures of your brutalised face all over TMZ and you will still get called a dominatrix if you wear wet-look fabric in a way that makes me cry and want to stab myself and be sick. From my eyes.

Which is not meant to say that being a dominatrix is the exact polar opposite of being someone who gets beaten up by their boyfriend. Or I’m even going anywhere near saying what you wear has anything to do with how much you ought to get smacked in the face. I mean, well, as if. In fact you could line up everyone in the world based only on how likely they were to say that and you would have to put me on the moon or something. (Ah, sense making, I has it – convolutedly.) But I do think that fact adds an extra level of WTF? Maybe the Daily Mail thinks Rhianna is all empowered now she is dressing more like someone who might whip a man for money. And how right they’d be. There is nothing so empowering as having a sexuality like mine. (Or dressing like you might pretend to if you were paid to.) Nothing at all.

I saw the Wolverine Movie with poor long-suffering Pan this week (I asked *so* *many* people to go with me and then, when they’d all turned me down, I told him it was his damn job) and was genuinely (not-unexpectedly) physically aroused by quite a lot of it.

You do have to be quite down with the man/man aspects (which I have mixed feeling about – although it is very obviously very hot – but I do need to write an essay about that forced-bi thing, because it really bothers me.) Seriously, it is a very, very gay movie. The part where Jean Luc Picard turns up in a heliocopter is actually the *least* queer thing that happens in the entire film.

But there is a woman (actually the only woman in the film) who gets to press the worst-pain-ever-now button, which probably made me happier than it ought to’ve . Anyway in heaven, that’s what I get to do. Or possibly in hell. Your hell, baby, but at least we’ll be together. 

Because I’m the best there is at what I do, and what I do is write a pointless whiny sex-adjacent blog on an internet.