More useless female journalism.

ROFJ. It stands for Repeatedly Offending Female Journalist. Today we're back here again with the highly self-obsessed Polly Vernon. She's back again and SHE DOESN'T WANT CHILDREN. AGAIN. They get in the way of her city breaks to New York which she takes at the drop of a hat. And watching HBO. Now you might think these are flimsy reasons for not having a chubby toddler but they matter to Polly, ok? But you don't listen and moreover you keep asking her about it and upsetting her.

"Women might think I'm in denial, but they let me get on with it now. Men, meanwhile, are astounded. Flummoxed. They become aggressive, sneering. They psychoanalyse me, they try to work out what's wrong with me. Who knows why? Perhaps they feel rejected. Perhaps the idea that there are women at large who are not actively pursuing their sperm is an out-and-out affront to a certain kind of man. The same men who have spent years believing that all women secretly want to trap them into commitment and fatherhood, probably."

And so she has sat down and written an article which is serious. We know it is serious because she. uses. full. stops. like this. But mostly she is inundated with men in drinking establishments wanting to discuss why she does not want children. Tiresome, you'll agree.

"For whatever reason, I've been pulled up on my wanton childless status, loudly and at length, by three different men, in three different pubs, over the course of the last fortnight alone."

Ms R is baffled. How does that kind of conversation come about, short of carrying a placard or walking into the pub with a megaphone? Truly. How does a conversation in a pub get round to that particular subject so frequently? Three different men in three different pubs in TWO WEEKS. Now that's funny because when Ms R has conversations in pubs it's usually to say, "Vodka and tonic please," "No I would not like to give you a blow job right now" or "My name is Bob. Yes. Bob ( a little tactic Ms R uses)."

Ms R can only imagine that Polly was being her sophisticated self and buying a glass of yellowish chardonnay when the barman innocently asked, "Would you like any children with that?" Ms R can understand how that might have thrown her and certainly if it happened in three different bars in two weeks then it might get a bit annoying. Very. Annoying.

Polly has been patient with us and spent a lot of time telling us how she feels. Too much time really.

"I talked about how difficult it is to be child-free, when popular culture fetishises parenthood in general and motherhood in particular. When the dramatic arc of all TV dramas, of all rom-coms, is dependent on someone becoming pregnant and finding true happiness as a consequence. Babies are the newest archetype on the happy ending, therefore not wanting them is tantamount to not wanting to be happy.

I talked about how weird it is to be disconnected from this baby-crazy culture. Like being sober while everyone else is drunk. I talked about how strange it is to not even care whether or not I'm infertile, when apparently it's all anyone else thinks about."

Ms R is not sure she and Polly are living on the same planet. What baby crazy culture? Fewer babies are being born so that may mean that when someone close to you has a baby it's a big event for them, most certainly. But baby crazy? With her talent for exaggeration, it is a good thing, Polly does not write about economics.

Polly wants to know why people (those mythical PEOPLE again) can't accept her position. Polly, honey, anyone who has made a personal choice and is happy with their choice has no need to get upset about it. Ms R can only surmise that you are not sure that what you are doing is ok and you need the approval of others to tell you that you are one hot career woman who can go on City breaks every day of the week and be lauded for that behaviour. Except that is just as boring as having children and talking about it.

So, other than the fact that Polly is just plain boring and humourless, here's the thing: Why does your personal choice have to be a campaign position? Ms R, for example, does not like soup. But she does not go to three pubs in two weeks and bring the subject up. Instead, she keeps quiet until one day a man walks up to her in a pub, tells her she's sexy and invites her out for soup. She declines the soup but says she'll go out for a steak. Simple. No need to go around setting up a straw man (straw child anyone?) and knocking it down, unless of course you have to justify your employment as a useless female journalist. (See how often the blogger taunts you...)

For just as Polly does not want babies shoved in her face, the fact is that though she may think we all care about it, we do not really care about the choices others make. Best to make them quietly.

Advice to young Bedhopper

Ms R was very sad to hear of the death of David Carradine whom she remembers fondly from the Kung Fu TV series. She finds she has much in common with Poe, who taught the young Grasshopper. When Ms R is not busy dealing with the earthly world she provides spiritual guidance to young women seeking the path of light. Here are some transcripts from her recent teachings.

Guru R: What is it that brings you here?

Bedhopper: Guru R, I seek answers to many questions.

Guru R: While you are laughing at the monkey, he is stealing your food.

Bedhopper: Why should I be watching the monkey?

Guru R: Sorry, little in joke. (Guru R giggles) Go on.

Bedhopper: Now I have met new man. We have pillow fights, wear matching Ralph Lauren linens when walking in the park and eat ice cream out of tubs.

Guru R: Sounds good, if a little dull. Why have you interrupted the meditations of Guru R?

Bedhopper: I do not know what he is thinking in his Man head.

Guru R: Silly Bedhopper. Do you think he will tell you what you want to know? And if he tells you what you do not want to know what then? The Man does not wish to talk. It is his nature simply to live in the moment. In a shed preferably. Is it not enough for you that he shares cliched existence with you?

Bedhopper: I see my friends now with pram, bearing child. Their reclaimed wood farmhouse tables display freshly made pesto. They talk of schools and of Thomas the Tank Engine. I worry I may not follow the divine way and that the forest will be bare.

Guru R: Bedhopper, it is your worry that will drive him away. Not to mention your talk of expensive off road prams and coffee mornings with smug mothers at ailing, overpriced American coffee chain. You must enjoy the journey. But pack lightly. Always wear shoes when crossing the river, especially if there is no boat. And the crocodile does not sleep.

Bedhopper: Is that another joke?

Guru R: (Giggles) Yes. Now what's your problem? Bedhopper, this can only end in cheap warm Chardonnay and embarrassing nights out with other women where you reveal your breasts and end up crying. Not a good look. Guru R says you must enjoy the entree rather than thinking of the pudding. 

Bedhopper: Guru R. But the whole point of the entree is to reach the pudding, surely?

Guru R: I too was once a young Bedhopper and I was all about the pudding. But then I realised that after the pudding there is nothing. Ok maybe an espresso. And a brandy. But what then? The bill of course. Best to stick with the entree and make it last as long as possible.

Bedhopper: Guru R you are truly wise. Not to mention clever, funny and gorgeous.

Guru R: Bedhopper, cut the compliments. Just leave the money on your way out. And take off those leggings. They don't work.

You've not come such a long way baby

Ms R has written previously on the perils of modern feminism: a place where the right to drink, fuck and occasionally mouth off about date rape and safe sex appear to be the sole concerns of this current wave. And now, at the end of a perfectly wonderful day where Ms R has been treated as both the intelligent woman she hopes she is and the feminine woman she likes to be, she reads that another 'erotic' magazine for women has been launched. This one is really, really different. "72 quarterly pages of intelligent thought and beautiful men."

Not just that but it's all about images especially for the 'female gaze.' Oh god, kill me now. Pictures rationalized with psycho claptrap.

Those incredibly cutting edge women who imagine that their bedroom and drinking antics are paving a path for girls everywhere will of course be delighted.

"This" they will say, "is equality."

They will tell us how they have made a breakthrough and this will encourage more erotic images of men so that in time there will be almost as many of these as there are pictures of women. And then the balance will be redressed. Equality will at last be within reach of women everywhere. Hurrah.

Whoa there girlies. Let's just revisit basic economics for a moment. Do we not think if there was actual demand for pictures of naked men, it would have happened before now, before 2009? It surely would. Now let's think why it hasn't been top of every publisher's list. Hasn't been thought of? No. No men to take their clothes off? No. Not enough glossy paper to print on? No. You see the fact is that women generally need to have their brain turned on. Many a time a woman is indifferent about a man until she discovers that he is an amusing, intelligent and charming person. She sees the twinkle in his eyes and the way he looks at her. And then she realises she is getting turned on. Of course there are situations where the physical is absolutely the only thing but that alone won't hold most women.

Men, delightfully simple creatures that they are, like a visual representation and will physiologically respond to it. Women may think that a man is attractive but in most instances it won't make them warm and runny. They will look at a picture of a naked man and think "Mmm great body" but that thought won't immediately lead them to pick up their vibrator. Just as men don't need the candelight, the music, the furry rugs and the long, slow lead up (not saying they don't like it but they don't need it), they don't need to know much about a woman to be physically turned on. And so that is why a picture in FHM or GQ can be the highlight of their day. Show me a woman who feels exactly the same about an oiled up bloke in underpants and I'll show you a woman who isn't in touch with her sexuality; who is still scratching around on the surface. In fact, not a woman but a girl.

Between forty and death

Ms R is not sure at what point the stonings will kick in when she walks down the street but it must be soon. The crime of course is being over forty, something that never used to be talked about but in a youth obsessed world it seems to generate a lot of soundbites. Magazines and newspapers are awash with interviews with celebrities (women of course, men don't age) claiming "I'm fine with turning 40" or "I've never felt better." Since when did having a birthday become an illness? And as for being cool about it, well Ms R wasn't aware there was a choice. It's going to happen and therefore it really shouldn't be an issue.

The message is clear: you are really not allowed to be comfortable or have any self-esteem about getting older, unless you are wearing a Burkha.  Especially if you haven't had cosmetic surgery to correct the failings of having a birthday every year. The fact that every celebrity (I use the word as a catch all noun) is pictured looking smooth and shiny has created expectations on the part of men that have nothing to do with real women. Unless you've had your cheeks puffed up with pig's testicles a la Trudi Styler , your breasts supplemented with Swiss Balls so they ooze over your dress in the manner of Liz Hurley or Victoria Beckham or your neck injected with baby seal fat you should really be dead. Women are now open targets to be set up and knocked down at will by a society that has lost its grip on reality.

Worse still, the insistence on both youth culture and cosmetic surgery has created an environment where it is utterly forbidden for women to be happy with themselves. And perhaps it is cultural: Ms R is not English and therefore perhaps demonstrates a confidence that is not prevalent amongst women here and appears to be frowned upon (let's not get into THAT discussion about why English men are boys here). But that is the way she was brought up by a Lebanese mother in Australia where if you are not confident at work and play, you get squashed. 

Ms R is pretty happy with who she is and ironically, more so physically than anything else. It is much harder to feel you have it nailed intellectually or emotionally.  Yes, it matters to her and that is a function of her upbringing. Her standards are her own (and her mother's). Looking your best for yourself and being confident with who you are is a duty to yourself, but pandering to the unrealistic expectations of others is plain foolish. 

In the morning, don't say you love me

It's been a long time since Ms R found herself in the barren wilderness of the morning after the one night stand. There are some things you don't need to do at a certain age and trying to get someone out of your bed or sneak out of their's is not a good look in a woman of experience.

Ms R appreciates that many younger (and not so young) persons are still wandering around One Night Stand Disneyland, a world of possibilities where the only obligation is to have a good time. Problem is that while the ticket offered you unlimited rides and a whole host of characters, it has no instructions.

After all chances are you didn't mean to. He/she didn't look good at 7pm but by 9pm there were no other options and by midnight they started to look very attractive indeed. So here you are. You haven't slept because someone is sleeping in your bed and it's not a cuddly bear either. You have already asked yourself how you got here. Now you want to forget. You want to return to where you were at 7pm, clean and untainted by drink and/or desperation.

The lump in the bed is sleeping soundly and all you can think of is that you want to get those sheets in the washing machine and remove last night forever. You have already made a mistake by going back to yours.

Ms R knows how it is. However she also knows how to get rid of people. On one occasion she dialled the cab number for said gentleman immediately post sex. The man in question was not terribly interesting, there would be no orgasm before the next Halley's Comet so why drag it out. When he protested that it was Sunday, Ms R told him it was her busiest day. The cab arrived before he was dressed. "Hurry" said Ms R, "Or he'll charge you for waiting. We've finished."

It is worth having cab numbers to hand, say on the fridge. Or if you don't want them to get as far as the kitchen and you plan on having a lot of one night stands, why not make a big poster with the number on it and stick it on the opposite wall. "Oh look, there's the cab number for you. Handy eh?" They can't miss it that way. Of course this assumes you go out with people who carry cab fare.

Of course if you tend to whore yourself around town and only do one night stands when drunk, this is highly impractical. Chances are though you are also the sort of person who thinks tattoos are life-enhancing. In which case why not get a tattoo on your bottom or even between your legs that simply says "Fuck me and leave now." Sounds cruel but on reflection, it's about as close to the truth as you can get.

It's a dirty job but it's mine

Ms R has been writing sex scenes for her novel Toxic People. She knew the job was dirty when she took it but frankly didn't realise it was going to be this dirty: it's a very difficult thing to do. Even writing about a girl performing a lap-dance Ms R found herself in her living room performing the moves to see if they worked sequentially. Given that she'd ghosted a book for a stripper you'd think it would be easy. Anyway after several hours she finally figured it out and got an unexpected workout in the bargain. Win-win: the way we like to do things at Ms R Towers.

On the whole Ms R has found it is easier to write about an orgy than to write a sex scene in a bedroom, between two people who know each other. Upon discovering this she was a tad concerned. Did this mean she was, well, a bit shallow?  Had her well spent youth jumping into bed with men who were strangely without surnames (and occasionally first names) left her with a dreadful legacy? Hardly. After all Ms R can't remember most of them, ergo they don't count. 

The fact is the more fantasy-imbued the sex is, the easier it is to write, simply because you are writing about something that many people haven't done and would like to do. Plus there's a lot more purely physical description and the dialogue tends to flow. On that note, while Ms R is told she does a nice line in filthy bedtime chat, putting the stuff on paper is much harder than whispering to your lover, "Fuck me like a cheap whore in a seedy border town" or, if you're very English, "Ooh you're so naughty playing with my thingy." There is a certain type of Brit for whom 'naughty' is the single adjective associated with sex. International readers: should you find yourself with one who gets over excited using that word and is over the age of eight I suggest you move on. Last night Ms R was reading one of the competition, a certain financial book and was amused to find the banker who wrote it did not use the word 'cock' at all. Instead he used 'manhood.'  "Suck my manhood" doesn't really work for Ms R. It just sounds like hard work. 

Ms R now finds herself in the position of wishing that she'd taken notes for the last twenty odd years or so. But then perhaps the erotic madness of those moments: the strangers, the sex in unexpected places and the sheer spontaneity of it all is what you are trying to capture. Which naturally means more intense field research. Told you it was a filthy job.

Two wives, two lives and no balls

Why is it always the ugly blokes who think they're special? Brian Myerson is one of them. He's fifty, looks sixty and thinks he's thirty. You know the sort. He's one of those men who clearly thinks that money can buy can you as many lives as you want: he led two but his wife only knew about one. Surprisingly when she found out that he had another woman and child living around the corner she consulted a divorce lawyer and left him.

Brian is puzzled. He cannot understand why his wife Ingrid would do such a thing. After all he was a 'good husband'. Ms R may be able to help Brian out by pointing out that he is a liar. And stupid. He asserts that he didn't want 'subterfuge' so he told his friends and colleagues and even involved his teenage boys in his deception, but neglected to tell Ingrid. Ah, absolutely no subterfuge there then.

Of course at this point, Ms R's bright readers will be thinking how on earth Ingrid didn't know. Ms R has asked the same thing. She has only to look at a man and will know how many hours he slept and where he did it. Unlike women who are rather clever at hiding affairs, partly because men live in their own little world most of the time, men are rubbish at these things. A man who is having an affair may as well leave post-it notes around the house it is so obvious: the care he takes with his appearance, the change in his voice, the sudden excursions and, most of all, the extra attention to the woman he's with.

Maybe after twenty odd years you get cosy? But no, that's not true. Most women Ms R knows who've been married for years have seriously well-tuned antenna, sharper than that of the average girl. Maybe Brian was right in banking on the fact that his wife's comfortable lifestyle would stop her thinking about anything else? Does money make one blind?

Still what Ms R can't get over is Brian presenting himself as everyman, a loving husband and father who appears to think that his behaviour his perfectly acceptable and Ingrid is just not getting it. And now he wants to reduce her divorce settlement. Still it can't be hurting that much. Brian, you see would do it all again in one of the few heartbeats he has left. You have to wonder about Ingrid and hope that she's had some sort of awakening, albeit several years too late. But you really have to wonder about Brian and his ilk men who think that money buys them immunity. He thoughtfully point us to his role model, Sir James Goldsmith who is famously quoted as saying, "Once a man marries his mistress he creates a vacancy." Brian tells us that he sees parallels between Sir James and himself but forgets to add that Jimmy's wives knew about the mistresses. 

Ms R is not about the moral judgement here. That's Brian's choice. But what she doesn't get is that if he is unrepentant and proud of what he's done and 'would do it all again' why didn't he have the balls to tell Ingrid? Strip away the money, the jet, the cars and the bravado and you just have a gutless bloke.

Donations are happily coming in for my novel, a tale of sex, greed and hedge funders, told in Ms R fiction stylee. Do join. At $3.50 for all instalments (you can donate more if you want me to have pudding) it's better value than a Starbucks caffeine lactose solution. And there is a big pic of me on the site. 

The new Cock Com: Rex and the City

Apparently this is the summer of the male romcom. Our screens will be filled with male lead characters exposing their emotions, as they navigate their way through the perils of love, dating and relationships.

Dick Flick or Cock Com, it will still show men behaving like men, albeit with a softness that will endear them to women. But that's just playing at it. Ms R thinks we should go the whole way with this process of feminisation, beyond the metrosexual and way beyond the moisturising man.

Rex and the City will feature four ordinary men – Rex the plumber, Kevin the electrician, Dave the carpenter and Tim the guy who fixes air conditioning. They hang around together in their overalls and carry their little toolbags.

They all long for love and affection but typically they have issues that they have to resolve by meeting up every single night and most other times as well. You’re thinking they meet up in a bar or maybe a blokey steakhouse? No, that would just be playing at it. They meet regularly at chi-chi bars where they order white wine. They worry about sex a lot and whether it’s right to allow a girl to give them a blow-job. Rex is always thinking about relationships and never actually at work and we wonder how he can afford all those shifting spanners that are quite expensive. He has closets full of them.

He is going out with Mrs Big who is actually big since we are apparently in an era where fat and obesity have become fashionable and desirable. But she plays with his heart and sometimes at night, alone in his thoughtfully decorated apartment, he sits on the bed in his boxers hugging his knees dreaming of what might be.

One night he can’t take it anymore and bursts into tears. He calls Kevin who comes rushing over and sits with him all night, comforting him. They laugh and cry together and give each other a facial and we feel good for them.

There will be dream sequences where Tim stops grappling with a particularly difficult air conditioning problem, to drift off into the future where he has two gorgeous boys, both mini air conditioning engineers. He is brought down to earth abruptly when a pipe bursts and he squeals because now he is covered in water.

Dave calls Rex one night because he is totally shocked that he saw a naked woman by mistake at the gym. He is not sure if he can go to the gym again. One day Rex is lying in bed (he always is) and he sees a spider. He gets scared and so calls Mrs Big who comes over and squashes it for him. They kiss and Rex thinks it is alright again. But the next day Mrs Big gets engaged to someone else and he is devastated. The four men decide to take an holistic yoga break where they can comfort Rex and laugh, cry, laugh, cry and maybe laugh again. Tim announces he will adopt. They hug him for being so brave and cry some more.

Not surprisingly men will organise group outings to go and see Rex and The City, the Cock Com of the season, which will be advertised with the line "You'll bust your balls laughing." Women of course will not understand what they see in such nonsense. After all, nobody acts like that, do they?

Here is where I'm serialising my novel. Thank you to all who have donated, some beyond the call of duty. I appreciate it hugely. Sometime next week the first chapter will pop into your inbox. You can still sign up so go now. You won't get anymore on the website as we have reached the first threshold for writing.

Ms R

Reply to reader in mild distress

Stop Blog: Here is where I'll be serializing novel. Credit crunch, sex, wealth, hubris and just a bit of a moral tale. Prologue up now!

Ms R doesn't normally reply to readers on blog, however, this question relates to one of WOE'S most read posts (and most searched for terms) so we are making an exception. The reader below actually left this comment on the post "Technology is not your friend" (see sidebar) where very early on in this blog's history Ms R looked at reasons as to why men don't call. Reader, whatever else happens, know that Ms R has known your pain.

"I dont know whats going on!!! we went out on two dates he said he likes me a lot and at the last date we got kinda intimate today he said he was gonna call to meet up but he didn't. I don't know what's happening is he into me or not? or is it too early to tell?"

First of all anon, who the fuck knows? It's easy for Ms R to write witty and clever pieces about why he might not call, however that won't stop you staring at your phone and your email hoping that they produce the result you want. Nothing Ms R says will prevent you ringing your girlfriends at midnight seeking reassurance and then ignoring them if they can't provide it. Let's see, it's been a few days since you wrote so by now his silence will have become a deafening roar, one that is all consuming. You've mentally gone over every detail of that last date, wondering what the trigger point was. And having done a forensic examination that would easily rival anything on CSI you are still baffled. Then there are the famous parting words: "I'll call you and we'll meet up." I bet you've rearranged those hundreds of times. Did he mean straight away? Next week? Next year? Did he forget to tell you he was leaving town on vacation? Or forever. Yes, maybe that just slipped his mind. Or did he just tell you that to make you feel better because he had no intention of following up?

Has his mother died? Is he really married? Does he have a dark secret? You've gone through it all and you're no closer to figuring it out. Then one of your girlfriends says the very thing you didn't want to think about. "You got kindda intimate on the second date. Maybe you shouldn't have?" So now you're back to dissecting that fateful evening when you were both feeling good and you did what adults who are enjoying each other's company frequently do. Except now you're thinking that maybe he's thinking you were easy. Maybe that's all he wanted? Maybe, mabye, maybe..

The truth is dear anon reader and others like you, human beings change their minds. Today Ms R chopped up the ingredients to make soup and got very excited about it. Then she got bored and ate pasta. Because she changed her mind. It just felt right. She feels a bit guilty about not making the soup but she's not too worried. It's not like she made the soup and then tipped it all out. That would have been pretty bad.

You see where I'm going? A couple of dates is really too early to be worrying about this. At this stage it's not about you. Or him. Because you don't really know each other. Of course as women we're a bit screwed since kissing and a bit of skin to skin action is likely to result in some sort of attachment (or what we think is one). Men take a bit longer. He hasn't done anything wrong. But most importantly neither have you. If he calls, remember you still haven't made the soup. And if he doesn't, the same applies. If this were several dates down the line, I think he might owe you an explanation but right now, he probably doesn't even know himself.