Dating on Plentyoffish is a notoriously rocky experience. For every good catch, there are at least a hundred fish with herpes. Finding real-life human beings is the first challenge. Finding one that doesn’t strike the world of fear down your spinal column is another altogether.

Here are some POF Inbox boosting tricks to make the experience more endurable.

POF Inbox Boosters

1. Ladies, an intimate encounter is not a romantic dinner or a picnic in the park.

It’s POF code for “I fancy a shag, and my POF inbox shall be taken over by men who think they can get some.”

A guy can often tell the IQ of a female fish by comparing her looking for criteria with the words in her profile. If she lambasts men for chasing sex and one night stands, only to be found seeking an ‘intimate encounter’, she’s either a massive hypocrite or slightly dim-witted. Possibly both.

I know Plentyoffish is a bit of a battleground at the best of times, but you can do yourself a favour by at least correctly identifying what you’re looking for.

2. Ladies, flirt at the camera in your profile photo. Guys, look away from the camera and don’t smile.

OkCupid has some imcredible insight in to what works and what doesn’t on dating sites. Check out this piece on profile photo myths.

The popular wisdom says that smiling in your profile photo is likely to attract the most responses, right?

That’s wrong for both women and men!

For women, the most effective profile photo is the flirty death stare:

For men, the most effective profile photo is an intrigued stare towards something or somebody off-camera. Smiling actually decreases the reply rates. Perhaps it’s that man of mystery vibe?

3. Flirting off-camera fails for both men and women.

Okay, so while both sexes can get away with a flirty stare at the camera, results are very different if you use a flirty look away from the camera. Messaging rates decline rapidly if you are seen to be flirting at the wallpaper or ceiling. So take that onboard mirror MySpacers. Unless, of course, too many messages is your problem to begin with… (an unknown problem for man)

4. Do something interesting in your photo.

A popular piece of wisdom, handed down over the years to practically every fish in the pond. If you are seen to be doing something interesting in your profile photo, your messages received will skyrocket. And not only will you receive more messages, but they will lead to longer lasting conversations.

Second to ‘doing something interesting’, is taking a photo with an animal.

Nobody says it has to be your pet. Hey, maybe a trip to the zoo might work. I’m guessing you could kill the two ‘do something interesting’ and ‘be with an animal’ birds with one stone by attempting to snuggle a rhinoceros. Don’t hold me to that though.

There you go. Four easy tips to repair your POF inbox before it gets out of hand. Use them wisely!

Alternatives to Plentyoffish:

If you’re looking for a slightly more ‘liberal’ dating site aimed at casual dating demographics, check out the controversially sexy Just Hookup dating website. Free registrations for users in the UK, USA, Canada, Australia and New Zealand.

Do some people really only have anal sex in order to preserve their “virginity” for marriage?

Believe it or not, there is a crazy anal-loving Christian minority out there who still consider themselves virgins in in the eyes of their Lord. Because as long as the hymen stays in tact, the arsehole is fair game, right?

I actually know of a girl who managed to break her hymen while riding a horse. Does that spell Game Over for her virginity? I should point out that the horse was an actual physical…you know, horse. Not simply a guy who happened to be hung like one.

I find it crazy how so many of these girls can attempt to have the best of both worlds by holding back vaginal sex, but happily obliging in any other rough and tumble. Especially when their belief systems stress quite specifically that sodomy is evil.

But who cares for logic right?

Anal sex, Christians and “waiting for the wedding night”. A match made in heaven!

The world has gone insane.

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I know very little of the Weiner in question. Only that he’s a New York congressman who is presumably walking around, this very second, with his palms superglued to his face. But what I do find amusing is the magnitude of his fuck-up.

For those who haven’t heard the story, Weiner has managed to cover himself in poor taste by sending photos of his crotch – adorned in grey underpants – to a female user on Twitter. Instead of privately messaging the picture, he managed to send it publicly using the “@” tag.

By fucking up to this extent, anybody with such little enjoyment in his life that he would be browsing Weiner’s page miscellaneously, will have copped a flabbergasting view of the congressman’s junk.

I would pay many pesos to capture the moment in time when he realised his mistake, but realise it he did. A few moments later, the tweet was deleted and a false claim that the account had been hacked arrived in a late bid to save his bacon.

Obviously it didn’t work, as Weiner is now spilling beans about his exchanging of images with multiple women, and how very sorry he is for the sleaze.

To be honest, I couldn’t care less about the political implications. For one, I’m not from New York. And secondly, I personally think there are much greater sins to hold a politician accountable for than the accidental unveiling of his junk.

But I do see two very clear examples of poor taste in this whole charade.

1. Grey underpants? Seriously…grey underpants? What age do I have to turn before this kind of garment suddenly feels stylish? I’m definitely not feeling it yet.

2. Is Twitter really the best place to find woman to exchange photos with? The majority of female users on my Twitter account are robots disguised in marketable cleavage avatars. And even if you do stumble upon a real woman, how are you going to move from “Hello” to “Want to see my crotch?” in 140 characters or less?

Poor taste Weiner. Very poor taste indeed.

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This is the motto of the notorious pick-up artist community. It’s difficult to pinpoint why exactly a fledgling Mr. Bean would place his romantic hopes and dreams in the power of an ebook. Maybe it’s the last resort? The final stop before permanent celibacy is all but confirmed.

However, many guys (and ladies) still believe that the answers to their loneliness are waiting to be found in the digital diarrhea otherwise referred to as “pickup-artist handbooks”. Because getting a date is as simple as practicing steps 1 to 4 until she consents, right?

Without crapping on an entire industry in three short paragraphs, I should confess that I do believe there is SOME good to be taken out of the pick-up artist scene. Many of the laws of attraction you hear preached are actually rooted to self-confidence and overcoming insecurity.

It would be difficult to argue with even the most seasoned pickup sleazeball when it comes to addressing that confidence = everything in the dating game.

But that’s rarely the reason behind these skyrocketing ebook sales. The big hook is the idea of “Attract anybody you desire, it doesn’t matter who! These methods know no bounds!”. Confidence can improve your love life. But there isn’t a secret trick in the world that can make you attractive to a specified individual. Attraction does not work on demand.

Time and time again, I see blog comments from skirt chasers who honestly believe they can win the heart of a girl by following a set formula of steps. It just doesn’t work like that. An ebook can teach you how to become more attractive, generally speaking, but it can never give you the power to change somebody’s will.

So I suppose the question remains, just how many of these pick-up artist followers are actually interested in attracting a single lover? I would not hesitate to guess very few. The appeal behind the industry is power and control. How to attract admiration, lust and attraction from a crowd, without having to give anything in return.

It shouldn’t take an ebook to teach you that the single greatest aid for finding romance is confidence in yourself. This is a state of mind that translates in to attraction through the eyes of others. If you can’t sleep with who you are as a person, don’t expect anybody else to. No matter how many ebooks you buy.

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Bloodninja has been an Internet cult hero for many years. Little is known about the man behind the screen name, but almost a decade on, we’ve been left with some very funny transcripts of his cyber sex exploits.

For those who aren’t aware of the Bloodninja story, his fame was created in the early 2000s after a series of chat transcripts were posted on the old V6Power forums. Most of us have shared some kind of experience with the shady world of online chat rooms. Bloodninja captured the hilarity of it all by carrying out a series of pranks on willing and unsuspecting female users.

I say female users, but gender is a moot point for those who place their faith in online chat rooms.

To repeat one of the truest statements ever published online; “On the Internet, all girls are men… and all kids are undercover FBI agents.” You can read the full Bloodninja transcripts here, and I’ve pasted one of my favourites below.

Wellhung: Hello, Sweetheart. What do you look like?
Sweetheart: I am wearing a red silk blouse, a miniskirt and high heels. I work out every day, I’m toned and perfect. My measurements are 36-24-36. What do you look like?
Wellhung: I’m 6’3″ and about 280 pounds.I wear glasses and I have on a pair of blue sweat pants I just bought from Walmart.I’m also wearing a T-shirt with a few spots of barbecue sauce on it from dinner…it smells funny.
Sweetheart: I want you.Would you like to screw me?
Wellhung: OK
Sweetheart: We’re in my bedroom.There’s soft music playing on the stereo and candles on my dresser and night table.I’m looking up into your eyes, smiling. My hand works its way down to your crotch and begins to fondle your huge, swelling bulge.
Wellhung: I’m gulping, I’m beginning to sweat.
Sweetheart: I’m pulling up your shirt and kissing your chest.
Wellhung: Now I’m unbuttoning your blouse.My hands are trembling.
Sweetheart: I’m moaning softly.
Wellhung: I’m taking hold of your blouse and sliding it off slowly.
Sweetheart: I’m throwing my head back in pleasure.The cool silk slides off my warm skin.I’m rubbing your bulge faster, pulling and rubbing.
Wellhung: My hand suddenly jerks spastically and accidentally rips a hole in your blouse.I’m sorry.
Sweetheart: That’s OK, it wasn’t really too expensive.
Wellhung: I’ll pay for it.
Sweetheart: Don’t worry about it.I’m wearing a lacy black bra.My soft breasts are rising and falling, as I breath harder and harder.
Wellhung: I’m fumbling with the clasp on your bra.I think it’s stuck. Do you have any scissors?
Sweetheart: I take your hand and kiss it softly.I’m reaching back undoing the clasp. The bra slides off my body. The air caresses my breasts. My nipples are erect for you.
Wellhung: How did you do that? I’m picking up the bra and inspecting the clasp.
Sweetheart: I’m arching my back. Oh baby. I just want to feel your tongue all over me.
Wellhung: I’m dropping the bra. Now I’m licking your, you know, breasts. They’re neat!
Sweetheart: I’m running my fingers through your hair. Now I’m nibbling your ear.
Wellhung: I suddenly sneeze. Your breasts are covered with spit and phlegm.
Sweetheart: What?
Wellhung: I’m so sorry. Really.
Sweetheart: I’m wiping your phlegm off my breasts with the remains of my blouse.
Wellhung: I’m taking the sopping wet blouse from you. I drop it with a plop.
Sweetheart: OK. I’m pulling your sweat pants down and rubbing your hard tool.
Wellhung: I’m screaming like a woman. Your hands are cold! Yeeee!
Sweetheart: I’m pulling up my miniskirt. Take off my panties.
Wellhung: I’m pulling off your panties. My tongue is going all over, in and out nibbling on you…umm… wait a minute.
Sweetheart: What’s the matter?
Wellhung: I’ve got a pubic hair caught in my throat. I’m choking.
Sweetheart: Are you OK?
Wellhung: I’m having a coughing fit. I’m turning all red.
Sweetheart: Can I help?
Wellhung: I’m running to the kitchen, choking wildly. I’m fumbling through the cabinets, looking for a cup. Where do you keep your cups?
Sweetheart: In the cabinet to the right of the sink.
Wellhung: I’m drinking a cup of water. There, that’s better.
Sweetheart: Come back to me, lover.
Wellhung: I’m washing the cup now.
Sweetheart: I’m on the bed arching for you.
Wellhung: I’m drying the cup. Now I’m putting it back in the cabinet. And now I’m walking back to the bedroom. Wait, it’s dark, I’m lost. Where’s the bedroom?
Sweetheart: Last door on the left at the end of the hall.
Wellhung: I found it.
Sweetheart: I’m tuggin’ off your pants. I’m moaning. I want you so badly.
Wellhung: Me too.
Sweetheart: Your pants are off. I kiss you passionately-our naked bodies pressing each other.
Wellhung: Your face is pushing my glasses into my face. It hurts.
Sweetheart: Why don’t you take off your glasses?
Wellhung: OK, but I can’t see very well without them. I place the glasses on the night table.
Sweetheart: I’m bending over the bed. Give it to me, baby!
Wellhung: I have to pee. I’m fumbling my way blindly across the room and toward the bathroom.
Sweetheart: Hurry back, lover.
Wellhung: I find the bathroom and it’s dark. I’m feeling around for the toilet. I lift the lid.
Sweetheart: I’m waiting eagerly for your return.
Wellhung: I’m done going. I’m feeling around for the flush handle, but I can’t find it. Uh-oh!
Sweetheart: What’s the matter now?
Wellhung: I’ve realized that I’ve peed into your laundry hamper. Sorry again. I’m walking back to the bedroom now, blindly feeling my way.
Sweetheart: Mmm, yes. Come on.
Wellhung: OK, now I’m going to put my…you know …thing…in your…you know…woman’s thing.
Sweetheart: Yes! Do it, baby! Do it!
Wellhung: I’m touching your smooth butt. It feels so nice. I kiss your neck. Umm, I’m having a little trouble here.
Sweetheart: I’m moving my ass back and forth, moaning. I can’t stand it another second! Slide in! Screw me now!
Wellhung: I’m flaccid.
Sweetheart: What?
Wellhung: I’m limp. I can’t sustain an erection.
Sweetheart: I’m standing up and turning around; an incredulous look on my face.
Wellhung: I’m shrugging with a sad look on my face, my weiner all floppy. I’m going to get my glasses and see what’s wrong.
Sweetheart: No, never mind. I’m getting dressed. I’m putting on my underwear. Now I’m putting on my wet nasty blouse.
Wellhung: No wait! Now I’m squinting, trying to find the night table. I’m feeling along the dresser, knocking over cans of hair spray, picture frames and your candles.
Sweetheart: I’m buttoning my blouse. Now I’m putting on my shoes.
Wellhung: I’ve found my glasses. I’m putting them on. My God! One of our candles fell on the curtain. The curtain is on fire! I’m pointing at it, a shocked look on my face.
Sweetheart: Go to hell. I’m logging off, you loser!
Wellhung: Now the carpet is on fire! Oh noooo!

So what happened to Bloodninja? Where is the pioneer of alternative cybersexing as I write this today?

Nobody knows for sure. There have been many Bloodninja imposters, and we barely even know the origin of the first chat transcripts – although they are believed to be from the late 90s. Rumour has it his name was Loren.

It doesn’t matter who Bloodninja is or was. For anybody who has experienced the warped world of Internet chat rooms, his legend will live on through the bumbling nature of tomorrow’s cybersex clowns. The next time somebody asks you “ASL?”, just make sure he’s not wearing a wizard hat.

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I can’t say I give a damn about his private life, but fair play to Ryan Giggs.

It takes balls to tear a good scandal away from the British media’s inking machine. But to then throw lawsuits at Twitter in a bid to keep your sordid business private, that’s just dedication to the cause. The man is hellbent on changing history.

The Ryan Giggs and Imogen Thomas affair

Forgetting that Giggsy is a love rat (Loved the “You’re Not Secret Anymore!” terrace chants, by the way), can anybody tell me why a Super Injuction was required in the first place?

Let me guess. Imogen wanted to sell her story to a newspaper?

I don’t know how the story came to be, but I’m assuming this is how it happened. And if that’s really the case, I can’t say I have much sympathy for the journalist argument that the story was in the public’s interests.

And I have zero sympathy for Imogen if she was intending to sell her side of the story. Somehow she’s managed to paint herself as the wronged, betrayed victim. She says she had no idea Ryan was a married man. I call insta-bullshit on this argument.

If you’re about to sink your claws in to one of the world’s most famous football players – and one close to turning 40 at that – wouldn’t you stop to check his Wikipedia page for signs of wives and kids first? Of course not. These women chase trouble and trouble finds them. Boo fucking hoo. The only people who deserve sympathy in this whole dire mess are Ryan’s wife and children.

On the bright side for the Manchester United dressing room, at least Wayne Rooney can stop reading about his hooker exploits for five minutes.

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It seems the common explanation is that women are simply blessed with less time than men. Our biological clocks are wired to different life cycles that can make it difficult for a woman to attract men in her later years. That’s not what Cougar Date suggests, but it’s a reasonable explanation.

I stumbled across this opinion on Yahoo. See what you think:

“Men can father children at age 80. After 35, female fertility decreases, and chances of birth defects increase. Many women would like to be able to be married for a couple years first, with no kids, just to enjoy each other. Then if you consider that you never know if you might run into fertility problems, so it might take a few years, and then if you want more than one child, you better get started before age 30. So, with a couple years of “trying” in there, and a couple years of just enjoying married life, that puts you at 26 for getting married. And most of us would like to have dated and gotten to know the person for a few years first, so that puts you at 24 for meeting your future husband, if you want to follow your plan. No wonder young women are in a rush.”

I can understand the thinking, but I can’t help but feel sorry for any woman who is compelled to live life in this way. If you’re overwhelmed with a sense of time is running out before your 25th birthday, I struggle to see how you can truly understand the concept of “the one”.

Isn’t the perfect blend of love a creation that should overcome small matters such as being 24 or 54? If you base it purely on the platform it builds for your personal ambitions (to have six kids, or to call yourself a mother), then it isn’t a true love at all. It’s just a replacement for the feeling of loneliness you created in yourself.

The passage above could convince any girl to believe that her life is a parallel race against the nature of fertility. My solution? Stop caring about kids. Seriously, if the prospect of having a child is enough for you to mould your life ten years in advance, you’re ignoring many of the great joys life has to offer. Joys that don’t chain you to a pram.

Joys such as, I don’t know, not being dragged out of bed at 4am in the morning. Or being able to chase a successful career without handicapping yourself at the starting post.

I believe many women create problems and stresses for themselves by confining their hopes and dreams to an ancient way of thinking – build home, have kids, job done. This makes the search for Mr. Perfect less of a pleasure and more of a savage free-for-all. Nobody can guarantee that you will find the man of your dreams. But if you can’t accept that you’ll be perfectly okay without him, this insecurity will get the better of you.

I see so many old high school friends (all under 25) with more than one kid, no job, and Facebook statuses that have me erring between pitiful sympathy and anger at their reliance on the state. Did they really enjoy sacrificing everything to raise families so young?

How many mothers would suggest of their children – “Yes, I’d love for my daughter to be a mother of two by 18.” You never hear this. Their daughters are going to achieve great things and realise their dreams. They’ll be rich and famous, says the proud mother! This is lovely fighting talk. Really nice. But why did they never feel that way for themselves?

I think a growing number of women are becoming more career minded and waking up to the realisation their own lives are worth living. This is hardly a uniform argument for all women being young, stupid and pregnant. But the hunt for Mr Perfect goes on.

In centuries gone by, the need to marry young and have children was facilitated by a low life expectancy and a distorted society that made it impossible for women to prosper in any other way. But in 2011, 40 is the new 30 and women can be independent if they so wish.

Statistics back up that couples are marrying much older than they did a decade ago. There’s clearly no rush to find Mr. Perfect, but you could be fooled if you dared to visit the watercooler in a female orientated office. What Sally got up to with Jason on Friday night is all you’ll bloody hear about. And this leads me to believe that women obsess over finding Mr. Right primarily because it suits them so.

Biology has nothing on the gossip a woman would lose by downplaying the trials and tribulations of love!

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I recently had to explain to a friend that contrary to a very convincing product description, no, it is not actually possible to buy an acre of the moon. NASA is not giving that shit away anytime soon. And even in the event of a sale, you can expect to be priced out pretty rapidly if your search parameters are wedged at £10-£19.

Many online based “space” companies harvest a small fortune from loved up gits with more money than sense. The idea is simple. Of course, you can buy an acre of the moon! All you need to do is hand over your hard earned blood money and enter a recipient’s name for the certificate. In return, your elated girlfriend can call home an officially designated acre of the Moon’s surface.

The certificate includes coordinates, so obviously it’s just a matter of sticking her flag in the rock and installing the first shoe closet.

What these companies never mention, of course, is that the coordinates are registered on their own personal databases. And so even though your girlfriend technically owns a slice of the moon on somebody else’s register, that somebody else in particular has as much right to the Moon as my left arse cheek.

With so many of these coordinate registers already created, the acre you just bought is probably shared in a distant Excel file by some spinster and her cat.

The “Acre of the Moon” gift market is ridiculously huge for a product that is brilliantly simple. I’m not calling it a scam by any means. I actually admire the ingenuity of such a system, and pity the poor mope who thinks he’s cracked the astral real-estate market.

In any case, fake registers aside, what the hell would I actually do with an acre of the moon? The romantic in me says “Oh look at the night sky! Look at that pale orb! I think I just saw a unicorn gallop across my acre!” The reality in me says, “Eh, unfurnished is a pain in the arse.”

How about the classic Name a Star gift? Nothing says romance like buying a distant star for your sweetheart. Except that moment when she realises stars …do not actually last forever. And that hers is due to implode, according to the shitty “cosmic changes” in the Sunday horoscope she swears by.

If you’ve ever been interested in becoming an entrepreneur, or running your own product, now is a great time to take advantage of naive, soppy and desperate men. Simply wait for gift buying season, serve up a tastefully “too good to be true” space asset, and wait for it to rain dollar bills!

Until then, don’t be a clown. Your girlfriend is going to spit thunder if she ever finds out you’ve bought her fake moon estate over shoes.

Never trust a gift certificate. Never.

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I am a self-help junkie. And while I’m happy with my love life, I think a lot of people could stand to benefit from the controversial field of binaural beats hypnosis. It’s something that I use to improve my focus and work ethic. But many others choose to use binaural beats to improve their skirmishes with love.

There’s a great chance you’re sitting there and scratching your head. Just what the hell is binaural beats hypnosis?

Binaural beats hypnosis is essentially no more than a method of communicating with and altering the state of your subconscious mind. Binaural beats are two different frequency tones, fed to the brain through headphones, that produce a single tone. This alters the brain from it’s usual train of thought.

There are many different binaural beats available, but some of the most appealing beats for singletons are those that promise to awaken a flatlining love life.

Binaural beats have been created to specifically alter the brain’s perception of confidence, to heighten the feeling of orgasm and even to correct impotence. Name any problem, and there’s probably a binaural beat that can help it.

It’s natural to greet these propositions with enormous skepticism. We’ve grown up in a materialist world where it seems ridiculous to believe that severe symptoms can be healed by putting on an MP3 and entering a hypnotic trance. But is it really so hard to believe?

Science has proven time and time again that by thinking negatively, you can actually wish disease and illness upon yourself. You may have seen the many videos of patients developing blisters and sunburn at a doctor’s simple suggestion.

Some people are more susceptible to suggestion than others, but we all share the trait. How many times have you been to a doctor in a state of mind where you’re willing to accept his diagnosis as fact without question? Before you know it, your symptoms are altered to coincide with the diagnosis.

One of the most interesting studies I’ve found highlighted how a patient can accelerate a healing process by simply believing that the antibiotics he has been prescribed are the answer to his problems. The mind adopts the attitude of expecting to be healed, and before you know it, weren’t those some fantastically effectively antibiotics?

The hypnosis theory is exactly the same where binaural beats are applied to your love life. The Unexplainable Store has a whole host of beats that are designed to bring about a positive shift in your subconscious mind that creates the change you desire.

Will they work for you? It’s impossible to guarantee results to an individual unless the individual is in the right state of mind to wish them upon himself.

Personally, I highly recommend experimenting with the beats and seeing what results you can obtain. But if you’re going to do it, the first requirement is an open mind.

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But the recent 10 Charts of Sex has left me scratching my head and pondering this revealing statistic:

Now, all of the information above has been collected on a test sample of over 1 million OKCupid dating site members. That’s a lot of data. But how can it possibly be true?

Are we to believe that less than 10% of women prefer rough sex over the gentle sentimental so fucking romantic I need a tissue to even write about it kind? I’m not buying it.

The graph must surely be most worrying for any woman approaching sixty. It seems that as time goes by, the male adopts an even more insatiable taste for rampant lovemaking while the poor wife has to do what exactly? Grin and bear it? We must be back in the 1950s.

This is bollocks, and everybody knows it. Women are just as likely to indulge in rough fantasies as any male. They just don’t deem it socially correct to be announcing so for OKCupid.

Anyway, as usual, there’s some entertaining analysis to be found. Here are the best bits:

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