Month: August 2015

Ten ways we’re being fucked over.

I had no plans this weekend. I wrote bad poetry, lazed around in sunbeams and read tons of glossy magazines

I struggled. Not with the heat or the haikus, but with the content.

Cosmo. Fair Lady. Woman and Home. Even Good Bloody Housekeeping.

It’s like a time warp. Reading the same stuff that we’ve been reading for years.

Five ways to remove your body hair.

Ten ways to lose weight.

Fifteen ways to change your sex life.

Twenty ways to hold on to your man.

How to buy the perfect bra

And how to throw a wedding for just one million rand.

How about admitting that the underwire of the bra that cost more than your car is killing you?

How about how not to have a wedding?

And maybe deciding that you don’t need to hold on to your man unless it’s while you’re having sex against the wall and he’s picked you up and goddammit you do not want to fall down.

I would change everything.

I would start with the headline – 10 ways Magazines are Fucking you over.

Give us stuff we want to read. Things we can relate to. Women who look real. Bras that don’t have underwire.

Give us stuff that’s juicy and engaging and exciting and even a little bit challenging.

Maybe I’m just difficult.  Maybe I’m reading the wrong magazines.

I’m going to give in and go back to the sunshine.

Don’t tell anyone but I’m taking Cosmo with me. I need to finish their ‘Sexier by Summer’ guide.

‘How to get the perfect bikini bod.’

See ya.


Today is a Saturday.

A strong coffee day

A freshly baked just out the oven croissant kinda day

A day to hang out

Laze around

And buy a frock day

Chat to friends on the phone

Nap in the sun

Get into some music day

It’s the same as every other day

And I love it.

On kindness.

Somebody did something extraordinarily kind for me today. I hadn’t asked for help but he knew I needed it. And just like that, he did this thing for me. A big thing. A ton of work thing. An amazing thing.

I feel blown away. Overwhelmed.

I do kind things. Small, kind things. I tip the car guards, I’m nice to waiters and I always say please and thank you. I’m that person who greets cashiers even when they are fuck awful rude to me, I say hi to fellow walkers and I help little old ladies cross the road.

I can also be rude. I often give the finger to bad drivers and I draw the line at greeting people in elevators, but that’s kinda obvious. That’s not even unkind.

But I don’t often do huge good deeds. Something that takes up a lot of time. Something real for nothing in return.

I feel so lucky at the ‘gift’ that I received. And I want to pay it forward.  I think as much as I loved receiving, I think this guy loved giving too.

So I want to share my skills.

I can’t exactly share my sexy stockings, underwear or g-spot stimulator.  I can’t share my vibrators, ticklers or handcuffs.

But I can share my veggies.  I’ve just picked all the spinach growing in my garden and I’m dropping it off at the shelter down the road.

It feels like a small gesture. And I’d like to do more. I think it’s time for some real community service

Anybody need anything?  For real. I’m ready. Give me a call.

I may even share my handcuffs.


Back off from the barbiturates.

I’ve never done hectic drugs. I tried cocaine twice, at no time did LSD or heroin and as much as I wanted to, ecstasy never passed my lips.

But I do have a thing for little white, pink and yellow pills. Tranquilisers. I’m not a junkie and I don’t buy my own, but if something is being passed around, hey, I’ll happily wash it down with my wine.

And it’s not really ‘passed around’ – just friends talking about their new little helper and me getting excited and saying ‘Ooooh, can I try one.’

A bit irresponsible, sure, but mostly harmless.

But there is a new pill on the market and it is making me mad. The Viagra for women that everyone is talking about. The pill to increase our sexual desire. Fibanserin.

No. No way.

If I want my sexual desire increased I want it increased by a man. I want him to talk to me and look at me and touch me in such a way that my body melts and my thighs tingle and my underwear drops to the floor without meaning to. I want my desire increased by a man slipping my dress off my shoulders, unzipping it, running his fingers along my back and down my buttocks. I want my sexual desire increased by a man kissing me gently on the side of my neck, then harder, moving his tongue from my face down my chest, to my nipples, down my belly, down, lower, lower.

There is no pill that I want to use for sexual desire.

There is, however, a medicine cabinet nearby with little pills in it.  That I’ve borrowed, of course.

And I think I need one, after writing that.

The pink one. Or the blue. Or the yellow…


Guide to flirting

I wrote this to help my girlfriend. The one that was such a bad flirt:-

  • Be friendly for fucks sake.
  • Bare your teeth.
  • Do not leave men bleeding to death on sidewalks.
  • Use those big blue eyes to your advantage.
  • Try hard not to roll them.
  • Wiggling your nose is cute.
  • But snorting and sneering are not.
  • A bit of lipstick and a splash of perfume are both useful.
  • So is a wonderbra.
  • Try a nurse’s uniform.
  • Whisper, don’t yell.
  • Do not punch men, even when they catcall.
  • Smile coquettishly when they do catcall.
  • Count yourself lucky that they still catcall.
  • Accept gifts if they are being offered.
  • And do not yawn, even when the gift is on bloodstained paper.

I thought I should ask her what she figured was the best way to flirt. Her answer:-

  • Get drunk, it’s the only way.

And maybe she’s right.  The pathetic loser in the yellow t-shirt has been trying to call her.

Not me!


You’re such a flirt.

I spent my teens flirting. I’d flutter my eyelashes, play with my hair, wink and smile coquettishly at boys.

It was natural and innocent. It was also huge fun; it’s just what we girls did.

This morning I was out for a walk. On the way I stopped to pick up a coffee and chatted to the guy waiting in the line next to me.

‘Long line hey, worth the wait?’

‘You’re such a flirt,’ said my girlfriend. ‘Stop it.’

Really? I was seriously just asking about the queue.

Midway through our walk we drank from the water fountain then struggled to switch the tap off.

A man happened to wander by.

‘Oh won’t you help us,’ I said. ‘This damn thing…’

‘We can figure it out, don’t worry,’ said the same girlfriend, giving me the evil eye.

I shrugged helplessly and he continued on his way. So did we, leaving a dripping tap behind us.

And five minutes later we were walking through the suburbs and there was a man on a wall, pretty high up, doing maintenance.

‘We’ve got your back if you fall,’ I shouted.

‘Oh for fucks sake,’ yelled my girlfriend. ‘Stop flirting, it’s driving me mad.’

He looked down at us, smiled, lost his balance and fell.

I tended to his injuries. I put my hand on his thigh while cleaning the blood off his knee and put my fingers on his lips, whispering that everything would be okay.

The only thing missing was a nurse’s uniform. A tight one.

My girlfriend watched me, shaking her head.

‘You may wanna help me with the dying,’ I suggested.

She insisted we carry on with our walk.

‘He’s fine, a few scrapes, come on.’

We walked away, leaving him bleeding on the sidewalk. But not before he handed me his number, crumpled, on a blood-stained piece of paper.

Call me, it said.

What a flirt.


The guy in the yellow shirt.

The guy in the yellow t-shirt hasn’t called me. I’m trying not to obssess but it’s been twelve hours, six minutes and twenty-two seconds since we met and I haven’t heard a word.

I could call him but I’m a little shy and my mother taught me to never make the first move.

So why hasn’t he called? I’m going through the following scenarios:-

  • In therapy working on his disorders.
  • In mediation with the soon to be ex-wife.
  • Did his own laundry and washed his phone.
  • Deeply religious and doesn’t use the phone on Shabbat.
  • At the SPCA adopting a puppy to impress me.
  • He’s flaky.
  • Scatterbrained.
  • Got mugged and had his phone stolen.
  • Overdosed.
  • Murdered.

Or he’s out shopping for a new soft, very sexy and irresistible Scotch plaid flannel shirt.

But how long does it take to buy a shirt. Thirteen hours? Fourteen? Maybe he’s with a seamstress right now having one stitched, monogrammed and impeccably tailored.

A man in a perfect hand-made shirt? Sexy. Delicious. Irresistible.

I’m going to call him.

I never listened to my mother anyway.