Category Archives: cunts

Baking and eating #cuntsourdough

Content warning: this post discusses food and has pictures of food, it also mentions vomit

The moment you’ve all been waiting for is here. I baked my cunt sourdough bread.

sourdough open



You’ll probably be familiar with the first three days of making the starter, because if you’re reading this you almost certainly read my first post on the matter. Or you read the Daily Mail, in which case, congratulations, you are far worse than the worst candida infection possible. Either way, this is my favourite presentation of the first three days of the starter recipe, on a handy card, courtesy of Women’s Health.

On the fourth day, I once again fed the starter a cup of plain white flour and half a cup of water. It had started smelling, well, sour, which everything I’d read about sourdough starters suggested it was still going well. About six hours after feeding, it looked like it could use a little more. It wasn’t bubbling as much as it had been and looked a bit sad. So I gave it another half cup of flour and a dribble of water. You probably don’t need to follow that step, it’s just that my kitchen was very warm last night so I think it might have developed quicker than expected.

And today, it was ready. I popped half of it in the fridge as a backup, and baked with the other half. I chose this recipe by Patrick Ryan because it seemed quite straightforward for a beginner, and it came with a video so I could see what everything was supposed to look like at each stage–remember, this is my first time making sourdough. I made only two changes to the recipe: firstly, I used my own starter rather than his suggested one, and secondly instead of using a couche cloth (I don’t think I’m middle class enough to know what that is) or a heavily floured tea towel, I used greaseproof paper.

For kneading the dough, I wore gloves: after all, wouldn’t it be absolutely disgusting if some human DNA were to make its way into my sourdough? I’d vomit at the thought of some of the skin flora making its way into my food: over 1000 bacteria live naturally on human skin and what if they, like, grew in there and made me ill?

I used ice cubes to create steam in the oven, making sure they were appropriate for the occasion:


There was one point in the process where I fucked up: for the second prove, I put the loaves in the bowls seam side down. This fuckup, fortunately, was purely cosmetic and meant that the tops looked a little rough. I may also have not proved for long enough: this is entirely my own fault, I got bored. I proved for 2 1/2 hours, knocked it back and then proved for another 2 1/2 hours. I’ll admit, it didn’t exactly look great when I put it in the oven, and I think it’s because of those factors.


The result

sourdough cooked

What, did you expect it to sprout pubes?

My concerns about it being a bit flat on the way into the oven were unfounded. It rose, and filled the house with the delicious smell of baking bread.

I think I overcooked it ever so slightly, as it looked a bit burnt in places. Aside from that, everything was looking like it was meant to. Tapping it made a hollow sound, and it smelled absolutely delicious. You probably know what baking bread smells like. It smelled like that. What, you were expecting it to smell of pussy?

They were also slightly misshapen, probably due to my cosmetic cockup mentioned earlier. Still, not bad for a first attempt at bread-making.

I let it cool for about 45 minutes before slicing.sourdough open

Was I worried about tasting it? No. Any pathogens which may have been in the sourdough starter probably couldn’t survive being blasted at 230°C. If they could, then good for them. They deserve to infect me.

It tasted like a pretty damn nice sourdough bread. Not the tangiest sourdough I’ve ever eaten, but solidly tasty. I really, really liked it. After having a little bite, I ate a slice with butter. The bread was still slightly warm and the butter soaked in and it was absolutely heavenly.

A lot of people on the internet seem to be under the impression it would taste like cunt. Of course it fucking didn’t. The only thing that really tastes like pussy is pussy. Given that this is a loaf of bread, obviously it didn’t taste like pussy. Learn biology, buddy.

So, can you bake sourdough bread with vaginal yeast?

The honest answer is, I still don’t know. As I’ve been clear about from the start, there were only tiny trace amounts of vaginal yeast mixed into the starter at the beginning, and sourdough starters pick up and grow wild yeast from the flour and environment. Since it’s behaved exactly as one would expect sourdough with a conventional starter to behave at every step of the way, in smell and consistency and behaviour, I think that it’s very likely that any yeast from my vag never grew, and what I have produced is literally just a normal sourdough starter, with neither vaginal yeast nor vaginal bacteria present.

If any microbiologists would like to volunteer to test a sample out of curiosity, I can give you a sample of starter; I’ve got loads in the fridge.

How’s your vagina doing btw?

Fine, thank you for asking. Immediately after harvesting (i.e. on Saturday), I cracked out the Canesten and nuked it. My nethers are now pleasantly back in balance.

That reminds me, I’m a little bit concerned that a lot of you don’t seem to know that vulvas/vaginas have yeast present all the time. It’s just… always there. It lives there. What a yeast “infection” (or thrush) is, is when things get out of balance and the yeast overgrows. However, there’s always some yeast living there, just chilling. So if you enjoy drinking from the furry cup, you’ll be getting yeast in your mouth. Since that’s probably not caused you any ill effects, calm the fuck down.

Future plans?

I have loads of starter in my fridge, so I feel like I might try making another batch and maybe rise it overnight this time, now I know what a long and tedious process the proving is. I would also like to try making it look a bit better next time–food presentation has never been my strong point, so it’s something I think I should work on.

And with practice, maybe I’ll keep the starter going and diversify recipes. Crumpets, bagels, pizza… I love all of those things, and I’m quite enthused about baking now.

I intend to eat the rest of these loaves, because they’re really quite nice. I might occasionally post updates.

I won’t be making beer or marmite/vegemite, as you all keep asking. That shit is really fiddly, and I cannot be arsed.

Several friends who know exactly what I’ve been doing have expressed an interest in eating some, so I’ll probably have them round for tea sometime.

This post was made possible by my Patreon supporters. Consider becoming one, because you know you’re weirdly interested in what I’m doing

I’m making sourdough with my vaginal yeast

Content warning: This post discusses food and contains embedded tweets containing misogynistic and disablist language.

UPDATE: Want to know how it all turned out? I baked it and ate it. Here’s some more pictures and information.

I am making sourdough. I started the starter on Saturday afternoon, and it’s reached the point where it smells kind of yeasty, and now it’s looking like this:


It’s caused quite a lot of visceral horror, because I bunged something a little bit unconventional in the starter: yeast from my vagina. Here’s my recipe, so you know:


1 small Greek coffee-sized cup of plain flour
1/2 small Greek coffee-sized cup of water
As much vaginal yeast as I could scrape off a dildo I put in my vagina–my estimate is that there was about as much of it as would lightly coat a single tine of a fork, and no more.


  • Mix the ingredients together.
  • Cover in foil, leave
  • The next day, “feed” it 1 small Greek coffee-sized cup of flour, 1/2 small Greek coffee-sized cup of water.
  • Cover it back up
  • Repeat the feeding
  • idk what I’ll do next, I’m only on the third day.

It all started with a fatal combination of a slightly perverse sense of humour, a keenly scientific mind, and touch of the thrush. Waking up on Saturday with the familiar itchy burny fanny, I giggled to myself “maybe I could make bread with that”. And that ticked into, “well, I’ve always wanted to try making my own sourdough anyway” and then a “fuck, would that even work?” and then I got curious and the next thing that happened was I was scraping white goop off of a dildo into a bowl of flour mixed with water.

sourdough first day

Day 1

The next day, the Frankenstein within me–by Frankenstein, I mean the guy, not the monster (OK, maybe also the monster)–cheered. IT’S ALIVE!

sourdough 36 hrs

Day 2

It was a few hours after this that people started to really get disgusted. Below is a small sample of comments my little home baking project has received so far. This is important, people: please do not reply to or harass the tweeters: yes, you might want to defend me, but if you want to defend me or help me out, contribute to my Patreon, don’t pile on these people.








So, it seems to have generated rather a lot of disgust. Far more than I expected, to be perfectly honest: I’d expected perhaps the odd “eww” and maybe even an “I wouldn’t eat that that”, but not this, the level of outright horror, as though I’d dismembered a litter of puppies and was posting selfies with a selfie-stick while doing it.

The more moderate people who want to maintain their sense of outrage at this go for what I call the hygiene excuse: they declare it’s disgusting because it’s unsanitary. And here’s the thing: that’s not necessarily true. It’s almost certainly no more gross than regular sourdough starter.

Making sourdough starter entails encouraging stuff that’s present in the flour and just sort of floating around in the air in your kitchen and on your utensils to grow. That’s what wild yeast is. If that idea sickens you, avoid all sourdough, because that’s what it’s made of, but remember, people have been making and eating sourdough for millennia, and the human race hasn’t died out yet. All I’ve done is add a little bit of my own yeast. It’s somewhere between a Type I and a Type II sourdough, because I’ve added a tiny bit of yeast to the mix, although only a trace amount.

“But candida albicans (vaginal yeast) isn’t for eating and will somehow make you sick,” you cry. Probably not. Like all bread made with yeast, once it’s cooked it’s not exactly going to go about colonising your gut with yeast. The biggest risk with using candida albicans for breadmaking is that it won’t rise–more on that later.

“But what about vaginal bacteria and all the other minging stuff that’s come out of your quim?” you ask, becoming paler and paler as you continue reading this. First things first, any bacteria which lives in your warm soft parts lives there because it likes to be warm. Body temperature warm. It dies outside of that temperature range. However, let’s assume for the sake of argument that my vagina harbours a strain of bacteria that thrives equally in the ~37°C environment of my cunt as it does at the ~22°C of my kitchen, inside a bowl of flour and water. Were this the case, it still wouldn’t matter. I’m making fucking bread. You cook bread. All of the bread will reach the bacteria-murdering threshold of >70°C for long enough to kill anything that had survived.

I did a little straw poll and it found that at least some of the people being disgusted by my cunt sourdough may have a poor understanding of food hygiene. At the time of writing, around 30% of people who answered said that they wash their chicken before cooking: this is a very bad thing to do. Washing raw chicken in water does nothing to remove bacteria from the chicken, and sprays a species of bacteria called campylobacter all over your kitchen where it can thrive and grow. Campylobacter is bad, and responsible for most food poisoning. It, like most other bacteria, can be cooked out, but not scrubbed off. There was a big awareness campaign on this last year, but it seems to have bypassed a worrying chunk of the population. I say this not to pick on chicken-washers, but simply to point out that there’s probably far grosser things going on in the food you’re eating than a trace amount of vaginal yeast. It’s also worth noting that a lot of what you think you know about food hygiene may not necessarily be true. Anyway, people do things differently, and as long as what you’re doing hasn’t killed you or anyone else you’re feeding, why should we judge it?

However, I suspect the vast majority of the utter horror about my sourdough isn’t anything to do with  ignorance on food hygiene, but more to do with a general mistrust and horror at vag. I say this because I suspect if I were making my own any-other-thing-except-sourdough-using-vaginal-yeast, people probably would have just left me to it. Like this person, who made their own salami without fanfare:

This is what said salami looked like. I’ve made it a clickable link because it turned my own stomach a bit, and I’m the sort of person who is baking sourdough with bodily secretions.

Of course, there’s the distinct possibility that absolutely none of my own vaginal bacteria is actually growing within the sourdough. In fact, it’s probable that none of the yeast that is growing originated betwixt my thighs: again, there’s the aforementioned heat issue, and my kitchen is significantly cooler than my cunt. Furthermore, as also mentioned above, sourdough starters pick up wild yeast, so I have no real way of telling whether or not what’s growing is the vaginal yeast, or whether it’s just the stuff that would have grown anyway. In hindsight, it would have been a good idea for me to have prepared a control sourdough starter without vaginal yeast. I did not do this, and I regret it slightly now. So we’ll see what happens when it’s time to bake bread with the starter. I expect if there’s lots of candida albicans in it, it won’t rise so well.

It probably doesn’t matter that my sourdough may or may not contain any actual vaginal yeast. The very idea of it seems to horrify people more than enough. I suppose it’s a similar socially-constructed disgust that leaves a whole bunch of people repulsed by the idea of licking a pussy. Even the mere idea of a tiny trace of pussy in a massive loaf of bread is sufficiently vile.

There have been similar attempts at cooking with bodily secretions, and they’ve been branded art. There’s Toi Sennhauser, who brewed beer containing a tiny trace of vaginal yeast to ask questions about what we deem acceptable. There’s also Christina Agapakis, who has a background in biology as well as art, and is doing interesting things with cheese made from human cultures. I, however, do not consider my own project art. I consider it simply my own personal experimental baking. Again, this is perhaps why I’m so surprised at all the screaming: people weren’t nearly so freaked out when I spent a while eating pasta mixed with ketchup and henderson’s relish because I couldn’t afford much else (it’s quite a good pasta sauce, incidentally).

I’m also not doing it for any feminist protest type reasons, although I am very interested to note how many people are horrified at the very notion that something may have once been near a vagina–since time immemorial the “eww” response has caused a lot of trouble for those of us who have them (and a fair few women who don’t).

I’m also not doing this for any potential health claims, unlike the woman who cultured yoghurt from her own vaginal bacteria. I expect the final result of my endeavour to be maybe bread, with no miraculous healing powers–but also, no miraculous powers to cause sickness.

Any questions that my endeavour has raised were a surprising side product of this little culinary adventure, and I very much doubt that my baking project will finally settle the debate on the Vaginas Are Not Hideous Monster Caves side, because there’s far too much structural bullshit to take it all down that easily.

I’ll be updating periodically on my baking endeavours, including the final result. I will be using the hashtag #cuntsourdough. So, hopefully your curiosity is piqued. I know I’m excited to try whatever happens–in fact, watching the life that has sprung from my loins has finally made me understand why people want to have children (although I still prefer my sourdough starter: it’s lower maintenance than a child).

The next update to be posted on the blog will probably be if/when it’s in a state to actually bake bread with (or maybe I’ll try doing crumpets from my crumpet), although I’ll likely update more often on Twitter (@stavvers). Before you tweet me to tell me how disgusted you are, let me be clear about one thing: I fucking know. It turns out the world is even more grossed out about minges than I’d previously thought.

Click here to find out how the cunt sourdough turned out.

This post was made possible by my Patreon supporters, who are more than welcome to eat some of my cunt sourdough if they like, although they are equally welcome to not eat any. Thanks to my supporters, I’m no longer just eating crap, because I can afford a bit better. If I’ve horrified or intrigued you, or otherwise provoked a reaction, please consider supporting me

SASS: I think you’re meant to fuck up your cunt with it.

It’s 2015, and I am fucking tired as shit of two things:

  1. Products which are designed to make your nethers less gross
  2. Twee fucking euphemisms while marketing such things

Lucky for me, today I learned of a product which does both of these things: SASS Intimate Skincare. A takedown of a lot of the issues has been posted by Jade Moulds (warning: contains cissexist language: of course, vaginas are not just the domain of women, although this product has clearly been marketed at cis women; I wish the author had acknowledged this): namely that this product increases shame surrounding vaginas, and that it’s not very good for you to be rubbing scented soaps into a mucous membrane.

To add to the critique of how bad it is for you to be putting scented soaps on your cunt, I’d like to add that a lot of SASS’s marketing focuses on “pH balance”. This is obvious marketing jargon: the term is bandied about with basically anything you put on your skin anyway, and I wonder if by applying this pseudoscientific twaddle to products you whack on your cunt it’s trying to imply that maybe it won’t throw things out of kilter so much as other products which you’re meant to de-gross your minge with. Let’s pretend for a second that this is actually true: that SASS Intimate Skincare products are the exact same pH as your vagina, and this will definitely negate all of the problems chemicals making contact with a very sensitive body part could cause. If that’s true, to what point of the cycle is SASS Intimate Skincare pH balanced? For most of the month, the vagina is about as acidic as orange juice, but during periods, it becomes closer to neutral as the acidic natural juices mix with the pretty-much-neutral blood. And for whom is it pH balanced? There’s some natural variance, with the off-period pH being somewhere between 3.5 and 4.5, depending on the individual.

The acidity of the vagina is useful, because it kills bacteria. It’s also fucking badass, and why sometimes it looks like you’ve bleached your black knickers–you have.

I looked at the SASS website to find out, but I couldn’t, because everything is completely fucking vague. The takedown I posted earlier is equally annoyed by the vagueness of language used, but I couldn’t even necessarily work out what body parts some of the products were for. The term “intimate use” and “the area” is used a lot on the site, and I am 95% sure it doesn’t always refer to the same place. Like, seriously, these people sell shaving gels as well as things to be used “in and around the area”. Maybe I’m weird as is every cunt I’ve ever had the joy of putting my face in, but as far as I’m aware the part that you shave and the part that’s “in” are completely different.

One of the products is so vaguely-described I have literally no idea where you’re meant to put it: the Intimate Protection Barrier Cream. During exercise, it’s meant to protect… something. Apparently “intense activity can take its toll on your intimate area” and it will “help reduce friction” during intense physical activity. Er, what? I’m genuinely struggling to work out what this does. Is it for stopping your upper thighs rubbing together? Is it for people who live in towns where all exercise gear is made of sandpaper glued right to your flaps? What sort of exercise do they mean?

Alas, I have neither the money, nor the disregard for my own vaginal wellbeing, to test this stuff out. It’s pricey, and I don’t want bacterial vaginosis, thank you very much. I would also be enormously alarmed if my cunt started smelling like anything other than my cunt: it would be like that fancy culinary trope where you cook something that looks like something but tastes like something else, and it’s kind of weird and personally I really don’t like having food expectations violated and it always makes me enjoy it less and–

Cunts are the perfect anarchist. If you leave them to it, they tend to get along just fine, cleaning up after themselves and doing their thing. This is exactly why we don’t need yet more expensive products profiting off of a manufactured need for them not to just do what they do.



Fanny talk with the Scarlet Ladies

As you may know from the little button on the sidebar, I’ve recently got involved with Scarlet Ladies, a new initiative encouraging women to be more open about sex. On Thursday, I was part of a panel where we discussed our quims.

Along with founding members Sarah and Janette, I joined burlesque performer Effie Vescent and orgasmic meditation instructor Claudia from TurnOn Britain in opening up a discussion of our nethers to a small intimate group in a pub. Occasionally, a member of staff would wander through looking mildly horrified, because this is not what we’re meant to do. 

I first discovered the importance of talking very frankly about my cunt when I discovered the power of the Dear Nadine Dorries project. For those of you who don’t remember the halcyon days of 2011, this was when me and a bunch of other people (note: not just women) wrote crass letters to an anti-choice Tory MP in the hope of sating her desire to intrude on our uteruses. Her bill failed, and she whined about receiving letters describing bodily functions in graphic detail in Parliament, so technically, I might have had the most famous minge in the room since mine is recorded in Hansard. The thing the Dear Nadine Dorries project taught me most of all was the thirst to be able to talk openly about everything your cunt does: the good, the bad, and the downright queefingly disgusting.

With that in mind, I told a couple of stories pertaining to how I’d thought I wasn’t normal, but it turned out I was. I told the story of when I was 15 and I thought I’d wanked myself incontinent because I didn’t even know that squirting was A Thing. I told of my wonky flaps–which I describe as looking like the Before and After photos in a labiaplasty advert–and how I didn’t know that the wonkiness wasn’t some terrifying weird mutation until I started muff-diving. This was a natural segue into tale of when I wounded my cunt in a narrowboating accident, and just briefly, my flaps were the same size because of the swelling.

Later in the evening, I became part of a competition: to identify what my tattoo was.


Yes, that’s an anatomically correct, roughly life-sized clitoris, and unfortunately, nobody could recognise it. It’s hardly surprising; medical science didn’t recognise it until the nineties, or map it properly until 2009. And that’s part of the reason I have that tattoo, as a symbol of the abject failures of scientific disciplines in identifying something that has been right there all along: they’re fucking crap at listening to experience and believing in it.

The rest of the panel–and indeed the audience–had had radically different experiences to me. Most of the group, unless they’re queer like me and Effie, or their job involves quite a lot of cunt-based workshops, like Claudia, had never really seen another person’s cunt in the flesh, and this led to a resulting level of mystery. The mystery is deepened further in that it’s a pretty difficult body part to even get a good look at yourself. One of the guests, a Hindi speaker, contributed that there isn’t even a word for “vagina” in Hindi.

So talking about it is empowering in its way. The floodgates opened, and we began to talk, honestly and openly, about our experiences and our feelings. We even drew ours: there’s a photo of our artistic forays over on Scarlet Ladies’ write-up.

Experiences of living a cunt are highly diverse, and the Scarlet Ladies discussion was something I felt was much needed, although I wish it had been slightly more diverse. As far as I could tell, everybody was cis, and it would be nice to open up such discussions to a less cis audience.

Aside from that caveat, I had a thoroughly wonderful time. It really is a delight being in a room full of people and able to talk about such things with the assurance that nobody will go “eww”.

On free bleeding

Content warning: this post discusses menstruation and body policing

Every now and then, manchildren freak the fuck out over “free bleeding”. Sadly, the feminist response to this seems to be “eww, no, nobody actually does that, it was made up by 4chan.”

As always, that’s not the whole story. Yes, 4chan may have created a freebleeding hashtag, based on the thing a bunch of 13 year old cis boys find most horrifying. That doesn’t mean that isn’t something that people don’t do.

I know this because I free bleed. Towards the end of my period, I simply cannot be bothered with using my menstrual cup any more, so I boil it up and put it away from next month, and just say “fuck it” and let the blood flow freely. It’s free, and it’s a damn sight less hassle than having to reinsert a menstrual cup when my cunt isn’t completely slick with blood as it is on the earlier days.

Everybody has a different way of dealing with their menstruation, and for me, I don’t really notice much of a smell, and there’s nothing much to stain because I don’t wear knickers and I usually wear black. On the last day or two of my period, there isn’t much blood, so free bleeding for a day or two a month is a thing I’ve found works for me.

Menstruation is a deeply personal thing, and what works for one person might not work for another. Free bleeding is not a myth, it’s something which works for some people.

As feminists, we must always resist the call to assimilate and seek out patriarchal head-pats. Society has a bit of a hangup about menstruation, but that doesn’t mean we have to pander to it. We should all be able to find out what works for us, and that discovery is hampered by squawks of disgust and denial surrounding ways which we live with our periods. It is not right to police how others menstruate, which is precisely what is happening when feminists proclaim that free bleeding is something which never happens, that it was made up by cis boys to provoke a grossout response.

Free bleeding is real, and it’s not something to be brushed away. Feminists should know better.

This post was inspired by a conversation I had with Sam Ambreen. You can read the whole conversation here

2014 in review

Content note: this post discusses sexual violence and police violence

And so we reach the end of the year, and despite promising myself I wouldn’t do this, I am doing one of those icky “look back over the past year” kind of things, I’m doing it anyway (I was also meant to stop smoking this year, and I didn’t).

In truth, it’s been a little difficult to write this because there’s been a huge split between the personal and the political for me in 2014. In my personal life, 2014 has been brilliant. I love, and am loved. I have some financial security for the first time in my life. I managed to get quite a lot of my novel written. Everything’s coming up stavvers. It wasn’t all brilliant, of course. I wounded my fanny and got stalked by trolls.

However, 2014 has been pretty uniformly dire outside of my own personal little bubble, and I’ve had a lot to be pissed off about. Each week since the killing of Michael Brown, US cops have taken another Black life. The situation is also bad in the UK: the same pattern of killing and then lying keeps on and our pigs find ways of murdering without even having to carry guns. I haven’t commented on this much, because it’s not my place as a white woman, but I’ve almost weekly shared some content in my post round-ups which I thoroughly recommend you read. All of it. Take an afternoon.

In the UK, our political situation is looking pretty terrible, and it’s unlikely to change in the near future. With a general election looming in 2015, things are going to become completely insufferable. It’s the media’s fault, of course. The media has a fascination with leaders and white men, so we’ve been presented with two ghastly choices: do want Nigel Farage and fascism, or Russell Brand and the curse of left misogyny, God and some really badly-developed thought? One cannot move without tripping over either of these clowns. Of course, this is a false dichotomy: there’s heaps of possibilities, but a media owned by white men cannot conceptualise something which doesn’t involve dreadful white men flapping their awful mouths off.

The awful people who are already in government are making a right fucking hash of things too. We have Theresa May, determined to murder every single migrant, starting with the most vulnerable, like LGBT women. We have Iain Duncan Smith, who is trying to murder the poor through violently stopping their means of subsistence. They’ve been as nasty as ever this year, but come 2015 we’re unlikely to see any improvement even if the red party get elected.

Meanwhile, men who have been in government are emerging as paedophiles and rapists. A constantly-stalling investigation is ongoing into the child abuse rings at Westminster. Unfortunately, because cops and politicians are in each other’s pockets, corruption keeps cropping up and things grind to a halt again as yet more coverups come to light. I’m also a little concerned about the men who are still in Westminster. Nigel Evans, although cleared, was ruled even by the judge to be a complete fucking creep and were it not for his status, I suspect they may have thrown the book at him.

This has been, overall, a pretty good year for violent misogynists. Rapist Ched Evans waltzed out of prison, and, while Sheffield United chose to do the right thing (eventually) and drop him like the turd he is, it’s still entirely possible he may get to continue his illustrious career at another club, all the while continually proving he has learned nothing about consent. Shia LaBeouf spoke out about his experience of rape… to a near-universal chorus of disbelief from men. These were the sort of men who love to bring up “but men get raped too” when women talk about rape, but nonetheless failed to show any support to a male survivor. We also saw misogynist Elliot Rodger go on a killing spree while men tried to downplay the fact this was directly motivated by misogyny. Meanwhile popular left rag The Morning Star spike an article about violent misogynist Steve Hedley, because the left still hasn’t got its affairs in order there.

2014 has been very bad indeed for those of us with uteruses. In Ireland, many of us heard with horror the story of a dead woman whose body was kept on life support while her family were forced to watch her decompose because she had had the misfortune of dying while pregnant. This ghoulish act of violence was a direct result of Ireland’s absurdly restrictive abortion rights, and the judge only ruled that life support could be turned off because the foetus had no chance of surviving. Meanwhile in the UK, the situation is better, but last month our abortion rights were restricted further as sex-selective abortions were banned.

It was also a pretty bad year for sex workers, with momentum growing for the “Swedish model” which does not do anything to make the lives of sex workers safer, and many sex workers say will make things worse. Transmisogyny, too, continues to run rife, with transmisogynists turning up to picket lesbian pride parades and disrupt feminist conferences.

Alas, feminist movement and resistance is spotty at best. I am hoping, perhaps, that we can get our affairs in order in 2015, because we’re going to need to fight all the harder. For this to happen, we need to drop a lot of the crap we’ve been pulling. We need to inventory ourselves, honestly assessing what we may be doing wrong and where we are complicit in kyriarchical violence. We need to challenge violent thought where we see it, so that we may stand shoulder to shoulder with sisters of all colours, all genders, with our disabled sisters and our queer sisters and our trans sisters. Together, we are many, and we must overcome these divisions in 2015 if we are to stand a chance of winning.

6 things I learned about my orgasms

Today is National Orgasm Day, so of course I took this opportunity to TMI at you people, because TMI is my middle name. I’ve been having orgasms for more than half my life, and here are a few things I learned along the way.

1. I am my own best lover

Look, it’s nice having other people around. It enhances sex a lot. But I’ve been fucking myself for about 15 years, and so I think I’m best positioned for knowing exactly what works best. Only I know the full details, despite the fact that people over the years (usually, but not exclusively men) have taken it upon themselves to give me some sort of Entirely New Experience because they Know Best and pretty much every time that’s happened it’s ended in mutual disappointment. Even now, when I have two partners and a host of less regular lovers, I still make time for a date with myself. Nobody’s quite as good as me at making me come.

2. Having the same genitals as me doesn’t automatically make you better at sex

There’s a common myth flying round that cis lesbians are automatically better at sex with cis women, because they have the same equipment. That is categorically untrue. Having a cunt does not grant you a PhD in Cuntology. Everyone likes different things, and sometimes it’s easy to fall into the trap of egocentrism. I’ve been on both the giving and receiving end of the assumption that having a fanny means knowing how every fanny works. Communication is key, rather than anatomy.

3. Squirting doesn’t mean you’ve wanked yourself incontinent

I was about fifteen, and having the sort of epic wanking session one tends to lose the stamina for once one is out of one’s teens. I brought myself to shuddering orgasm after shuddering orgasm, and then one felt… different. There was wet stuff everywhere. I panicked slightly. I sprayed Febreeze all over the wet patch. I was convinced I had managed to come so hard I’d peed myself, and I laid off the masturbatory marathons for a while after to make sure I didn’t develop some sort of bladder problem. I was quiet about this horrifying thing that had happened to me, the gross piss-pariah. Oddly enough, I only learned this was a perfectly ordinary thing to happen a few years later, while watching porn. Yep. Porn saved me.

4. Porn gives people hella weird assumptions about squirting

So, I squirt. This is apparently a little uncommon, although pretty popular in porn. The thing is, in porn, this seems to happen on demand (I imagine, in fact, it requires multiple takes and a whole bunch of fluffing and it’s probably a little easier to happen knowing nobody’s going to have to sleep in the expansive wet patch). This is pretty much not how it happens for me. There is no magical formula for ensuring ejaculation occurs. It just sometimes does. Or, more frequently, doesn’t. The thing is, once it’s happened once, there’s usually this assumption that it’ll happen reliably, which leads to crushing disappointment, because it’s not like in the movies. Going off like a geyser is something which is fetishised, and I can’t live up to it. Luckily, most people will get this once it’s been explained to them.

5. My orgasms make men sad

Once upon a time, I used to fuck cis, straight men. I gave up on this, because politically they’re rubbish, and I have successfully arranged my life so I just don’t even meet them any more. As an additional fact about me, I have super-powerful Kegels. This is always brilliantly fun for me, but not so much for the cis, straight men who think penis-in-vagina is the be-all and end-all to sex. You see, my Kegels can easily eject a penis at the moment of my orgasm. And after that, I’m usually kind of done, and might roll over, fart and fall asleep. This makes cis, straight men sad, because sex is traditionally centred around their orgasms: they’re the ones who get to roll over, fart and fall asleep. For some reason, when the roles are reversed, it makes them feel sad.

6. Orgasms really aren’t the be-all and end-all

I’ve had phenomenal sex without an orgasm. There’s something incredibly nice about focusing yourself on someone else having a good time. I can have spectacular sex without the need for the other person to even touch me. For the most part, sex is a pleasant way of passing the time between two or more people, and an orgasm isn’t a requirement for that to be fun. They’re like the marzipan on top of an otherwise-delicious cake: it’s awesome if it’s there, but it’s not necessary at all. And if you want it, later you can get a whole block of marzipan and eat it to yourself.



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