Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

It was the mid eighties. I was bored. I’d been dumped by an extremely good looking bloke for a relatively plain looking stick insect. The fact that she was icy, upper middle-class, soulless and condescending somehow made matters worse.

I didn’t actually want to be with the bloke in question. He was a bit of a twat, if I am honest. He was a public school moron with the politics to accompany the silver spoon that had been left in his mouth.

This new girlfriend of his was far more in tune with him, although she had no sense of humour whatsoever, and she wore pearls! I’ve not got anything particularly against pearls but on a 22year old, they just seem rather misplaced, or certainly did at the time.

We all went out one evening, a whole load of us hitting the town in the monstrous way that students do. I’d spent most of my evening with a group of male friends and had been hopelessly hit on by this one lad with the most enormous mouth. I mean, literally. It was the size of Julia Roberts’s with an additional pump of Botox, probably before Botox had even been invented.

He had wavy hair, decent looking eyes and that was about it.

He was deeply unintelligent.

But I was bored and I was pissed off at seeing Little Miss Perfect and the moronic one. I didn’t like the way that she was looking at me. What precisely had she got that I hadn’t apart from a cold and calculating manner?

What she had in abundance was “class” and money and therefore I was redundant, though I am obviously not so full of myself that I did not recognise there was much more to it than that. Some people are just suited to one another, and these two fitted together perfectly.

They got married in the end.

And probably got divorced too.

Anyway, Botox features wouldn’t leave me alone.

I was bored. So when he sat down next to me on the bus home, I let him slide his fingers all over my legs. I let him brush his hands over my breasts as he kissed me, and I decided that I was going to fuck him that night, not because I was particularly attracted to him but because I just fancied doing something outlandish. And of course, there was something to prove to the beautiful ex.

I had my fair amount of fucks whilst at university but had never had a one-night stand before.

As the bus approached my stop, he followed me off the bus, miles away from his own house.

I let him.

I let myself into the house, walked straight up to the bedroom and got fucked.

We fucked quickly and immediately, and then we clambered into bed where he fucked me again. It was raw, unsensual but quite thrilling. He had a decent cock and I remember getting rather aroused, not by the bloke but by the whole raunchy situation. I knew that I had no intention of seeing him again, and prayed that the dimwit wouldn’t fall for me.

In the morning, he left.

I met him at lunch time where he explained to me that he had a girlfriend and was going to be engaged to be married within the year. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was not exactly heartbroken at this news. She was welcome to his rubbery lips and his tailored manner.

I was out of there!

For my own confidence though, I just wish I had been assertive enough to tell him this rather than allow him to think he was giving me the brush-off.

But bizarrely, the whole experience was wonderfully empowering. I hadn’t deliberately dressed myself up that evening in order to get laid, but as soon as this guy started on me, I just thought to myself, “Why not?”

I was a relatively decent looking girl. I hadn’t had sex for nearly a month and in those days, before I rediscovered celibacy or a certainly a lack of interest in sex, I was rather desperate for a decent bit of cock.

It wasn’t a big deal.

On Friday night, I was out in town once more; a different town and different circumstances. I was with a load of girlfriends, the majority of whom were in a stable relationship, or certainly ones of longevity. Nobody had dressed to flirt – after all, apparently middle aged or older women of a certain standing don’t do that sort of thing. Certainly nobody was out to get hold of a man and have their brains fucked out for the sake of it, not even me!

But I was surrounded by others with a different story to tell, not part of my group, but certainly dressed to devour.

Ask teenager girls what they aspire to in life and some respond with the most horrific of statements; they want to be a WAG.

All they want is to go out into the city, meet up with a wannabee or established footballer, stick their fannies in their faces and end up, a few months down the line, as the next Cheryl Cole. I shudder to myself at their lack of self-worth; not merely for their weird aspiration but because they feel a need to define themselves by a man. No woman should do that and it is tragic that we are still in a situation when this happens.

However, on this Friday night, there may not have been the would-be WAGs wandering around the mild autumn streets, only groups of women with various reasons as to why they were dressed or semi-dressed up to the three times threes.

Alert: gross stereotyping coming on.

You’ve all seen them, pottering around on their stiletto heels, carrying the smallest little clutch bag containing keys and condoms, with their Facebook pouts at the ready.

They collect or mutate together into congealed conformity; all long hair, short skirts, skimpy tops, fake tans and a sense of purpose, clothed in a manner that pays no heed to the seasonal variation of our climate.

But I must stop this stereotyping at once. There are also the women who group together and do not tart themselves up to the eyeballs. They are out in the late autumn breeziness with a far more casual appearance; free to choose what they want to wear, perhaps holding a can or two of lager in hand, dying on the spot to be compared with the prospective WAGs.

The night is full of these groups of women. They are merry and alive and enjoying life, I think.

But we don’t know anything about them, about their lives, their dreams, their hopes and yet we start to make assumptions according to what they are wearing and indeed the fact that they are gathered together as a group.

And the first assumption is that they are out to find a man!

That is how conditioned we all are.

There must be a reason why they are dressed in a certain way or giggling profusely. Surely there is only one reason why these girls stay together; safety in numbers until they can shed their unity to subdivide.

Our fiendish automatic assumption, even the enlightened amongst us, is that they are officially on the pull.

But it is not that simple and who are we to imagine as such. And isn’t it tragic that we cannot instantly consider another reason why these women are out and about in the early hours of the morning; that they are just out to have fun.

As I am wandering through the night and journeying with them, I play a little game, I imagine where they have come from, what they are doing, what they hope to achieve in their evening and indeed their lives.

And I look at them and see a little of the adventures that I had when I was their age, or certainly the adventures that I would have liked, for my life was relatively sheltered.

Let’s take a quick look at a group of women then.

There’s the one who really does want to be a WAG: the exhibitionist who is the first on the dance floor, or the one who surreptitiously winds herself on the bar in the hope that a wealthy passer-by will grab her attention, or vice versa.

Then there is another who loves her evenings out with her girls but would like an alternative too. She is a little more demure than the previous girl but what she wants more than anything is a man; a boyfriend, someone to share some time with, almost irrespective of whether there is any true compatibility. The coupling is more important to them than the connection.

Although there is generalisation here, there is an element of truth.

Who else is there within this group of young women? Do they all have the same purpose in life?

Perhaps, amongst them, there are those who just want to be out with their friends, having fun, dancing, drinking, revelling in the joy of female company, not in a sexual way.

There is much to be said for groups!

There is much to be said for having a close-knit group of friends with whom to share a meal or a couple of drinks, and once more, just because they are a group of young women, rather than the group of women of my age, we should not assume that they are all desperate for a man to satisfy their every need. Sadly, as I said, that is precisely what we do.

“Girls just wanna have fun” cried Cyndi Lauper, and that is absolutely right. So shouldn’t we let them do precisely that?

Or perhaps there is the young woman who is brave enough to admit, like I did decades before, that they just fancy a fuck.

Have times really changed?

When I see these women, I actually dance in delight at their liberation and their opportunity. It may not be what the feminists strove for but I love the fact that there are more women out there taking power for themselves.

I did it one night, once. I never kissed a bloke without a serious amount of flirtatious foreplay that would take place, sometimes over a period of months. Frequently the flirtatious foreplay was so subtle I didn’t even know I was engaging in such a process.

Nowadays it does feel as though young women do not have such reticence. If they want something they go for it.

I watch a group in a bar; giggling and chatting, moving their eyes around the room. I pass them as I go to get the next bottle of wine for the muttons shying away in the corner.

All too soon, the force of the group of collective women disperses. They are gradually dissipating from the whole to the fractions, and the mathematical breakdown soon becomes multiples of two, with a few odd ones left out of the equation.

There’s safety in numbers, they said. But now there are only two. And that causes problems. The “one’s” left out feel periphery. The ones who thought they might find the love of their lives are disappointed but the ones who have caught the eye of a prospective snogger or fucker are oblivious in an instant to the needs of their friends.

And all because..........

Why do we have to play this game, and why do I have to sit on and watch, losing all sense of excitement at their liberty, knowing that ultimately everyone is just going to play the conformity game, just like I did.

I look again at the group of young women and hope to see my younger self within.

I find her and I want to grab her by the hand and tear her away. I want to tell her to be herself. I want to tell her that if she wants a fuck, then she should be more forthright and admit to herself and others that this is what she needs. I want to tell her that it is okay to love someone, to care for them, to feel an ultimate connection with another but she mustn’t lose herself, her dignity and everything that she is for the sake of any other human being, however wonderful they may be. I want to tell her that she has plenty of time. She’s not a bird – she is not designed to be monogamous and if she manages to catch the eye of a sexual partner now, it doesn’t have to be forever. I want to tell her that she will be happy and she can have fun and that enjoyment of life comes from diversity and inclusivity.

That’s what I want to tell her, only I know that she has a list of counter-arguments about babies and biological clocks and security and the safety not of numbers but of the number two.

And I cannot argue against that intuitive feeling that I know she has.

The women sit on the train at the end of the evening. They are no longer a large group of young women. Their numbers have been swelled or diminished by the additional men or the loss of some of their party to the delights of a “result” where the keys in the handbag are unused for the night but the other article might come in handy.

Nothing is straight forward but I still live in hope that the groups of girls that I see, be they clad in stilettos or be they simply enjoying an evening of sipping wine at a table in a heated shelter, learn to be unconventional, realise their own worth and feel confident to be themselves, and simply have fun with no expense to others.

Some boys take a beautiful girl

And hide her away from the rest of the world

I wanna be the one who walks in the sun.

Simple, even simplistic lyrics but I want that sunshine back on my back.

Coming Out

It’s time to come out. It’s time to stand up and be counted. Sex is an important part of life and therefore those who are actively engaged in sexual relationships of any sort that their family and friends are not aware of should come out. If they don’t, the myths about sex and relationships will be perpetuated for another generation, and possibly the next one after that.
So come on, let’s come out. Let’s tell the world.

Are you prepared to dispel the myths and tell your friends and families about your sexual delights?

What are these myths, I hear you say? You know – the ones about homosexuality being a sin or an abomination and the one about monogamy being the pinnacle of human experience. Or how about the one where women do not ejaculate during sex or that there is no such thing as a vaginal orgasm?
There is myth after myth about sex; often perpetuated because people are not brave enough to come out and contradict such idiotic statements due to their particular circumstances.

There was a recent survey done whereby it was reported that only 3% of gay men have anal sex. If that is the case, then I think I know all 3% of them because I am pretty confident that all the gay blokes I know are having it up the jacksie. Maybe those that took part in the survey didn’t want to admit to it. Maybe they shied away from the fact that this is what turned them on because they know that some people still find it abhorrent.
As for those people who find gay sex abhorrent, some of them probably sit there night after night watching a horny porn star taking it up the bum, only they can’t come out either because you’re not supposed to watch porn and if you do, you certainly cannot admit it.

Quite frankly, we are retarded when it comes to talking about sex, thinking about sex and admitting to the world that sex is a vital ingredient in our sanity. Our relationship with sex and sexuality actually damages rather than enhances our relationships, in some instances and often it is down to honesty or dishonesty.

A man will never admit to his partner that he has secretly being watching porn. He’ll never ask her if she wouldn’t mind him fingering her in a different way or different place because he doesn’t want to admit where he has learned these things. After all, it hasn’t been instinctual behaviour for the past twenty years.
A woman will not admit that she gets turned on by little toys that gyrate around her pussy because she thinks that it will upset her partner with his ineffectual love-making.
And these are just two small examples of the deception about sex and sexuality that must happen on a daily basis up and down the breadth of the country that are equal in weight to the lies that some tell to hide the fact that they are sexually active with another.

Now I know that last statement may appear self-justifying but before anyone accuses me of hypocrisy, I’ll stand up immediately and take it on the chin. I am a hypocrite because I manage to do both of the above.
I know that some would say that the latter lie of infidelity far outweighs the former two but have a think about it. Are they that different? They’re still big, fat lies that continue to perpetuate the idea that nobody is interested in sex and that nobody wants to have sex different to the sex that they are actually getting, if indeed they are getting any.

A friend of mine sat with me in a swimming pool a few months before I got married for the first time, and said to me, “You do know that the sex dries up once you get married, don’t you?” I responded to say that the sex was already pretty dry and rather on the infrequent side of town. She went on to say that every assumes that the world is fucking like bunnies but in actual fact, the majority of people were having sex extremely rarely; often less than once a month.

At the time, I felt a huge wave of relief. I wasn’t abnormal! Here was a woman who had had plenty of extra-marital affairs and she was “coming out” as being pretty indifferent to sex. It all settled down and it was perfectly normal to have a “healthy” disinterest in sex. I was vindicated!

However, this was only one side of the story. There were others who really were fucking like bunnies and more importantly, they were actually enjoying it, and they were enjoying it with people other than their main partner, and they were enjoying the liberty of uninhibited sex with multiple orgasms and experimental behaviour.
But they were in a minority.

Or were they? Which comes to the reason for this piece.
Surely, it is up to those who do have healthy sex lives to “come out” and tell the world what they are up to, and how it affects their lives in a delightfully positive way. Isn’t this as important as the need to protect people who may dislike or be hurt by such declarations? Sometimes, there has to be victims, and the victims do not have to be victims if they look at the whole exposure of sexuality in a different, more logical and non-attached way.
Such declarations could be the key to liberty for all humankind – greater love hath no man etcetera.

Of course, it isn’t as easy as all of that, and if it was, quite frankly, I wouldn’t be sitting writing this piece in the place where I am. I would possibly be elsewhere, not writing at all actually because at this time in the morning, I would hope to have a cock up my cunt enjoying the morning horn to the greatest of its glory.
The point is that I am most concerned that by not telling the truth about our sexuality we are essentially passing on all the myths to another generation. We pretend that sex is not important. We shield ourselves from the grim reality that people find other people attractive even when they are in a committed relationship, and in doing this, we set another generation up for failure.
And look at that statement once more. The “grim reality” shouldn’t be grim reality. It should just be a reality that people know and accept when they go into a relationship; i.e. that entering into a relationship with another does not mean they have to wrench their eyes out of their head or place a chastity belt around their bits because in all honesty, chastity belts are rather bulky things to have about the place.

On that point, there was an article in the Sunday Observer newspaper magazine about Wags and their naughty footballers who keep playing the field in more ways than one. The writer was suggesting that there was something rather odd in the women accepting that their men might play away with the only real concern that they are playing away safely, i.e. covering their cocks with condoms as they dive into the most available high-costing prostitute.
The writer suggested that we “hear not of the wives’ disbelief at the betrayal but of their practical questions about the likelihood of a sexually transmitted disease....... men will cheat, these women have learned. They will have affairs – which is worse in one way, because it means they like someone else; and they will pay prostitutes – which is worse in another way, because it shows they’re able to see women as commodities....... but if it’s not too much trouble, the wives would be awfully glad if they’d remember to use a little bit of contraception. If they’ve got a sec”.

Okay, here is the point and I suspect the truth.
The sad reality is that I do not think Abbey Clancy and her fellow sufferers have been told about the possibility that Mr. Crouch and others are going to play away. I sadly think that these poor girls, who probably don’t really understand the law of probability, think that their man is going to be different. They genuinely believe that they have what others do not have and therefore their men are unlikely to stray. Because they are so reliant on the horrendous and disgraceful amounts of money that their men can earn, they are willing to accept any sort of misbehaviour. It’s only the ones who are financially independent who can kick their boys in the balls – like Cheryl Cole/Tweedy for instance.
These women are hurt by the perpetuated myths surrounding sex. They get upset because their men stray.
If they knew from the outset that this was not just likely but was definitely going to happen, then wouldn’t life be easier for them? If their man stated that they would probably be a life partner but they would also need to slip their cocks into other women, then wouldn’t that be a more acceptable way of living, in honesty, with trust, obviously assuming that the man would not get all protective and possessive about their women opening their legs for another?
In which case, surely the right response from any liberated partner would be “Can you please make sure you wear a condom?”
What’s more, if men and women feel that they have this liberty, then they may find that they don’t actually want to enter into another cock or cunt. They may just want to look, or fondle around a bit, or indeed they may want to go the whole hog. The point is, tying people down to false promises and hopes is a stupid way to live.

Look at Tom Jones.
He was on Desert Island Discs this week and right at the end, after a brilliant interview, young Kirsty tentatively asked him about his fidelity issues in the most subtle way. Sir Tom mentioned that he wasn’t proud of his darker side, although he never mentioned the word infidelity, but he recognised it was part of him and that he had enjoyed his life and, by default his experiences with a woman or two.
Lady Jones is no fool. She knows and has always known that the man from the valleys has not been faithful but they have resolutely remained together for over fifty years. After all the women who have been in Tom’s life, it is Linda who he is with and it is Linda has her sex bomb.

So back to the coming out. Shouldn’t Tom Jones actually come out? Shouldn’t he have sat there on the Desert Island interview and said all of this. After all, he has a wider audience than little me. One statement from Sir Tom would do more for a polyamorous existence than any amount of essays from Zenpuss. If he, with Linda by his side, came out and said that infidelity in a marriage can work out rather well, then it would help millions of people who are fearful of their security both emotionally and economically, to come out and declare their sexuality and a travelling eye or other parts of the body.
Of course, the feminist in me would only offer this couple forward if Mrs. J has been playing away too.

And back to the footballers.
Shouldn’t they come out too? Shouldn’t they say to the world, “Guess what, I am at the peak of my sexual and physical fitness. There are some stunningly beautiful women who just want to fuck me. What on earth is wrong with me having some perfectly wonderful recreational sex? I still love my partner. I am still committed to my partner but I cannot ignore this gorgeous pussy in front of me.”
For the Rooney’s of the world (allegedly) who feel a need to pay for sex, they should say “I needed sex! Simple! My wife or partner could not give it to me so I discussed it with her and we decided that I needed to have some raunchy sex with another. I still love my partner. I am still committed to my partner but I cannot ignore my instinctive desire to place my cock in the cunt of another!”

As I said, sadly for Coleen and co, these conversations probably never happened. What I am suggesting is that if they had taken place, then maybe the stupid newspapers would have no purpose in writing such silly little stories and maybe these footballers and their partners could lead the way in sexual enlightenment, especially if it is led by such a huge icon as David Beckham.
(And before I get sued, I have no idea whether Becks has been faithful or not. All I am saying is that if he has dipped his wick elsewhere then, like with Tom Jones, it would be a huge step in the right direction in the sexual revolution for him to stand up and be counted, and Victoria too.)

A couple of weeks ago, a very dear friend of mine “came out” as being bisexual. It was a brave thing to do, though isn’t that a stupid phrase too. It shouldn’t be brave. People should be able to express views and facts about their own sexuality without it being a “brave” thing to do.
I sat and listened and was very proud of my friend. She lives in an opinionated world and works in an environment where she may well get taunted for her sexuality.
She doesn’t want to “come out” to others. She has just told me but I fear that she is going to be outed without her permission.

“Outing” is despicable. Let me make that clear from the outset. I abhor it. And in all of this writing, I am not suggesting that anyone should be outed. If someone wants to declare their sexuality and their love of sex to an awaiting world, then good for them, but I also have a complete respect for people’s privacy and like with all things in life, there has to be a healthy balance between declarations and privacy because ultimately, in an ideal world, there would be no need for “coming out”. If people were honest and comfortable with all forms of sexuality nobody would need to come out as a homosexual, as a heterosexual, as a bisexual, as a raving nymphomaniac. We might even get a reduction in inappropriate sexual behaviour too.

I recognise that I am a foolhardy optimist. I appreciate that there are possibly flaws in my argument but it comes back to the fact that we, as a society, are not honest about our sexuality and until we are, I am not sure that we can move forward and eradicate the horrible and dangerous myths about sex and relationships, and it needs more than my own declaration of intent and “coming out” to ensure there is a tipping point.