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But why they chose to do this is worth consideration, especially owing to the distorted nature of her exposure. I grew up thinking it was not something us girls spoke about openly. So, while our male contemporaries boast about how easy it is to get themselves off, we have no option but to sit silently, hands in pockets, trying our best to substitute thoughts of fucking and clitoral stimulation with those of teacakes and fluffy kittens. Well, not unless we were comfortable with the break-time speculation as to whether or not we had Cheddar Gorge nestled between our thighs. For the first time we have been privy to the internal machinations of a woman who not only enjoys sex, but who openly evaluates and objectifies men on the basis of their capacity to give her pleasure. Zoe Margolis recently centralised this idea with the paperback publication of her web blog Girl with a One-Track Mind: But, will we ever reach a time when we can talk about getting ourselves off without it making the headlines? 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. Until we are able to develop our own means of expression, our self-pleasure will continue to be a taboo issue, interpreted as nothing more than the object of the male masturbatory fantasy. But, times are slowly changing, and women are beginning to assert a case for their own sexuality and sexual identity through their own creativity. This may seem harsh, and slightly polemical, but until the patriarchal foundations of the beliefs that permeate the national consciousness are systematically destroyed, our struggle for equality and to achieve a redefinition of what constitutes feminine, will continue to be lost amidst the vast desert of contemporary sexual politics. Why was this so important? Confessions of the Seductress Next Door , in which she has provided a full, factual exposition of her personal sexploits. The Internet is a breeding ground for this form of writing, and the popularity of the monthly glossy Scarlet, which not only contains erotic fiction, but also provides a variety of features and news all relevant to female sexual life, demonstrates how we are trying to push the concept of women wanting to take control over their sexual fate into the mainstream. Plus, to say the storylines are realistic would be almost as ridiculous as claiming that men are only interested in personality. We have the vote after all. 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? Not without Aladdin riding her magic carpet on a promise of having his lamp rubbed? Will we ever reach a time when we can talk about getting ourselves off without it making the headlines? Considering the former has less potential to be detrimental to our health, it seems that this is not only an unnecessary critique, but highly hypocritical, especially since sometimes we really do need some release. Flicking the Bean Thanks to the media and canny advertising agencies, we are surrounded by sexualised images of women. Apparently not, with the stigma still attached to the concept of the one-night stand and sex out of wedlock still stalking us like a spectre, and confirming a predominantly chauvinistic perception of contraception as being developed as a means to prevent men getting caught out by the women who they condescend to sleep with. The response and support she has received from women has been exceptional, with her frank and honest description of sex and masturbation confirming that it is possible for women to be professionally successful and have a fulfilling sex life with or without a permanent partner. Surprising as it may be gentlemen, we are more qualified to give ourselves pleasure than anyone else, which is why a solo sojourn into the underwear department is often so much fun. Women enjoy cliterature because not only are the plots plausible, but they are also able to identify with the characters, who are more diverse than an army of Pamela Anderson look-a-likes, and voluptuous-lipped women who are nothing more than grotesque caricatures of the average female form. The act of reading, however, is an isolated process, and the fact that we are forced to vent our sexual desires in this way does nothing but perpetuate the idea that if we get wet, we should keep it to ourselves.
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