You Know You're A Weird Feminist Type When...

 So some of you may have saw the recent picture I posted. I'm sorry to disappoint (or perhaps reassure!) you but nope, there's no baby. And a good thing too, I'd be a rubbish parent; plus there's a lot of doubt about my fertility as it is but that's another story for another time. I do feel very mean actually, it was Paul's idea but I asked some friends and they liked the idea too.

 A few weeks ago, after having a Mirena coil for four years I lost a fight with a tampon and it ended up stuck in my cervix. It was so, so painful. It was a relief to get it out but at the same time I was worried about what i'd do for birth control. I must admit after several days without hormones I felt better than I have in years, mental health wise. So I opted for a copper coil, which I had fitted today. Being a little scared I asked Paul to come with me. The staff at the New Croft Centre were absolutely lovely, and very reassuring.

 As my last one had slipped I was given an ultrasound to double-check it was in the right place. Paul joked that we should get a print out of it, as with not wanting children we laughed that it would probably be the only ultrasound we'd see together. The doctor must've overheard as when she gave me my pad and my painkillers I was also given two lovely prints.

It made me think though, you always see pictures on social media of things in people's uterine - generally babies. And I really like the idea of celebrating not having a baby in there. I'm currently very groggy, in a lot of pain, and probably not in a good mind set, but I like having reproductive control over my body ❤ hooray for birth control!

The Holy Grail? Birth Control for Men

When my mind is racing, to the point where I can feel nothing else but the tension and the buzzing across my forehead, I know that one of three things will calm me down; a drink, a chat or a blog post. Preferably all three in one. Sometimes, like tonight, that chat is with myself but I find that chats between Lizi, myself and I always lead to some interesting thoughts. And where else to start but where every girl's mind should be on Halloween - birth control pills/injections for men, yikes!

Now this is something I've seen news and 'news' articles floating around the web about since...oof, at least since I started using social media. So say 8 years ago, or at least this was the first time I'd heard of the idea. And as a slightly overweight, spotty and angsty fourteen-year-old you see such things and think "Yes!! There is justice in the world!", then you suddenly forget about it as you're distracted by somebody who sits behind you in your Physics class sending you a chicken on Farmville (admit it, you've had similar moments). Yet years later, in your twenties - older and a little wiser at least -, your braces finally off and you've wrecked your teeth from too many drunken attempts at drinking from a glass without a straw instead of sucking your thumb... You see it again. Almost at the point of completion... And it's still "a long way off" in case men get sad.

 Yes, after one too many: cat-calls, unsolicited dick pics, gropes, sexual assaults, threats of violence, unwanted opinions, put-downs, manipulations; something which could potentially delayed and forgotten about in case it could be bad for men.

 Story. Of. Every. Woman's. Fucking. Life.

 As the possibility of birth control for men has grown closer and closer - the risks and side effects sensationalised, a potential release date, it makes me wonder: given the excessive side effects given to birth control for those of us with a uterus, if it were to be developed today, would something with so many detrimental side effects would they be approved for use? Or like in the case of the pill would the side effects be listed but the extent of them be swept under the rug? When women taking progesterone-based birth control are 34% more likely to be prescribed antidepressants, and these statistics only recently having been published, it beggars belief that they would be approved today. That's not even starting on the excessive physical side effects.

  This has led to a lot of angry women, understandably. Many women have shouted back, saying that it's now time for men to bare the brunt of these side effects that we have for decades too. And I agree with them too, I really do. Given the state of my mental health it's gotten me thinking, for the past seven years I've been pumped full of synthetic hormones in some way or another (both pills, the injection, mirena coil). What are they actually doing to my mind and body? I've gotten an appointment booked with my GP and will be running it past my CPN (psychiatric nurse) to see whether switching to something non-hormonal, such as a copper coil, could potentially do me some good. It's not fair that women should be more or less expected to fill themselves full of synthetic hormones to avoid the 'punishment' of getting pregnant if they should dare want to have sex. 

 I was put on these hormones at a time when my body was still developing, when I was still trying to figure out who I was. The pill was meant to be a solution to try and calm me down, help me handle my periods better at a time when everything was still settling down and finding its feet. And it terrifies me that after years of trial and error that I may not know myself without synthetic hormones, it really fucking scares me. But it's gotten me thinking, and anybody who knows me knows that it physically pains me to write this, what about the men? Sorry, excuse me while I vomit and berate myself for even typing that but hear me out. While suicide rates for women have increased in the past few years, they are still three times higher for men. Do we really want to see this increase? And keep in mind the horrific state of mental health services at the minute. 

 I'm looking at a solution to this in the same way I explain socialism to people. It's not about fighting to all be on the same, shitty minimum wage that nobody can survive on; it's about fighting for a decent living wage for everybody. In this case I don't want more men to be put at risk of mental and physical health issues, I want to see a fuck-off-massive improvement in current hormonal contraception for women. Make sure that the pill, the coil, implants, what have you, all come with the lowest risk possible for women's mental and physical health before we start saying everyone should suffer the same.

 Now, shock-horror, as you've probably guessed by now I'm not a doctor. But I'm somebody with a uterus who is pretty scared of the idea of more side effects from my birth control. And somebody who enjoys having sex and not having children. And I would really like to be able to continue having sex and not getting pregnant while not being at risk of uterus perforation, hair loss and all kinds of cysts. Is this really too much to ask?

You might not think you're brave, but you are to me

 So many of you have probably seen the video doing the rounds on Facebook of a woman chasing a racist attacker down Upton Park tube station platform after the man punched another passenger in the face. A man has since been arrested and bailed until November 14th on charges of “assault occasioning ABH and using threatening / abusive words / behaviour or disorderly behaviour likely to cause harassment, alarm or distress”. This has definitely struck a chord with me, given that it's been just over two years since I was attacked for standing up in a similar incident, getting a nasty injury to my shoulder after standing up to a man sexually harassing a teenage girl.

 Now the title of this post may seem a bit odd but bare with me. After my experience I had friends and family telling me how brave I was. I remember the worst part of the night was for ours, ringing and ringing my parents and not getting an answer from either of them. But I definitely didn't feel brave, I felt like a stupid child who had tried to do something good, but then fallen over and scraped my knee; like I'd made things worse. 

 Luckily the woman in this incident wasn't harmed (as far as we know) and that has been the biggest relief for me in seeing this. And at the same time I can relate so much to her. Being surrounded by men, bigger and stronger than she is, sitting by and doing nothing while the man sat next to her is verbally abused before he is punched. There were so many others who could have intervened but didn't, it was left to her to stand up. I'm by no means saying that she isn't capable of standing up for herself and others - she clearly demonstrates the opposite! - but it put her at greater risk than it would have for others. It was an incredibly brave thing for her to do. But that's the thing with brave women, we don't always feel it. We feel like we're just doing what any other person would have done, and not want a fuss made.

 Personally I think this needs to change; we need to recognise women that stand up, putting themselves in danger, do help others. It's important. In fact I've been thinking that if anybody knows who this woman is I would like to get her flowers - or something else that she may need and find more practical. It's important that she knows that people admire her bravery, and others who have done what she did are thinking of her. We did the same thing with the Buy Gary a Pint fund for making a very fitting gesture behind Nigel Farage on the news, so how about we try and get some similar support for a brave woman?

National Coming Out Day 2016: Family-phobia, mental health, and breaking the cycle

 So the other week I posted a piece about Bi Visibility Week which included my own coming out story. As those of you on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum and good allies know, 'coming out' isn't a one-off experience; it's a staggered constant experience. Coming out to friends and family, then there's more to come when it comes to co-workers, peers, and new acquaintances. And in some cases other family members, beyond those who you initially knew would understand. You take that chance, thinking you've come this far and this person loves you enough to not give two shits about it. Well, that's what you think.

 I decided to get this off of my chest in a post, in order to get it out of my head so I can move on and stop stewing on it. It's difficult though. I'd spent the day with a relative last Friday; we had lunch, shopped, and talked about all sorts. It got to the point that we were talking about current TV programmes and talked about Poldark, it's a show I never managed to get into the storyline but happily watched a few episodes of because *swoon* Aiden Turner! Such a gorgeous man, I watched it just to look at him. The conversation moved to the new Victoria series on ITV and, being a fan of Jenna Coleman from her portrayal as Clara in Doctor Who, I expressed to this relative that I found her very good-looking. It was an innocent comment, yet this relative managed to read my undertones: that I found her attractive rather than just expressing an admiration for her looks.

 That's when shit hit the fan and it all spiralled down. While it showed progress for somebody of their generation that they accepted that they know some people are gay and accept that, they refused to accept that a person can be bisexual. Apparently "you can't ride two horses with one arse", and that's what confused me. Confused me in terms of my mental health and has done me damage; dating women is what has caused me to become mentally ill according to this relative. It's funny when I think about it because it wasn't a woman who sexually assaulted me, it wasn't a woman who made me feel it was my fault, it wasn't a woman who made me feel utterly worthless and broken when I thought I could trust them. Relationships with women tend to have been the healthiest I've had (other than my relationship with Paul, he is the exception to the rule!) and have always left me with a better understanding of myself. For somebody to try and throw that in my face as something that has done me damage makes me feel sick. In fact being told this made me cry in front of this relative for the first time in years.

 In fact I think that is what made me most angry, that they made me cry. A good rule I try to follow is that a relative shouldn't make you cry out of sadness unless they're dying/have died. To try and make me feel so ashamed about my sexuality and my mental health in one fell swoop, trying to blame one on the other, makes me feel physically sick. This was probably the most recent point lately that I've felt utterly helpless, and almost embarrassed to by myself. Though it wasn't shame about myself I felt, but more ashamed of myself for being stupid enough to open up to this relative, thinking they would react kindly.


 I have told my parents about this experience and, when opening up to them about how this relative has treated me about my mental health, they have grown concerned about my relationship with them and offered to talk to them about it. It has done me a lot of damage. I've gone through about two years of being told by this relative that my mental health doesn't matter, that I've made it all up. But this has been my breaking point, going from downright dismissing my mental health to blaming it on my sexuality, something that I cannot and would not change for the world.

 We've always been told since we were children to respect our elders, or the more condescending that they're old and don't know any better, and should do so regardless. But after this experience I'm not sure that I can unquestioningly follow this rule. I still love this family member dearly, and do not at all regret my decision to come out to them, but it will take me a while to forgive them.

Keep your Rosaries off our Ovaries: Victory for Polish Women, Next Stop Ireland!

 Disclaimer: This may be more of a ramble than usual, somebody has taken 'sharing is caring' very out of context and given me their germs! Apologies in advance.

 The term 'Pro-Life' has never sat well with me, in the context of it meaning anti-abortion. It's paradoxical when you look at it. Pictures have been flooding social media of protesters in Poland, mostly women, all dressed in black and taking to the streets against the proposed changes to already restrictive abortion laws; as well as messages of solidarity from around the globe, including a solidarity demonstration in Edinburgh (video from Emito.net). According to recent polls only 11% of the population were in favour of the proposed bill, opposed to more than 51% in favour of liberalising the current abortion laws.

 Today articles have surfaced saything that government officials are planning a u-turn on the proposed bill after the amazing show of direct action from citizens, with the minister for science and higher education saying that the women had "caused us to think and taught us humility". With such widespread contention for the proposed bill it would have been a dreadful move not to, leading to further strike action and escalating tactics. And who would blame them?? When a government tells you that you cannot have autonomy over your own body anybody would be pissed off. Whether you have a uterus or not, whether you would personally have an abortion or not, would you really want laws in place telling you that you cannot have a say in something that may risk your own life?

 That's where the paradox comes in. When a woman's life is at risk because of a cluster of cells that is doing her harm, and she is told that she cannot have it removed, where is the pro-life sentiment there? When a teenage girl finds out her contraception has failed but the law says she has to give up on her ambitions of getting a good job that would provide childcare, so she can give her future children the best life possible, where is it then? Pro-Life campaigners aren't fighting for paid parental leave, better pre- and post-natal healthcare, support for parents of disabled children, or helping to ensure children in care, waiting to be adopted, are being properly cared for. No, they're standing there with pictures of aborted foetuses, telling women who are seeking a medical procedure that they should be punished for doing so. And the scary thing is that these people are in our governments.

 While researching the topic I stumbled across the sickening statistic that because of current restrictions, legal abortions in Poland only make up around 10% of the total figure, leaving 90% of them being carried out in potentially dangerous conditions, threatening the woman's life and future health. Tell me again how riky medical practices are pro-life? It has always been the case that such laws will not stop abortion, they will only stop safe abortion. How many women will end up dying because of lack of access to safe procedures? And how many more would we have seen in prison if these laws came through, arrested for miscarrying like so many other women in the USA and South America have been? I feel physically sick thinking about it. Not to mention the number of appalling cases, including a woman in Ireland, where dead women have been kept alive on life support as nothing more than an incubator, because they were pregnant at the time of death. These cases go beyond disregarding respect for the deceased to treating these women as objects.

 With only five days to go until Ireland's debate to Repeal the 8th we wish them the best of luck and solidarity. I urge you all to check out ROSA, the campaign for Reproductive rights, against Oppression, Sexism and Austerity, and send them your support. Polish women have kicked arse this week, now it's Ireland's turn!

Out for a Decade, Still Here and Still Queer: Happy Bi Visibility Day!

 Happy Friday folks, hope you've all had a great week. Mine has consisted of my first day back at uni, dealing with the fuck-up that is Student Finance (that's a post all in itself), general stress and a lovely heaping of hormones and PMS on top. But given today's title you're probably aware that this isn't a post about my menstrual cycle - again that's one for another day. It's been a wonderful week for me on social media seeing all of the posts about Bisexuality Awareness Week and in the past few days something rather nice occurred to me:

 It's been a whole Ten Bloody Years since I came out!!

Yes lovely people, I've decided it's about time I treat you to my coming out story. I think it's a pretty important thing to do. We hear so often on LGBTQ+ pages and websites about coming out stories from Lesbian and Gay folk, and at the same time the whole phenomena of coming out is being questioned, whether it is still necessary and whether it is still relevant to do so. Yet if you type 'Coming Out' into Google you get a whole list of articles ranging from advice, how-tos and gossip on public figures who have opened up about their sexuality. So yes, in the mainstream coming out is still very much a thing. FYI cake seems to be a very popular way of coming out, and I must admit I like my Queers how I like my cake: varied and often. 

 Anyway, on with my own story.

 I can always remember that one moment when I first admitted it to myself. I'd been tearing myself apart internally for months on end about it. Until that point there was never any 'one moment' when I realised, I think it had always been a part of me. I remember being seven or eight and trying to kiss a friend of mine, and her panicking in case people thought we were 'lesbians'; the way she whispered the word and look terrified at the thought told me automatically that it was a bad thing. For the next few years I felt guilty and ashamed of myself for wanting to kiss girls, like there must be something wrong with me if I wanted to kiss girls. Maybe I was meant to be a boy instead? After all, I did like Pokemon and play fighting - and as far as I knew they were 'boy things'. Don't judge me, I was eight; the concept of being attracted to somebody of the same gender had never been explained to me, let alone what transgender is. It had all been very binary up until then. It was also around the age I became utterly obsessed with Avril Lavigne (again, don't judge me, I was eight!). And I don't mean in the way that other little girls wanted to be her, I mean in the same way other girls my age would obsess over boybands; I want to say Busted here? Yes, fair enough I liked them. But it wasn't their poster that I kissed every night before going to sleep. You have no idea how much of a cringe-worthy moment it was to type that last sentence. But at the same time I would fancy boys at school; it felt very much the same as my celebrity crush but I would never admit that to myself.

 It wasn't until I was twelve and in secondary school that it all snuck up on me. I had new friends, there were lots of new people and I met an amazing girl (now NB so they/them pronouns will be used). I can remember the moment I met them actually, I was having my cello lesson and they were in for the lesson after mine; the music teacher introduced us and I can remember how friendly and bubbly she was, and how pretty I thought they were too. That last thought I tried to push down, remembering the embarrassment of my eight-year-old self and that feeling I had come to learn about how wrong it was for me to want to kiss girls. Anyway, I fancied a boy at the time, so that must've just been a minor blip, right? He later became my first secondary school boyfriend, and in that time I became good friends with that gorgeous, bubbly person who could make me smile and feel good about myself just by looking at me. I learned a few years later, long after we had broken up, that my boyfriend (who I was just good mates with by that point) thought I had something going on with them at the time I broke up with him. I hadn't realised that my affection towards them had been so obvious to everybody else around me. 

 We had what I would call at that time (and still now I'm pleased to say) a very close and affectionate friendship, full of handholding, little kisses and lots of long hugs. They made me feel so special, and still does; I'm extremely lucky to still have them as a friend. I can remember the moment over the summer during a particularly angsty chat over MSN messenger about my feelings and how wonderful they made me feel, and how confused I felt about myself, like I didn't feel normal. And then they asked me, in three simple words.

 Are you Bi?

 Seeing the words seemed to knock all of the breath out of my body, but in the most wonderful way. It was like an epiphany. Knowing other people felt this way too, knowing I couldn't possibly be the only person attracted to men and women if there way a proper name for it! It was an utterly wonderful feeling. From then on we kind of became an unspoken couple, we never discussed it but we were a 'thing', and it was so, so wonderful. However given that it was secondary school and a particularly religious one at that the gossip and bullying soon started, and of course as it was so unnatural and unbiblical the teachers let the whole thing slide. Even when it got to the point of what may have been my first mental breakdown and I had to switch schools, no longer able to cope with the stress of being such a target. Thanks faith schools...

 As a teenager I dated men and women and had further quibbles about my sexuality, thinking that because I preferred women over men that it meant I must be a lesbian; getting drunk one night when I was fifteen and telling my Mam, then getting so panicked about it that I had an asthma attack and had to go to the hospital. Fun times. My Mam was so wonderful about it and never treated me any differently for it, and never even questioned my future relationships with men after that - knowing I suppose that it had been mostly teenage angst and questioning of my sexuality, fuelled by cheap rose wine. It's funny because at the same time when I was seeing a guy I never thought that it meant I was straight. When I met Paul everything seemed to fall into place. He never questioned or doubted that I was attracted to him and at the same time didn't try to invalidate that I was still attracted to women, or make the seemingly obligatory threesome jokes that other men I've met tend to when they realise they're in a relationship with a bisexual woman. 

 But it did lead to questions from others, believing that because I'm in a long-term relationship with a man it means I must be straight now. Because five years with him must totally invalidate a lifetime of feelings and attraction to women. Then again, that's the view society tends to take on penises: they can magically and irreversibly change women forever - another example being the concept of virginity.

 So there you have it, a rather condensed version of my coming out story. And just to echo the last point that yes, ten years on and in a long-term relationship with a dude I'm still one of those greedy bisexauls that the media warned you about, and not just going through a phase, I thought I'd include a wonderful infographic from a fantastic friend of mine, Rachel. If you enjoy it so much and want to hear more from Rachel then give her a cheeky follow on Twitter at @RachelCDailey - and while you're there and in the mood maybe give me one too at @lizi_gray. It's mostly drunken political rants but it's amusing nonetheless. Happy Bi Day!!

Following in Father's Footsteps...

WARNING: This post is a little gorey, if you're not a fan of hilariously stupid injuries and fairly graphic descriptions of them then you may want to turn back. In the meantime though you can check out my shiny new Facebook page for behind the scenes rambling, daft pictures and more details of other shenanigans.


 This is my Daddybear. Isn't he handsome? He's the loveliest Daddy I could have asked for - albeit occasionally grumpy and a total wind-up merchant - and I love him to bits. I've always been told I look a lot like him, though my beard never comes in that well; and that we have a lot of the same mannerisms. We're both total nerds, enjoy shouting at the telly and ranting about things and both find Hayley Williams very attractive.

 But last night I had a moment that definitely solidified that there is no denying I'm his daughter. When I was younger I would do the typical teenage thing of arguing with him, storm to my room and slam the door, and think to myself "how can I actually be related to this man!?". Don't lie, we've all done it at one time or another. However this event makes me question how I could ever think that.

 One of my clearest childhood memories was from when I was about seven. Dad was fitting a new banister, and being the handy-around-the-house DIY type that he is he was doing all the work himself; staining and varnishing the wood, cutting and fitting pieces. Though this would prove to be a bit of a mistake. I'd been sat in the living room watching Scooby Doo (probably, it was my absolute favourite) when he comes in from his garage (aka his Man Cave), talking incoherently and in a panic and goes to see my Mam. I follow him into the kitchen and see blood all over the kitchen floor and him holding his hand. From what my little brother told me it was quite a spectacular sight. He'd been in the garage at the time and saw Dad slice through his hand between his finger and thumb with a stanley knife while evening out the bottom of one of the rungs, coming very close to losing his thumb. The knife had slipped, cutting his hand quite deeply, blood shooting up in an arc through the air. My little brother's reaction - cry, scream, panic at the blood? Nope!

"Wow, do it again Dad!!"

My Mam, as any good partner would, put it under the tap to clean it up and see how bad it was. However in the process she ended up washing part of his nerve down the sink too. It was a bit of a crazy night, one of our Grandparents having to take him to hospital rather than dragging the whole family out to Accident and Emergency. After surgery and a lot of stitches he was all patched up and on the mend. I remember Mam taking us on the bus over to see him in the RVI and it absolutely pouring with rain; we ended up having to duck into the Oxfam shop on the way from the bus station to get some dry clothes - I got a nice pair of jeans with a skirt attached to them and they became my absolute favourite. He looked pretty sorry for himself, full of painkillers with his hand all strapped up. It's pretty strange as a child with parents who are otherwise fit and well to see them so ill. Dad recovered well and eventually got the feeling back in his hand, though we still mock him to this day about this and similar clumsy injuries. However last night I may have lost any high ground I had to mock him from about such a ridiculous injury.

Like father like daughter - still both adorable!

 Paul and I got back to Newcastle at about 10 last night after a weekend in Edinburgh with a wonderful friend of ours, we had had such a fantastic time and were quite sad to leave. Given how late it was and how down we felt about coming home we agreed that something quick and convenient from Sainsbury's would be better than cooking that night so instead we could devote our energy to cuddling up in front of the telly and talking about how good our trip had been. Being the good wifey-to-be that I am I put Paul's pizza in the oven while my pasta bake was in the microwave and he got the telly set up and an episode of Family Guy ready to go. However shit hit the fan when I decided to go one step further and cut his pizza for him, the cutter slipped when I got stuck on the crust and I found that while I didn't quite get through the crust I had almost severed the tip of my finger.

 It was a bit of a surreal moment, it stung like a bitch and bled all over my feet and the floor and all I could do was stand there looking at it, wondering how on earth I had managed such a deep cut with a bloody pizza cutter of all damn things and how I'd go about clearing it up with just one hand. Priorities, amiright? When Paul came in to see what had happened, what had warranted the "oh fuck", he immediately began asking if I was okay and how bad it was. All I could say?

"Well... There's no denying I'm my father's daughter."

 I stayed quite calm actually, polishing off my pasta bake and chatting happily about what an idiot I was while my poor Paulobear panicked that I'd severed my tendons. Having done so himself a few years ago I could see why it was a worry. After a phone call to NHS 111 I told him to get to bed while I got myself along to the RVI. A long wait, x-ray and a tetanus jab later (it really fucking hurt, right in my shoulder!) the wonderful doctors determined that I had cut right down to the bone but it was perfectly intact, no damage to that. Unfortunately because of where the injury is, right down my finger tip it wouldn't be possible to stitch it as it would just split again so I'm looking forward to sever weeks of steristrips and three days of antibiotics just to be on the safeside.

 So from my little misadventure I've learned several things:

• If you're going to slice your hand/fingers with anything, do it with a pizza cutter; it leaves a nice and straight cut - although hot cheese and tomato sauce aren't the nicest of things to get in a wound.
• The NHS is absolutely fantastic, no matter how stupid your injury they'll try their best not to laugh at you.
• Clumsiness can run in the family. Not only have me and my Dad shown that we can't be trusted with sharp objects but a year or so ago my darling little brother thought that the best way to see if the blender was still broken was with his finger...

 Thank you Daddybear, while we may be ridiculous human beings we at least give people a good laugh! Love you xx

P.S. - if you haven't already, check out my shiny new Facebook page here!!

Bikini Wax Horror Story

This week has been a week of firsts: the first time I watched Game of Thrones, the first time I nailed cooking kale….

And my first bikini wax.

Yes, the first time I went to a salon and had it properly done with hot wax rather than doing it at home, terrified and gulping down wine to prepare myself for ripping off the next strip. I've got no trouble doing my legs, though finding the right way to bend to get the back of them can be a bit of a pain. I just thought it'd be easier paying somebody else to do it rather than putting the waxing strip on my crotch, doing one side and deciding it would be too painful to do the next. That'd just look silly. And if somebody else is doing it it removes my own hesitation playing a part.

I was pretty nervous while waiting, but was taken from the front of the salon into the treatment room by the very nice lady who would be ripping out my pubic hair. The hot wax smells very nice by the way, though I wouldn't recommend eating any! She left the room while I took my things off, a little unsure about what she said by "take off your bottom half" and had a minor panic when she came back in and I had to confirm if she meant my knickers too (obviously yes!).

Starting with my legs, we chatted about the weather, holidays, my partner etc; much less painful than doing it at home! The nerves started kicking in as she rearranged the towels, asked me to bend my right leg and spread the wax on my bikini line. Crunch time!!

It got worse as she moved in and at one point I was thinking “shit, can I pull off the one side look?”, maybe fashion it into a comb-over?

No such luck!

I'd booked in for a Brazilian and as she got further in I had to stop her and double check I wasn't in for a Hollywood (all off). Yes, definitely a Brazilian, just skinnier than I'm used to shaving.

When she was finished I had about a centimetre thick strip left. That I could live with. She left the room as I got dressed, and that's when I realised. Oh fuck. It was lopsided.

Like, nothing in the middle, just a strip on the left of my pubis. So far to the left it was more of a commie than I am. Could I pull this look this off!? (No pun intended). I left the room to find her and at this point I had two options: take the typically British route of, every other time you get a *ahem* haircut, just bite your tongue and say yes it's fine as you're quietly dying inside; or I could woman up and see if she could fix it. The prospect of ripping out that last little bit myself seemed far too daunting after what my poor private area had already been through so I put on my big girl pants and asked if she could fix it.

Oh. My. God.

As it was so slim there was no way of fixing it other than taking everything off. EVERYTHING. I've never been so bald since I was 12, it's so strange.

Hobbling back home and contemplating my very existence I came home with two things:

A bald pubic region and a better understanding of when to assert myself.

So anybody considering getting their first below-the-belt wax, here is some advice:

Research the salon thoroughly, check out their Facebook and other reviews. If it's much cheaper than others in your area it's probably too good to be true. And before anything is applied be very clear with your beauty therapist. When you assume you'll get what you're after you just end up making an ass out of you and me.

The French Burkini Ban: State-Sanctioned Violence Against Women

 Pictures surfaced yesterday of armed French police on a beach in Cannes confronting a woman lying on the beach, forcing her to remove her coverings. The controversial Burkini Ban came into force at the end of July after the horrific Bastille Day killings in Nice in an apparent bid to tackle radical Islam. After becoming the first European country to implement a law prohibiting "concealment of the face in public space" back in 2004 - applying to Burqas, Niqābs and balaclavas - this law has been predominantly used to target Muslim women, with the European Court of Human Rights ruling to uphold the ban back in 2014.

 With that bit of background out of the way, the recent Burkini Ban has sparked outrage across the internet, from religious rights groups, to feminist groups, and many others who believe in basic human rights; the image of armed police confronting a woman has been widely circulated and fuelled this anger. If it were anybody else toting a gun, coming up to a woman and forcing her to remove her clothing it would be treated, rightly so, as sexual harassment under threat of violence. Yet as they are police officers enforcing a bigoted law the onlooking crowd did nothing other than applaud, as well as throwing in racial slurs and harassment. I find the images of this absolutely heartbreaking. Imagine for a moment you're on the beach, enjoying a day of sea and sun with your daughter, and a group of armed men are suddenly standing over you and forcing you to remove your clothes. It's a sickening feeling, isn't it? You get a tightness in your throat, you start to shake, all eyes are on you; you're a spectacle, being humiliated in public. These women are enjoying the sun with their families, they are not criminals.

 Then why, just why, is this law being enforced?

 According to The Guardian the ban is being enforced by 15 local authorities in order to "citing public concern following recent terrorist attacks in the country." You know, rather than teaching the public about tolerance, putting programmes and services in place to help make Muslim communities feel safer and more included in their local areas, therefore less likely to want to get involved with extremist groups.  No, we'll just enforce violent bans to make non-Muslims feel safer by spreading Islamophobic messages and making spectacles out of them. That'll make French Muslims less likely to want to act out against the government and authorities!

 Except... No.

Source: Thanh Nien news

 By taking away somebody's basic human right to personally express their religion, all they are doing is fear mongering and alienating French Muslims. They are forcing them away, telling them that their religion and French values are not compatible, that they are outsiders. These attitudes also spark fear and mistrust of Muslims in the widers French population, with hate crimes against Muslims having trebled in 2015 that number is only set to rise if the message doesn't change from one of distrust and persecution to one of tolerance and coexistence. One argument used to justify the initial ban of face covering religious dress was to stop women being forced to wear them by men in their communities and families. Yes, this does happen in some areas - notably the Burqa being enforced by the Taliban and Daesh (the so-called Islamic State). Yet where is the liberation in violently forcing somebody to remove their clothing, as opposed to violently forcing them to wear something they do not want to?

 Many Muslim women in the West choose to wear the form of religious dress that they feel most comfortable with themselves. They find it liberating and a way to feel closer to God, who do the French government think they are to tell them "No, you are not allowed to feel comfortable with yourself and practice your religion in a way you want to"? It is famously a secular country yet most targeted hate crimes regarding dress have been against Muslims and Jews. There would be national outrage if groups of roaming atheists went around ripping off Nuns' Coifs and Habits, holding them at gunpoint and claiming their modesty is oppressing them.

 There is a long history of laws and 'morality' being used to police women's bodies, like the picture above which shows a police officer from the West Palm Beach police force measuring Betty Fringle's bathing suit to see if it's long and modest enough. Again in the eyes of a man with no regard for a woman's comfort and freedom of expression. It's been 91 years, can we not just bloody swim in peace?? Certainly this modern case reeks of racism and Islamophobia but it is just another example of taking away our right of how to present our own bodies in public.

 As a white, atheist woman I can't fully relate to these experiences. My closest experience to something like this would have been in secondary school where we would be made to kneel on the floor to see if our skirts were long enough (no option to wear trousers), or receiving detention for wearing a bra any other colour than white as it was a distraction to male pupils; often with older male teachers pointing out such infringements, it makes me feel physically sick thinking about these memories. Personally I love how burkinis look, when doing research for images I came across so many beautiful and well put together designs, why deprive women of the joy of going to the beach, spending time with family and friends and feeling comfortable while doing so? Women will never be free and equal until such instances no longer happen.

UPDATE: After publishing this post I spotted this very welcome contrast from Scotland, introducing a uniform Hijab for women in the police force. Thank you for being the voice of reason, Scotland!

The Atheist on the Bus goes Think Think Think...

Bus musing:

Since video games were first revealed to the public you had parent and religious groups going on about how they're graphically violent, even when they were nothing more than blurry pixels.

But I've just gone past a Catholic primary school with a really sad looking Jesus on the cross in the middle of the freakin playground! Now that and the whole story of the crucifixion is pretty gory, but you don't get parents kicking off about their kids being exposed to biblical story violence (unless they're atheists who don't want their kids exposed to religion).

Now correct me if I'm wrong but I'm pretty sure that religion has sparked more wars and mass shootings than bloody Minecraft.

Just a thought...

Thank You Body Form! #PeriodPride

(Some quarter to four musings about adverts)

Just seen the new (well I say new, first time I've seen it) advert for Body Form sanitary towels and I was actually really fucking impressed! No sarcasm, believe it or not, I'm actually praising something for once. Regular readers who enjoy rants may be disappointed but bare with me, there will be ranting about other sanitary products.

I currently can't find a YouTube link for the ad or any news articles on it but a little research has shown that Body Form are getting good on their adverts and steering away from the traditional shying away from menstruation that a lot of others tend to do. (I'll edit and add these in when I find them).

Like I say it's almost four in the morning, sat up watching telly before bed and the advert comes on the telly. I'm so used to seeing adverts for sanitary products and wanting to tear my fucking hair out!! Fair enough there has been a big move towards pseudo-feminist advertising of products aimed towards women/those in need of sanitary products/other femme products; however their main message is that you can only be an awesome, confident lady type IF you buy their products. While there's still a lot of this I'll finish that ramble and get into my main point.

This is the first advert where I've seen a sanitary product being USED.

Now some readers may recoil in horror here I don't mean used as in being bled on, I mean used as in being applied to underwear. It may seem silly but this is a big step forward, and a huge leap from that awful blue stuff that is always used in ads to show how absorbent something is. Seriously, why is it blue!? If your vagina is producing anything blue that you can't account for (example: this week I'd been wearing new jeans after their first wash and things got a little indigo in the knicker department) then PLEASE SEE A GYNO!!

It was just nice to see for a change that yes, those of us who have periods tend to get them in our underwear department (hard to believe I know!!). It was such a nice surprise that I actually had to rewind the TiVo and show my partner the bit where the pad is applied to the knickers. And that such an important part of the menstrual cycle isn't being overlooked.

Now there will be a part two to this on my issues with the majority of sanitary products - bleach, chemicals, the pharmaceutical side of it etc - but as it's just past 4 now I'll leave you on this nice one and go to sleep feeling a little better than I did earlier!

Sussex University: The Education and Justice System are Failing Women

 So many of you will have read about the horrific situation at Sussex University where senior lecturer Dr Lee Salter was allowed to continue teaching until media inquiries began coming in about him. The inquiries were made regarding his relationship with a student and the abuse she faced from him. When I saw this I doubt I was alone in my first reaction containing liberal use of the words 'fuck', 'fuck sake', 'fucking hell' and 'are you fucking serious?'. It made me sick to my stomach. I cried with anger. I screamed in frustration. 

 It's 2016, why was this allowed to happen?

 Salter received a six month sentence, suspended for eight, and given the extent of her injuries it further added to the mind fuck that is this case. He was in a position of power both inside and outside of the classroom, he actively made the choice to abuse this power, he actively made the choice to abuse Allison Smith. A six month sentence that he will most likely not serve doesn't even put a dent in justice for her. 

 Something else that occurred to me though, while reading about similar cases, is how prevalent a trend this is. Campaigns by police encouraging people to come forward and report domestic violence, politicians making promises that there will be help and support for victims and survivors; when cases like this make headlines - they only make up a small fraction of cases of domestic violence - it cuts through this rhetoric and exposes those promises for the steaming piles of horseshit they are. We are angry, really fucking angry, that a) in the 21st century we still have to protest and shout about this shit and b) a higher education institute, a place of learning, somewhere that is meant to be progressive and at the forefront of fighting against these issues is enabling a fucking abuser. They are allowing him to teach in an environment with potentially vulnerable young people, where he has easy access to young people to manipulate and exploit. And the fucking cherry on the top  of this shitcake? They're paying NINE FUCKING GRAND A YEAR for this, and he is being PAID for the pleasure of this.

(Fuck) The Education System

 By keeping him on with a violent criminal conviction they are sending a message to (mostly) women students that higher education is not a place for them. That their fees are being used to keep him there, allowing the university to say "look at what a good lecturer we have, your safety is secondary to us being able to show him off". Myself and others who have been involved with Student Union campaigns against intimate partner violence and domestic violence, through our institutions and nationally through the NUS, are blue in the fucking face and sick to the back teeth of shouting about this as an issue; yet normally we focus on on-campus, student-against-student violence. But violence from a lecturer against a student is a new one for many of us. Where is the statement from the UCU about this? Where is the outrage? It took 3,000 people signing a petition for the university to finally cave and for this bastard to lose his job.

 Think of it this way: if they had been 'just friends', or 'just student and teacher', and he committed the acts he did against here what would the public reaction be? What would the judicial reaction be? Would he be behind bars (where he belongs) for grievous bodily harm? Very probably. Would the university have kept him as a lecturer? Fuck NO! He'd be a risk to students. Oh wait... But because they were in an intimate relationship did that make it less serious? The old approach of 'a private matter', 'a lovers' tiff'? This is by no stretch of  the imagination me placing any blame on Allison because she was in a relationship with a lecturer, this is me being so fucking angry that the charge was likely a lesser one because they were intimately involved.

The (In)Justice System

 This brings me onto part two of my rant, primarily about his sentence. It also goes back to 2014 when I was assaulted by a man on the Metro, along with several others he attacked that day. the case came to court in May 2015 (swift justice, my arse). For a month spent doped up on painkillers for a shoulder injury, what were probably hundreds of calls to the police to see how the case was progressing, and a fear of using the Metro alone which still stands to this day (I'm much better at it now, I need a sticker :) ), myself and the others received.... £50 compensation each. He received that fine and probation. We received trauma and anger. He is free, more so than the lasting effects have left me feeling.It's not fair.

 In my second year of university I took a module called Gender, Crime and Justice; the content covered everything from women as victims of crime to women who commit crimes, the types of crimes, and the punishments they receive. The course was taught by Pam Davies, she's extremely experienced in the field of gender and the criminal justice service, it was one of my favourites of the year. What left me gobsmacked was the types of crimes women tend to be prosecuted and imprisoned for. The most recent statistics reveal that women make up less than 5% of the total UK prison population (at the time of this post this stands at 3,898 out of 85,188 - August 2016). While these figures erase Trans* and Non-Binary offenders it does show the staggering difference in prison population makeup. Fraud, theft and drug charges make up the most common types of offences committed by women in prison, with only 19% of women in prison are there for violent crimes. 

 Could somebody please justify to me how there are over 3,000 women in prison for non-violent crimes, yet men like Lee Salter are allowed - by law - to continue having their freedom. Now some may argue that the media backlash against him, losing his job blah blah blah may indicate that he's lost some of his freedom, despite not being in prison. But really? He is an abuser who is allowed to carry on roaming the streets, having the freewill and agency that he wouldn't behind bars, and not living in fear of, well, people like himself.



 By this point I feel absolutely done, it's times like this I want to just stop the planet and get off. It's further evidence to support switching off 2016, waiting ten seconds, turn it back on and see if that helps. Neither of these solutions will do any good/actually happen unless space travel hurries its arse up and becomes a lot cheaper. It's totally understandable to see these examples, drop out of activism and move to a remote island populated by only flamingos. But I don't think I could take the smell of bird poo for that long, so for now I'm going to clear my head (what most of this post was), take a good few deep breaths and do everything in my power to make sure that cases like this are not overlooked or blindly accepted as the justice and education systems doing their best ever again.



 Now somebody pass the gin!!

Bitch in the Kitch: Cooking Therapy and Self-Love

 Welcome back! After another (though slightly shorter than last time) hiatus I'm back to the bloggersphere, I did warn you folks! As has been mentioned in previous posts my mental health hasn't been great but it's certainly on the up at the minute. It's a bit like a seesaw, normally with the kid on one end having rocks in their pockets. At the minute though I think both kids have stopped and are just chilling, chatting and eating cake on there - with the odd wobble up or down. Anyway, glad to be back.

 Some of you probably already know that I'm quite a big foodie, I love everything from cooking it to eating it. And this might come as quite a surprise, but it's actually a common thing for those of us with/in recovery from eating disorders/distress to enjoy making food for various reasons; be it feeling we have control over food, control over our bodies through that, and/or loving ourselves and nourishing ourselves in the recovery process. I find that there's something therapeutic about following a recipe and making something delicious. I love the structure of recipes, almost in a way of being given instructions, otherwise I can get a bit panicky and edgy; recovery is a long (again) seesaw-y process and I'm still at the stage of needing to know EXACTLY how much and of what I'm putting into food. The kitchen has always felt like a safe haven for me. It's where I first learned the joy of making things with my hands, making play doh with my Mam, and baking and cooking as a child, the feeling of eaten something I'd created (yes, I may have had a few nibbles on the play doh...). It's where I'd first drink with my friend and her Mam in their kitchen, enjoying Saturday nights as a teenager giggling over wine and discussing the world ahead of us. It's where I feel I do my best for my partner; I may have my shortcomings but I'll always say I'm a damn good cook and being able to feed people I love brings me a lot of happiness, leaving me feeling whole and refreshed.

 While looking for something yummy to cook for myself and Paulobear I found myself on Cooking On A Bootstrap, the website of the incredible Mx. Jack Monroe featuring delicious recipes interspersed with political and social justice activism, I'm such a huge fan of them!!  Their writing is so poetic and relatable, and at the same time so accessible and non-threatening. Admission time: I've grown up always being told what a clever girl I am, yet at the same time I feel like a total, total fraud because I struggle with a lot of words; not the spellings or pronunciations of them but the meanings. I often end up feeling embarrassed in conversations when unknown words come up, so I'll either keep my head down and keep quiet, or feel like a muppet and ask what it means while thinking they must think I'm ridiculous. Or secret option number three: slyly Google a word, worry I look ignorant for looking at my phone instead of paying attention, then continue to berate and shame myself for not knowing the word. Getting back to the topic at hand though!

 I came across a delicious looking recipe today that I will be making for tea tonight, and not only do I have all the ingredients to hand (including fresh kale from my Grandma and Granddad's garden!!) it was so beautifully written that I just had to share it with you folks. Very aptly titled Self-Love Stew one part particularly stood out to me:

"The stirring is key. It is soothing. It is mindless, not mindful. Sod mindful. My mind is full enough. It is a minefield. Tonight I want to stir some stuff and stare at my hands or into nothing."

 It isn't written as a traditional recipe but it's more or less a much better alternative (for me personally, and most likely others of you out there) to guided meditation. I'm so fed up with being told I need to be more mindful, I find the whole concept difficult to grasp and apply to myself, so such advice on mindfulness and exercises to become 'mindful' etc stress me beyond what I already had been. It creates a feeling that I'm failing at mental health recovery, that I'm even rubbish at trying to get better. 

 Looking at cooking and eating as a way of showing care to myself and others has also been an incredibly helpful tool in my mental health and more specifically eating distress recovery, rather than food being a way to control and punish myself. And while I now and then get the odd stupid comment along the lines of "hahaha, you're a rubbish feminist! Being in a kitchen and looking after a man hahaha *tips fedora*" I find it to be the exact opposite. Using it as a tool to look after myself and making myself a better person to be around, I've never felt like a better feminist.

 A huge thank you to Jack Monroe for their wonderful recipe and their general being wonderful-ness, you are an incredible human being!!

 Much love, this Bitch is off to the Kitch! xx

The Bitch is Back!!

Guess who's back bitches!?

Yes it's been a while, and you may have noticed a name change - bit of a does what it says on the tin sort of thing ;)

Mental health has been kicking my arse lately so I'm doing my best to kick back. Currently in a field in Derby watching Rammstein so I'm a pretty happy bunny (and drunk off my arse). More to follow, big loves!! <3

Look What My Clever Friend Made!! Facebook Chats With Women (with sneak preview)

Morning all! (Well, it was morning when I started writing this post.) Thank you so much for the feedback on Facebook to yesterday's post, it was really interesting and refreshing to hear all of the mixed opinions and thoughts from men/masculine identified folk on how they'd feel about getting flowers. Overwhelmingly a lot would love to, though some would prefer potted plants or food (I can't help but agree on the food front); I'll be doing a more detailed follow up post to it next week but this morning I thought I would give a special shout-out to my amazing, amazing bridesmaid Clara.

 I met Clara back in 2011 when I was speaking at a meeting for Newcastle Uni's Feminist Society, their first meeting of the semester. I'd organised the first Newcastle SlutWalk in June of that year (many thanks to Clara Shield of Little Big Butterfly for the video, one of my early feminist mentors!) and being only 16 at the time of organising the march and 17 when speaking at the meeting, I'm not ashamed to admit that I was a little intimidated - not by the people but the situation. Being so young I felt a bit insecure about my views and didn't feel as 'qualified' to speak about feminism as women who were older than me. I know now that I had no reason to be nervous or insecure but when you spend your childhood always second-guessing yourself and, as a woman, socialised to not feel so assertive about your opinions then it becomes a natural thing to do. Needless to say they were wonderful and welcoming, I met so many fantastic people through the FemSoc but Clara especially.

This lovely lady right here <3

 I stammered and stuttered my way through what I had to say (again, a hangup from childhood) and listened intently to the discussion that followed. At the end of the meeting the young woman sitting next to me, with curly hair and a lovely smile tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I knew somebody from her course - it turned out I did! I'd went on the student walk-outs the previous year with him; we got to chatting and after that frequently ran into each other at meetings and other feminist events, bonding over left-wing politics, DIY feminism and our love of riot grrrl. I think the solidifying moment of our friendship was walking back to Heaton from the Star and Shadow cinema on the day of the infamous MonToon, laughing hysterically despite the rotten weather, with soggy socks and shoes that had been dried out because of the walk there on top of the cinema projector. Fast forward a few years of coffee, wine, more laughter and self-care and Clara landed her dream job working for a publishing company in London. I was thrilled for her but utterly grief-stricken that she was leaving Newcastle. Despite the distance our friendship is as strong as ever and I always look forward to our phone calls and visits.

"Of course we can smash the patriarchy with lipstick, what else would we do with it?"

 This morning Clara surprised myself and our friends Nina and Martine with a sneak preview of a Zine she's been working on to present at...(wait for it)...WEIRDO ZINE FEST! For those of you in London or are able to travel there for the event the details can be found here. It's the first solo project she's finished and sent to print and I was completely blown away by it. An 11 page laugh-riot 'Facebook Chats with Women' looks at the self-deprecation we do as women, doubting what we say and feeling guilty for saying it, exploring the issue in a fantastically funny way and encouraging the validation we give to each other, as well as nudging us to validate our own feelings more often in a funny, friendly and relatable way. All of the quotes are taken from chats with friends and looks at the wonderful things women say to build each other and ourselves up, with a little dash of existential crisis sprinkled in!

 And now for a sneak preview...

Not only is she an awesome human being but she's an incredible artist too.

 So if you're in London on January 31st GET YOURSELF TO WEIRDO ZINE FEST and pick up a copy of Facebook Chats With Women. I can tell you now that you'll have nothing better to do that day.   

 And if you can't wait until then for more of Clara's wonderful witticisms then follow this lovely gem on Twitter @claraheathcock

A Belated Happy 2016...and smashin' those Gender Norms (TL,DR: getting a bloke flowers)

 Happy New Year dear readers! We're only what, two weeks into it so this is quite good timing for me. I've been trying my best to keep busy around the house so for once it's in a fantastic state, I'm rather proud of myself. Depressions and anxiety can really get in the way of keeping your living space tidy, you don't want to get out of bed let alone do anything productive yet at the same time you panic about getting everything done, what people will think of the state of your home, how miserable it's making you being in such an untidy environment...it's a vicious cycle. But since New Year I've felt fantastic, staying on an up-spell for a whole fortnight does come with the panic of "when will I be back to being miserable? oh dear, oh dear", but I'm doing my best not to think that way and just enjoy the positivity. It's the happiest I've felt in about six months.

Clear house, clear head!

 Now, down to business...

 My relationship seems to be the best it's been for a while too, probably to do with me feeling better about myself; I love Paul unbelievably but I'm sure many of you with similar conditions also find it hard to appreciate your partner when you feel awful about yourself, and generally feeling not much fun to be around. So since I've been feeling better about myself I've started putting more work into my relationship. It got me thinking too: What little romantic gestures would really make me smile? Then it hit me.

 I've only gotten flowers twice in my life, once from my Dad and once from Paul after he scared me; we'd just gotten the landline installed and he rang up after he finished work, putting on a creepy Gollum voice. It really freaked me out and I may have cried a little bit, so I rang his mobile in hysterics to tell him about the creepy guy that'd just been on the phone. Bad Paulo! But these were totally unprompted, no scaring involved, and I made a cute little card later in the week which I slipped into his jacket pocket before he left for work the next morning. 

 It can be hard to keep a relationship fresh after nearly five years. You can both get a bit lazy, it's something Paul and I are both guilty of but we're both working to turn that around. We're working on having at least one night a week just for the two of us, sort of a date night. Simplicity is a good starting point too, a hug and a 'how was your day?' to a coffee and a cuddle and small acts that build towards bigger things and keep that bond strong.

 Now, going back to the flowers. Out of interest I thought I'd google "getting a guy flowers", just to see what the current status-quo consensus on it is. Two of the top results were 'What gifts for men are equivalent to flowers for women?' on Reddit and 'Help! What's The Man-Friendly Equivalent of Sending Flowers?' from Glamour.com, containing the quote "Of course you can send guys flowers, but I just feel like they don’t appreciate them the way the ladies do." and a link to a delightful sounding article titled "Want to Know What Blow Jobs and Flowers Have in Common?. To save your poor face from the palming it would get I've read the second article for you: apparently you're not allowed to ask for either. *pause here to make a cuppa and calm down/shout to your partner/housemate/pet about how stupid this is*. 

 Just NO! No on all of those fronts. The look on Paul's face when I gave him the flowers was one of gratitude. Other articles I've looked at seem to say that the only acceptable time to send a man flowers is as a Get Well Soon or other non-romantic gesture, why?? They look nice, they smell nice, they really brighten up a room and draw the eye away from any clutter lying around. If a guy likes flowers why not send them? There's nothing 'feminine' about things that look or smell nice, and even if there was then what's wrong with feminine things!? It doesn't make them weak or soppy, in my eyes if you dismiss and dislike something on the grounds that it's feminine then you really don't have much respect for women.

 And as for asking I don't see what's wrong with that either, I asked Paul if he'd maybe get me flowers sometime and he asked the same from me - reciprocation is necessary in relationships! How else will you know what your partner likes?

 And yes, please apply the above advice to blow jobs too.


UPDATE:

 Just thought I'd include this as proof that I'm not putting words in Paul's mouth ;)

 And I'm very angry at this God bloke at the minute too, he really needs to work on his aim. He can't keep going after every 69 year old until he gets Trump. He better stay the hell away from Tim Curry! RIP Alan Rickman <3