It’s something only ‘loose women’ talk about, you know, the type who ‘forget’ to wear knickers and have a bottom draw filled with so many sex aids that it looks like their Rampant Rabbits have started to breed. Is it any wonder our predecessors developed a penchant for sewing, darning, cooking and anything else that would keep their hands out of their bloomers for that little bit longer?īefore we even sprout breasts we are aware that to express any recognition of rumblings from the furry beast-ess below is a form of cultural transgression and social suicide, and certainly not behaviour considered becoming of a ‘lady’. Sad but true.īut why, in a culture that promotes a bare-all fashion philosophy and actively encourages teenage girls to sexily gesticulate on camera in the name of music, is the recognition of our sexual needs, and expression of our enjoyment of the other, almost always equated with promiscuity and moral corruption? To do so is considered crime enough, but to openly admit to enjoying a bit of slap-and-tickle is guaranteed to get you branded a slut, goose-stepped to the local GUM clinic and publicly hung by the short and curlies faster than you can fake an orgasm no matter how loud and proud you are. Well, why would we talk about it? We didn’t do it anyway, right? We wouldn’t know what to do anyway would we? And nobody wants a girl who’s ‘dirty’ do they? I mean, I’ve always had a pretty open relationship with my parents, but the subject of whether or not it is right to flick one’s bean was never the biggest topic of jovial banter during Sunday lunch.įrom a young age, I was trained to believe that to express an appreciation of sex above and beyond that experienced outside of a personal relationship, or for purposes other than that of procreation, was a fundamental violation of what it means to be a ‘respectable’ woman. Well, not unless we were comfortable with the break-time speculation as to whether or not we had Cheddar Gorge nestled between our thighs.Īnd masturbation. I grew up thinking it was not something us girls spoke about openly. You certainly don’t stroke the badger, however much she wants it. Yes madam, even in this supposed age of enlightenment, to be considered a ‘lady’ you really do have to wear petticoats, swim in rivers, grow your babies in cabbage patches and be in a constant state of preparation to assume the missionary position whenever your husband fancies some late night action. But, in retrospect, what it demonstrated was that from a young age we are conditioned to believe that there are carefully delineated rules of acceptability about the ways in which men and women are able to express their sexuality, which, (as per usual, ladies), often results in censorship and redefinitions of the female experience in order to fit an archaic male generated template of what constitutes feminine. It’s not a wholly welcome image with double maths looming close and that second helping of Ready Brek laying heavy on your stomach.
When the boys in school rolled in of a morning ready to provide us with detailed expositions of the objects of their latest nocturnal masturbatory emissions, I could never shake the visual image of them lined up side by side, wearing tight shorts and navy hats, singing in unison, whilst cracking one off to the beat of Popeye the Sailor Man. It’s not so much of a problem now, although during my school years it precipitated some pretty embarrassing situations. I have always had the unfortunate habit of confusing the word porn for prawn. “Women should be obscene and not heard” – Groucho Marx
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