Saturday, 17 October 2015

And... Relapse

I'm here! I'm back! Long time no see, I hear no-one say. Where have I been? Why the long absence? Why the long face? All questions to which I will, in due and proper time, give an answer. Tbh, though, the title of this post should give you, Dear Reader, some indication as to why I have been away from Blogville for just such a bloody long time.

That's right: I had a full-on porno relapse. I collapsed, I crumbled, I ate proverbial shit. It all seemed to be going so well; I'd done six months plus of absolute porn abstention. I was learning about myself, about my relationship with porn; I was becoming a whole and grown-up man. So what happened!? I hear none of you cry!

In all honesty, it's hard to say with any certitude. Firstly, it was a little while ago now and, secondly, it was a confluence of circumstances rather than one event which sent me to my room with my laptop (and Johnson [sorry]) in my hand. I got a bit lonely. I was deep in a sex drought and I was unusually anxious. I was alone in the house when one day, as with any kind of addiction relapse, I just thought, 'fuck it.'

So I did it. And it was great. I suppose I should tell you that I was overcome (no pun intended) with guilt and self-loathing after the event, and while this might be somewhat true after the event, while it was happening, it was pure awesomeness. I had so much pent up sexual energy and frustration that it simply felt amazing to let it all out. And after the first time, there was nothing for it but to go on an all-out binge: curtains closed, laptop open, again and again over several hours, repeated over several days. Like two lovers re-united after a long absence (a sad and telling analogy) me and porn went at it like the clappers.

And then what happened? Well, I felt bad, but not that bad. Certainly not as bad as I had expected to feel. In a way, what I was doing felt less of a personal betrayal and more of a natural human thing to be doing. I'm going against much of what I said in the beginning here, but honestly I saw my porn-use at this time in a different (and less guilty) light.

Perhaps I was just self-protectively justifying my actions, but I started to think that porn is a natural part of human life, like bodily functions or Bruce Forsyth. It's been happening for thousands of years, pretty much since we became able to represent images of ourselves. My problem for most of this blog seems to have been the 'industrial' nature of porn's production. Is it this that bothers me rather than simply its existence?

Anyway, I'm sure all of you are dying to know what the effects of my porno renaissance were on the rest of my life in general. Well, and here's the big one, y'all: I started getting laid again. In fact, within a week of going back on the porn, I had had sex three times with three different people. After two months of arid sex drought, suddenly the flood gates were open. I was like Hugh Hefner! Laying broads left, right and centre; suddenly I had the sexual Midas Touch.

Clearly this could all have been coincidence, but maybe could it be that my sexuality was suddenly reawakened? That, having become a sex-starved pseudo-eunuch during the drought, I had suddenly both rediscovered my desire and simultaneously become desirable again? Could it be that porn had turned my light back on?

Like I say, it could all be coincidence, but I can't help feeling that the timing is all a little strange. On the NoFap threads on Reddit etc. everyone reports renewed sex drive and success with opposite sex once porn has been cut out of their lives. Fair enough, these guys aren't jerking off at all, so they don't have a choice but to get sexytime or go mental, but there seem to be the same reports from the PMO Free (guys that whack it but not over porno) threads as well.

For me, though, it felt like the opposite. I felt less attractive and less able to turn my interactions with women into anything resembling sexy. And then the porn barrier was broken and suddenly I can do it again. Could it be the case that I need porn in order to feel sexy in myself, in order to be sexually 'alive'? I dunno, I'm just riffing here, but I can't say it doesn't all seem a little plausible.

So what – if anything – has changed in the world of porn? Well it turns out, that in the fast-moving world of 21st Century porn, six months is a long time. I noticed that there were a lot more pornstars. Back in my porn heyday, a huge amount of browsing porn had been about finding specific pornstars, remembering their names and being able to look for them again.

An inordinate amount of time (and [wasted] brain power) was spent learning, cataloguing and mentally indexing the names of our favourite girls. This is no longer necessary. The sheer number of women going into porn seems to make this whole process irrelevant: you no longer need to remember your favourite because, tomorrow, there will be another whole line-up of brand new hot babes to fill your eyes. The turn over must be massive, but porn is growing so fast that supply appears to be going into overdrive to meet ever-increasing demand.

Also, everything is now offered in HD. In 2016, with ultra-modern digital technology, to offer porn not shot in super-crisp high-def is a basic death sentence. No-one will click on your vids because, even if they were shot last week, next to something in 1080p, they look they were shot in 1990.

So (as in other art, technology and life in general) the turnover is hugely much faster and investment seems to be less. In a world of vines and short attention spans, it seems that the average porn career is also a hell of a lot shorter. I've heard comedians saying that there is less investment in talent these days and it would seem this is true across the board.

New 'acts' are brought in, shown off, used for what they're good for and then sent on their way. In a world where novelty is everything, now you have to be particularly talented and/or savvy in order to make a lasting impression.

Happily, another thing I have seen is the re-introduction of 'bush' on some of the (female) performers and, for the most part, natural, un-augmented boobs. They are still thin and model-pretty, but there seems to be a move towards a more 'natural' look and even some of the most popular female stars have a little pubic triangle unselfconsciously on show. These are things I take as tentatively positive: perhaps the tide is turning and these women are leading the way in renewed female body confidence.

Still and all, though, and even from my liar's chair, I can't help wondering what this is doing for/to the youth? Should I stop worrying, accept it and give them the credit that they'll work it out for themselves? Probably. But it's all moving so fast, I can't help but be a little worried. Maybe it's just fear of the future I am feeling and I'm just seeing it through the lens of porn. Maybe porn is one of the most telling places to look to see how we are 'progressing' if, indeed, this is even the right word.

For now, I'm still 'on' porn and presently have no intent on giving up again in the near future. Have I ruined/removed the point of this blog? Perhaps. In fact, the reason it took me so long to write this post is that I was ashamed that I had broken my vow. But maybe it's a step along the way, and there are still things I can add the debate in general (read: the debate I am having ostensibly with my own self). Right now I feel like I am 'consuming' porn in the same way that I consume meat: I know people/animals suffer in its production but I feel like I need it, and so am wilfully blinding myself to the realities of its production.

Sunday, 7 June 2015

You Can Have My Private Number

166 days porn-free

I have been having phone sex. Not something I saw coming (no pun intended) or have done before, but it happened this week for damn sure.

I was on the Tinder again (no, I have not deleted it) late at night, for what better time to feed your drunken sexual frustration than 2am? So there I am, flicking right and left, when suddenly I match with this pretty girl. I notice that she's online so I message her right away. And she gets back, right away.

I'm not a hundred percent sure of how, but the sexiness of the chat ramps up rapidly until we're sending each other nearly-naked pictures of ourselves (could this be another case for Dick Selfie?). It's all getting pretty hot when I suggest she come over to my place for some proper sexytime. She says (sensibly) that it's way too late in the day for that. I agree, and then I ask, tentatively, “wanna talk on the phone?” She sends her number. I call it.

Suddenly we're talking in whispers, telling each other of all the filthy shit we'd do if we were in the same bed. If you've never done it, let me tell you, it's pretty weird. But it's also totally hot. You're saying ridiculous crap about jamming your hard cock inside her wet pussy (over-share?) but, still, it's crazy hot.

The only thing that worries me is that my housemate heard this happen. She sleeps across the hall and for some reason sleeps with her door open. I swear sometimes I can hear her roll over. I only hope that, if she did hear, she realised I was talking to someone on the phone, cos otherwise she's not only going to think that I am a pervert (correct?) but that I am batshit insane. What if she thinks I was just looking in the mirror saying, “I'm fucking you balls deep”?

It didn't go on that long, I'll be honest. It was probably one of the more erotic experiences of my life and if you haven't tried talking dirty on the phone, I heartily recommend it. The next time we did it was just as good, if not a little bit more bizzare.

It was 2pm on a Saturday and I'd just woken up (tough night). She gets in contact and says, “call me.” Damn right I will. So I did, and almost immediately I'm asking, “What are you wearing?” (Yes, Wayne the Web Creep is back). And we're right into it. She's moaning down the phone and I’m waxing lyrical about my throbbing member (definite over-share).

But here's the thing. You gotta be inventive. You gotta have some imagination. When someone asks you, “What's the sexiest thing you've done on your own?” you can't just reply, “I once had a wank on the Megabus.” You need to have something sexy to tell them, and you're probably going to have to make it up on the spot. It's kinda fun, but it's also almost worrying some of the shit you (I) come out with.

It also gets – depending on your partner – pretty weird. This girl wanted me to call her a dirty slut and tell her that she was a filthy whore. Generally, I'm against this kind of thing. I don't agree with demeaning women and this kind of abuse was more than a little contribution to my giving up porn. But when you're in the moment, it just happens. You say it. And it's hot.

In a way, it's the fact that it's wrong which makes it more sexy. Obviously, I would only ever keep this in the 'virtual' realm, but in this realm it suddenly becomes ok. I hope you won't judge me for this, friends, and would ask you to please try to understand what it's like in the white-hot heat of the moment.

The next bit, however, was even weirder. She starts asking me how old the youngest girl I've got with is and I'm like, “Fifteen I guess,” before rapidlly adding, “when I was fifteen, obviously.” Then she says, “How young do you want me to be?” And I reply, buzz-killingly, “preferably between 23 and 35.” But she keeps on, “how young do you want me?” And I stupidly ask,
How young do you want to be?” and she says,
Fourteen.” Four-fucking-teen!!? What the actual fuck!? I know from her Tinder profile that she's in her twenties, but for some reason, in this fantasy, she wants to be a child having sex with some filthy old perv (Yours Truly).

The thing is, though, we're right in the middle of it. Am I going to stop and say, “No, that's just wrong,” or am I just going to say, “fuck it. If you really want to be fourteen in this scenario, go for it, but I'm going to keep believing that you're fully legal.” (Which is the truth, I tells ya!) Well, friends, I will leave it to you to guess. Knowing me as you do, though, you'd probably be right to go for the latter.

AND THEN she says, “I want to call you Daddy.” Oh well, in for a penny..

You would be right in thinking that this is fucking weird and that I am a massive pervert for going on with it but you know what they say about not judging someone till you walk a mile in their shoes. Well don't knock it till you've tried it, kids, is all I'm saying.

I do feel a little strange about it. I still have not managed to meet this girl so it's really even weirder that it happened with someone who is a basic stranger. But it was super-hot, and, to be honest, I reckon I would do it again if I had the chance. If I could only find a partner who was a little lighter on the paedo-chat, I think I could probably get hooked.


Saturday, 30 May 2015

Hello, Hello Again

148 days porn-free

Hello there! That's right! I'm bloody back! Did you miss me? Did you notice I'd gone? Did you worry? What could have possibly happened to that lyrical comedy genius who writes with the wit of so many Wilde's, you must have asked yourself. Right? Right, guys? Guys?

Ok so maybe you thought nothing of it. Maybe you didn't even notice. Or maybe – if, by some miracle, you have been reading with anything approaching interest – you thought that I'd had a major porn relapse and couldn't face telling you, friends, that I had royally fucked it.

Well, as you can see from the tally above, this is not the case. I remain porn-free; an imagi-wanker and an imagi-wanker only. But it has not all been plain sailing and I shall document some of what has occurred in my absence from Blogville in the following paragraphs.

Part of the reason for my long absence is that I went back to England. Well, to Rome, actually, with a stopover in London, for the wedding of a very old friend. It's a good thing she's an old and very good friend, because the wedding cost me more money than I care to ever think about again.

Suffice it to say that, what with all the travelling by various modes, seeing and getting drunk with various people, and generally schlepping across this narrow world, I simply did not have the time to update the blog. When I came back, I started a new job, put on three comedy nights in a week and worked for eleven days straight so, once again, time was scarce for writing about (not) jerking off (over porn).

The other reason is that I just got a bit despondent towards the end of last month. The ski season was ending and this brought into sharp relief just how much I hated the shitty* kitchen job I had acquired to support me through said season. It would seem that when I didn't have snowboarding to raise my spirits, the badly-paid grind of the kitchen started to really get to me.

* I wrote an earlier post in praise of said shit job. I take it back. Kitchen work is bollocks: underpaid, pointless shite (imho).

I was miserable. I was in the middle of a fairly sustained sex-drought* and I was skint. I just didn't feel in any way creative and the blog was one of the things to suffer.

* I finally had sex (!) with a lovely girl in England, thus breaking the drought and helping me breathe a sigh of relief.

I now have a day job doing roofing which, though tough, is much closer to what I do back home and is nearly twice the money (!) I was on at the restaurant. Consequently, things are starting to look up for Old Wayne. I've also (with some buddies) basically started a comedy scene in this small town, providing me with much-needed stage time. So, even though I even considered leaving Canada for good when I went home for the wedding, I did not. I dug in and dug deep, and now things are getting better all the time.

It might sound stupid to complain at all when I am in such a (seemingly) idyllic situation, but there it is. Living in the mountains is not all skittles and beer as most people who do not live here believe it to be. Honestly, when they visit and they find that we have to go to work like normal people, they almost can't believe it.

They literally think we spend all our time riding powder snow, hoofing cocaine and having copious sex. Not so, my friends. Indeed, apart from the stunning surroundings (which are admittedly awesome and something for which to be grateful every day), life can be very similar to anywhere else with all the associated laughter, blood, sweat and tears.

I did have one relapse: Tinder. I fucking re-downloaded Tinder and am suffering from the resulting time-wasting. I wanted to see what it would be like in London (this is what I'm telling myself) with what I have learnt from using it here. In reality, I think I just needed the ego-boost from getting matches in a far more populated place. (Sad, but true).

It worked great in London. I got loads of matches quickly which was a little bit of a relief for my fragile ego. I'm not an ug! I shallowly thought, but then I realised I was a dick and that I was matching with people just to feel better about myself with no intention of actually meeting them. This is bad Tindering. I explained myself to those I'd matched with, apologised (as if they gave one fuck) and closed it down.

But then it was there when I got back and I just couldn't resist it. Since then, I've wasted a fair bit of time trying to take sexy selfies for the profile pic and had some back-and-forth messages with some (surprise surprise) Australians. I'm not really sure why I don't just delete it again, I just feel like it's not quite 'over' between us. Maybe it's like when a couple* decide to give it one more go before finally calling it quits. Whatever the case, I'm on it at this time.

* How very sad (and accurate to my situation) this analogy is.

This time, I am keeping it local, not swiping outside my immediate surroundings. Although the choice is more limited, this is the more realistic way to use the app. Sure you get to flick through a lot of pics if you set the range to 100km, but really you're just deferring the frustration when you realise that you will most likely never meet any of your matches, let alone get naked with them.

So it's set local and I just take what comes up. Since doing this, I've had about three matches in as may weeks, but at least they live close.

I've also observed some (girl) friends using the app and seeing firstly the ridiculous number of men on there and also how women react to certain features of men's profiles. Selfies are ok, it seems, as are arrogance, humour and action shots.  Bad photos or any hint of self-pity or creepiness are an immediate left swipe.

I also saw that a decent woman gets a match almost every time she swipes right, such is the overwhelming weight of the male population in this town. It's a woman's game, especially here, so there's no point getting hung up about it. Not that that stops Yours Truly, of course. I basically realised that you have to be pretty lucky to ever even get a conversation going, let alone meet up with someone.

So why am I still on there? Desperation, I guess. Or I'm not really sure. Just don't judge me is all I'm asking. I'll grow out if it in my own time, I promise.

In other news, I have noticed that I am getting marginally better at speaking to women. I've realised that giving up porn is not a quick fix. It's not like you remove the crutch and instantly (re)discover how to interact with the opposite sex. Rather, it is a slow build taken one step at a time. Right now, I am just going for having positive interactions with women whenever I have the opportunity, be this at a bar when I am hoping for a snog or in the supermarket passing the time of day.

It's all about being comfortable and treating women as humans and not just objectifying them and always thinking about sex. This is not easy (for me, anyway) but I feel like I am making progress and that, even if I am not getting much sexytime, I am approaching becoming a better, more rounded person. Or something.

I have had quite a few porn dreams, one of which was even spectacularly 'wet' (over-share?), which was a surprise. I find it continually interesting how porn is still quite present in my subconscious and that my deeper mind has clearly yet to let it go. Again, I take it as a good sign that I am only acting out in my sleep.

The closest I came (no pun intended) to a relapse was actually today when someone posted the 'holding a Coke with your boobs challenge' vid on the FB. I watched it and it was hot. I really wanted to fap over it and seriously considered looking at porn. Just like a cigarette craving, there was the voice of the little devil saying, 'go on, just one won't matter.'

Thankfully, I know this voice and was able to tune it out till the craving passed. Once again this is an example of how dangerous all the (seemingly) harmless T & A all over the (fairly sexualized) internet is. The pitfalls are there waiting for you and you never know when you're going to be hit with cravings. Sure, I should have avoided the vid but it's just so easy to click and watch, even for a few seconds.

The fact that vids like this are in the mainstream legitimises a porn culture and makes it seem ok. If it's on FB, surely it's fine, right? I personally think not but, as I have said before, that's just me.

So I'm nearly at six months! It's gone pretty quick. It's had its ups and its downs and giving up porn has certainly not been a cure-all. In general, though, I feel like I have turned a corner as a person and that what I am doing is a positive step towards becoming a grown-up man. I'll be carrying on and I'll be updating regular again. I hope it will make enjoyable reading.

Sunday, 26 April 2015

Water, Water Everywhere

114 days porn-free

I am having a sex drought. It's nearly three months since Montreal Girl and, while that was undeniably awesome, it was and remains f***ing ages ago. It's now getting desperate.* I need to get laid and get laid soon.

* It's actually way beyond desperate. I will explain below.

But here's the thing: drought begets drought. The painful irony of the situation is that the longer you go without the sex, the less likely you are to get it. Because the longer it goes, the more you reek of desperation. Women can smell this from a hundred feet away and there is literally no bigger turn-off.

Part of the problem is that I work nights, so I don't get 'amongst it' till pretty late in the day. The other problem, though, as I have gone into in detail, is my painful lack of game. I'm not a bad looking man. Not a stunner by any stretch of the imagination but neither am I a total ug. My features are all in the right place, I am tall and I am in shape. But none of this matters if you (I) don't have the cajones to go over to a woman and start a conversation in the first place!

When you're having sex regularly, everything is fine. To paraphrase Martin Amis (the prick), there is no surer guarantee of success with opposite sex than success with the opposite sex. This is when you are 'on a roll': confident and attractive and bouncing from one woman to the next like a latter-day Casanova, living the single life and loving it.

But what about when it dries up? When, for one reason or another, you don't get laid for a month or so. Sometimes this happens and it's fine; just a hiccup along the way. Other times it happens and one month becomes two and, before long, a major drought sets in.

I have been through sex droughts before and they almost always break down something like this:

The first two weeks: Not a drought. You're still riding fairly high from the last time and there seems to be nothing really to worry about. Perhaps, at the end of the two-week period, it might cross your mind that you have no prospects but, at this point, there is no need to panic.

Weeks three and four: mild panic. By the end of the month, you're starting to wonder if this could be the onset of a drought. The afterburn of sexual magnetism from your last bit of sexytime has now fully worn off and you will now need to rely solely on your wits to get you back in the sack. Still, it isn't that long and anything could happen.

Weeks five and six: Panic. Ok, it's been six weeks. Is this going to happen? Am I still attractive to women? Evasive action needs to be taken before this descends into a full-on bout of involuntary celibacy.

Weeks seven and eight; Desperation. That's it. You're panicking. You're looking everywhere for sex. Every woman becomes nothing but a piece of meat and every interaction nothing more than a possible pathway to sex. Obviously, there is very little less attractive than a man in this phase and the harder you try, the further you get from the gold.

Weeks eight, nine, ten... Acceptance (of a sort). You give up. You become asexual; a basic eunuch. You look at women from a distance, as if they are another species and view the possibility of congress as some kind of abstract concept which happens to other people. You wonder if this could be the onset of years without sex, or that never having it again is a real (and terrifying) possibility.

That's where I am right now. A sex-less non-man hovering about at the fringes of bars hoping to hell that a woman just grabs me and hauls me out of there. Honestly, that seems like the only thing that can save me right now. I've even been reading articles on the internet about picking up. These are usually written by A1 douchebags who advise 'being confident' and 'taking control.' Not likely, bud.

Another terrible thing is that it's led to porn cravings. I haven't had these for weeks but it's always when you're at your lowest that they start to come back. If I've got porn, I don't need to have sex, right? Wrong, of course, but it's definitely been more difficult to stay off recently than it was for months before.

A friend of mine talked about the need, in this situation, for a 'slumpbuster.' It's a terrible term but a true one. A slumpbuster is a woman who picks you up and helps you get back in the game. Just one that reminds you that you can do it and who reawakens your dormant sexuality. I gotta tell ya, though I've needed one worse before, God knows I need one now.

Sunday, 19 April 2015

I Deleted Tinder

107 days porn-free

I did it. I finally deleted Tinder. Since quitting porn, I have obviously been looking in different places to get my sexytime. The whole point of removing the 'crutch' of PMO was to (re)discover how to interact with real people and attempt to make any lovemaking a physical – rather than virtual – reality. This has had variable* results from me meeting and hooking up with one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, to a now nigh-on two month sex drought.

* Read: shite.

And it also had me trawling Tinder. As I explained in a previous post, Tinder has all the ingredients to keep you interested. Well, actually it's really only one: the vague promise of sex. This is enough to keep you (me) coming back time and again with increasing frequency, thinking that you are at some point going to get massively laid.

I started Tinder like all newbies: with bad photos and a painfully naïve attitude; reading bios and really trying to 'get to know' prospective dates before deciding whether to 'like' them or not. These good intentions quickly paled, however, into jaded 'harvesting': a brazen session of swiping every picture right until you hit a match, then either messaging or ignoring them depending on whether you (I) fancied them or not.

I'm glad to say, I grew out of this harvesting. It was cheap and wrong and I feel bad about it. In my defence, though, I think it is a step along the way to some kind of responsibility in usage, and I know there are many more men out there being far worse (not that this is a valid excuse.) But anyway, I grew out it as I say and my eventual method was probably closer to a hybrid of the two; sometimes I would look at all the pics and read the bio, sometimes I would swipe right if I liked the first pic enough. For sure, though, if I was not into it, I swiped left, like a good guy.

It truly is douchey to just swipe all of them right as I know from experience how it feels to be ignored when you match. So you gotta be honest and not just pretend that it's ok that you're hurting people's feelings because they are remote. This amounts to bad internetting, imho.

And the results were, basically, rubbish. I traded messages with a few people. I (finally) managed to meet up with one person for a date (from which no sex* resulted) but, all in all, I achieved pretty much zero. And I spent ages on it. It was just another internet addiction. Have I got a new match? Have I got a new message? Will I get another match if I spend enough time swiping**? Eventually, you're spending a stupid amount of time on it for what? Essentially more frustration.

* I'm not just after sex, incidentally. In fact I believe I might be looking for real love (aren't we all?) but you gotta start somewhere. And in the absence of shouting it from the rooftops, I'll settle for a bit of howsyerfather any day of the week.

** Interestingly, when you match with someone, a screen comes up that asks if you want to message the mathchee or 'keep playing' and really it is nothing but a game, just with real players.

I am in the middle of another hefty sex drought (two months and counting [did I mention?]) and I guess this is part of the reason I got so into Tinder. I thought, in the absence of meeting any people here in town, this could be my lifeline. But it just turned into another crutch – promising so much but, in the end, just accentuating the lonesomeness.

So I've deleted it. Maybe I have an addictive personality, or maybe I just want to see how many things I can give up (by the time I'm forty, I'll probably be teetotal and vegan) but I felt I needed Tinder out of my life. I like reading books and doing other things and Tinder was taking place of pretty much everything else.

I think I'm better off without it. Now I will truly have to face up to one salient fact: That I have no game whatsoever and that, if I ever want to get naked with a woman again, I'm gonna have to get some. And get some fast.

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

What Has Porn Ever Done For Us?

102 days porn-free.

If you have been reading, you will know (just about) where I stand regarding porn. If you are as yet unaware (and have been given no indication by the title of this blog) then do please go back through it and find out (then subscribe and tell all your friends how just fantastic the writing is. Thanks:)

I am of the opinion that, on balance, porn (in its current form) is having an overall negative affect and that porn addiction is a real and worrying problem. This notwithstanding, however, having thought about it for some time, I would like to take this opportunity to highlight some of the (few) positive things for which I think porn has been responsible, both for me personally and for the wider world. I still think it's bad, but that is not to say that it has never done anything good.

So here is a run down of some of the positive things I think porn has done for us.

Oral sex. I am of the opinion that porn has (most likely) been responsible for a proliferation of oral sex between actual people. Of course, there are the (lengthy) blowjob scenes but hear this: there is also a 10 minute-ish section in most (hetro obviously) porn scenes where the man performs cunnilingus on the woman. This happens every time, the man absolutely goes for it and and the woman, whether acting or not, has a great time.

There has long been a generally negative and utterly hypocritical view among men of this activity. For some reason, (#notall)men have historically expected to get unlimited head from women (many describing it as some kind of 'duty' on her part) whilst eschewing the 'returning of the favour.' I have always thought this outrageous. In my opinion, if you expect someone to put your genitals in their mouth, you should be perfectly willing to get theirs all over your own face, too. Also, if you love someone, you should love all of them and not just this bits you find pleasing.

As well as this, thinking vaginas are 'gross' (as I have heard numerous men contend) is not only childish (and stupid), but completely misogynistic. Women are beautiful from the bottom to the top and, if you can't find her vagina sexy (whilst concurrently expecting her to suck your own – let's face it – quite unprepossessing johnson), then you really have no business being anywhere near it. So grow TF up, my friend, and get involved, is what I say.

Porn, although being responsible for many negative attitudes towards congress, can be seen to be an exponent and supporter of men going down on women. It occurs in most of the scenes I have ever viewed. It is sexy, consensual and routine; it is shown as just something you should do, something fun and something normal. Although there might be a lot of women taking (potentially unsolicited) jizz in the face thanks to porn, there are possibly just as many who are now getting nightly orgasms from willing and enthusiastic (as it should be!) oral sex. Is it worth it? I'm not sure. I just thought it was worth noting that it's not all bad.

Touch typing is another thing I learnt (more or less) from porn. I mean, there weren't lessons or anything. It didn't feature in any of the porn* I ever viewed. What I mean is that much of my porn viewing (necessarily) took place in the dark. This being the case, I couldn't see the keyboard. I had to learn to type (and type good, you don't want to be slowed down by having a bad wpm rate) without seeing the keys. I gained a life skill whilst jerking off! Admittedly, I only got good at writing certain words (hot, sexy, pornstar, fuck etc) but it was surely good practice, right? Guys?

* Unless you count the secretary ineffectually padding the keyboard for twenty seconds before she gets gangbanged.

This exercise also improved my spelling. I seriously doubt if I ever would have learnt to spell 'amateur' if it had not been for porn. On another note, perhaps I would have been better off never having known what 'bukkake' was, let alone how to spell (and pronounce) it.

As documented, I wasted an obscene amount of time on porn, but maybe (just maybe), as this article shows, I took away a few positives as well.

Thursday, 9 April 2015

How Tinder Ruined Your (my) Life

97 days porn-free.

For the purposes of this post, and in the interest of not writing 'one' the whole time and sounding like a tool, please substitute the words 'you' and 'your' for 'I,' 'me,' and 'my' where appropriate. If Tinder has ruined you in the same way, then you can of course leave the original words in place.

So you gave up porn over three months ago. 'Great,' you thought (and wrote), now I will have so much more time for other things. 'But how will I achieve sexytime?' another voice said. 'Not to worry, just download Tinder. There are all these hot girls looking for sex the whole time. It's easy and fun!'

And so it began. You downloaded Tinder. You took ridiculous selfies and tried to write a profile that made you sound interesting yet exciting, vulnerable yet tough, and up for senseless shagging yet not a creep. You spent (too) many waking hours flicking through hundreds of pictures of women of various descriptions. You read articles on how to improve your profile; you took yet more selfies; you started to seriously consider paying for the primo service; you stopped reading books or going outside, you now spent all of your available free time on Tinder, mindlessly flicking pictures of strangers left and right.*

And then you realised: Tinder is a stupid waste of time and that it was starting to take over your life. And here's how.

It promised you sex. Why else would you spend inordinate amounts of time staring blankly at your phone? Cos you're a little bit lonely (violins) and Tinder tacitly told you that if you just carried on, you would eventually get sex. In the back of your (stupid) mind, you thought this wild and abundant sex would obviously lead directly to love and deep mutual understanding. Then you realised that most of the women on Tinder are there for entertainment value and/or reside f***ing miles away and there is zero chance that you will ever even meet them, let alone get to know them (in the biblical sense).

It made you shallow.* How can you decide whether you like someone in a split second from one photo? That's right, you can't. Tinder has boiled down all of attraction, flirting and romance into a binary (and usually arbitrary) 'yes' or 'no'. In a way, it's just being (brutally) honest, but in another it's turning us all into shallow idiots who truly believe that surface beauty is all that matters. Who cares if they're a terrible person? They've got tight buns and a tan.

* It caused you to coin the acronym SIF (Secret Internet Fattie) and enabled you to identify them from a photo of their (surprisingly thin) face almost 90% of the time. Although essential for Tinder survival, you are clearly now shallower than a punctured paddling pool.

It made you stupid. Remember when you used to read books, play an instrument and write short stories? No. You don't. Cos now you spend every spare minute just hoping that if you swipe enough, you'll get a match, and that if you get a match, you'll get sex and if you get sex...&c. &c. Due to spending all of your time on said app, you've now been reading the same book for four months and your guitar has left you.

It made you into a (bigger) creep. So you gave up porn because you wanted to stop objectifying women and getting off on something you thought was wrong. You patted yourself on the back when you managed to cut it out of your life. Then you started getting off on pictures of women you don't even know who had no (or very little) intention of being ogled. You even nearly wanked over it one time (true story)! Sooner or later, you'll have to admit that it is filling the void left by porn and that you're going to have to give Tinder up, too. What is up with you, son?

It showed you riches.* In the old days, when you were alone, you were alone. Sure, you were lonely, but at least you couldn't see what you were missing. Then came Tinder and showed you woman after beautiful woman that you had not the slightest chance of (probably) ever meeting, let alone talking to. This is one of the key dispiriting things about Tinder: if you don't 'match' with someone, you can't speak to them. So even when you see a woman who you think looks amazing and swipe her right, the odds are that you will not only not get to speak to her, but that you'll never see her again. Cue you feeling ten times more lonely than before, wishing that you'd never started and listened to a Tina Turner tape instead.

* “If I hadn't seen such riches, I could live with being poor.” – from Sit Down by James.

It made you almost take a dick selfie. A dick pic? Seriously? WTF were you thinking, you perv? But this is where it got you. You thought it was just you and that girl messaging each other. You thought it would be hot. You forgot that the internet is MASSIVE and that once you send something out there, it could be (here) there (and everywhere) for the foreseeable, potentially blighting your future forever more. Not to mention that even taking a dick pic is a low-grade activity in its own right.

It stopped you talking to actual women. Just like porn in days gone by, it became a crutch: something to fall back on in the absence of actual human contact. Tinder removed the need to go out and meet real people because you felt like you were 'meeting' them all the time. As with porn, this was a lie. There is no substitute for meeting people face-to-face; for hearing their voice and looking in their eyes. Tinder will never give you (any of) this no matter what it says on the tin.

So what to do? Delete the app? Go outside? Get some nuts? Probably all of the above. I will soon, I promise. Just. One. More. Swipe.

Saturday, 4 April 2015

90 Days Without

It's actually now been 92, but who's counting? Well, I am. That's kind of the point. But why this number? What makes this significant? Why, indeed, should you give one fuck?

Cos it's three months, stupid. And, arbitrary or not, this is a major goal on the way to quitting porn (and alcohol, and drugs, and gambling – basically anything addictive). Obviously your first goal is a day, then a week, then a month. They say if you can go a month without doing the thing you're quitting, you're something like four times more likely to kick it for good. The next stop along this road is 90 – three months in. And that's where I am. Porn has now not been a 'thing' for me for fully three months and, in the interest of it being the subject of this blog, I thought I might tell you about how it feels.

It feels good (I think). In all honesty, I have not missed porn that much. Not entirely true, of course. Any former addict will tell you in an honest moment that they miss their chosen poison profoundly but that they are concurrently continuously glad they have given it up, and proud that they have done so. I guess missing the thing is what makes it feel like an achievement. It makes you feel strong and that you know that much more about yourself and the power of your own will. In the words of Roots Manuva, “discipline maketh the geez*.”

* Geez, noun, masculine: Go-getter, gentleman, all-round top bloke.

I do miss it, of course I do; I love sex and hot women and porn gives you the opportunity to see (experience?) both of these things in abundance. In case you're uninitiated, in porn, hot women actually do sex. A lot. Joking aside, though, it is fun looking at sexy vids on the interweb. You get to see hotter people than you (I) may (definitely) ever have the chance of ever getting with do things of which you can only dream. That's kind of the whole point.

But it's fantasy. And it's crashing. As I have discussed before, when the 'bubble bursts' and the laptop's shut down, there's just you, alone in a room with your (rapidly deflating) dick in your hand and sock full of your own tepid jizz. A sad picture, but (generally) a true one. That's how it always ended for me, anyway. And that's why I decided to stop. I have covered my reasons at length, so here, friends, is instead a summary of how it feels to be porn-free for nigh-on a hundred days.

I have more time. More time for reading, for writing, for wasting on the internet. Yeah, I still waste time (Jesus, who doesn't?) but now it's mine to waste. And I still procrastinate, but it's for damn sure that cutting out porn has increased my productivity dramatically. I noticed this when I gave up smoking. On long days in the house on my own, cigarette breaks would punctuate the tedium. You'd have five minutes to sit down, have a cup of tea and ruminate. And the fact that you were doing something made you feel like you'd actually achieved something in this five or ten minutes.

In fact, all you had done was stand still, stare out of the window and put yourself slightly further on the road towards fatal lung disease! Almost the polar opposite of achieving anything! It was only when I stopped that I realised I had just been using smoking to create the illusion of progress. Smoking is not an end in itself and a day of numerous smoked cigarettes is not a productive one.

And it's the same with porn (for me). I'm bored, what shall I do? I guess I could start writing that song/play/book/poem/sketch/piece of stand-up... Or I could just click away and... boom. There goes half an hour. It's an escape in so many ways. Or, more accurately, in one way; it's an escape from reality. You (I) don't want to confront that piece of work or the fact that you (I) don't have a girlfriend, so you sneak off into another world where you are a sex-god with a massive schlong; where the most beautiful women fall at your feet let you put it anywhere; where, for a short time, you are free.

It's escapism. I get it. And sometimes we all need a bit of it, but when I look back at how much time I spent there instead of here. I know where I would rather be.

So I feel more attractive to women, right? So I'm a sex-god and I'm now a buy-to-let landlord and a paid comedian, right? Right? Guys? Well, not exactly. In fact, in the whole three months without porn, I have only had sex with one person (Montreal Girl) and, although we packed in (as it were) as much as we could into four days, pickings since (and before) have been surprisingly (alarmingly) slim. I could go out and get wasted every night and try and bag myself a fellow desperado,* but I can't afford it and anyway I am kind of looking for more than a drunken clattering of genitals (is this really me talking?).

* Not strictly true, of course. When I do go out and get fucked up, I am still painfully shy.

In truth, I am a little bit lonely (violins, please), but I would rather feel this loneliness than shut it out or put it off through fake interactions with pornstars. Because you're not interacting, you're watching. You are outside looking in and they are having all the fun (read: practically forced, mostly unenjoyable intercourse). I would rather know that I face being alone if I don't connect with another human. To paraphrase Ben Kingsley's character in The Whackness, I would rather embrace my pain and make it a part of me.

I've gone all serious again. Underneath all the talk about jizz and Tinder and wankerchiefs (see previous posts), though, my point is a serious one. I do not think my (or numerous others') relationship with porn was/is healthy. I do not think that porn, in its current form, is right and I think more people should start talking and thinking about it in an effort to change things. That's my credo and I still believe it is right.

I have lost some of my earlier zeal. I have seen that this is a more complicated subject than perhaps I first considered it to be and I have learnt that I do not have (anywhere close to) all of the answers. I am still convinced that (for me, at least) this is important.

As well as giving up porn, I have been trying to become a better feminist (for me the two are concomitant). I have been trying to think clearly about the feminist cause and where I stand within it. What male privileges do I take for granted? How does it feel to be constantly objectified on a fundamental level? How has a patriarchal society damaged men and how does feminism mean a better deal for us all?

These are some of the things I have been trying to get my head around. Certainly, being a feminist does not preclude porn (as numerous contributors to the Woman's Hour debate pointed out), but it does mean thinking about what it means to us, what we want from it and how (principally women but really all of us, not least our kids) are affected by it. I'm not going to get all up on my soap box. All I am going to say at this point is that I am proud to be doing what I'm doing, that I plan to continue and that I believe simply stopping is an end in itself. So here's to (porn) freedom! Let's keep kicking its arse!


Monday, 30 March 2015

Me, My Porn and I (3)

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. About fourteen years old, with newly-installed (dial-up) internet and an almost constant erection, masturbating like I had a deathwish. Ah, the good old days. It doesn't even seem that long ago. To quote Leonardo Dicaprio's character in The Basketball Diaries, “time flies when you're young and jerking off.”

And I thought I had the system dialled! I would look up porn, save it to (floppy, remember) disk, then have a 'session' when everyone was out. It seemed like nothing could go wrong. I knew about the History folder and would always be careful to delete all incriminating entries after every search. How could I know, though, about the file that would eventually be my downfall? Welcome, everybody, Temporary Internet Files.

Kids these days know all about this file. Or, more likely, they are able to use a browser with an 'incognito' option which does not record your secret (usually porn-based) web activity. These browsers are clearly made with porn in mind, just as king-size Rizla are obviously made for smoking weed. We all know, but we all pretend not to.

But in my day, lad, Google didn't exist. Bill gates had the whole internet sewn up and everyone ran Windows Internet Explorer. Long-since ditched (for being shit), this was the only choice available to us 'trail-blazers,' and no such anonymous searching setting was included. Still, though, those with even a rudimentary knowledge of computers knew about the existence of Temporary Internet Files and took care to make sure the file remained porn-free.

Well, not this kid. I was learning as I went along. I had a nagging fear that everything was getting logged somewhere, but for some reason did not think to have a little explore through the registry. My father, on the other hand, was somewhat more curious. And that's where he found, one Saturday, a log of all the filth I had been viewing over the months since the internet had arrived. My secret was out, laid-bare. And then he told my mum.

I remember when he came out to the garden to confront me. “Someone's been looking up porn on the computer,” he said, as if it could have been anyone but me. I froze.
Really?” I sheepishly replied, as if he would believe my attempt at innocence.
Yeah there's all these addresses like 'porn city' in the Temporary Internet Files. (THE WHAT NOW!?) Is this a case of 'Father I cannot tell a lie'?”*

* Apocryphal quote from George Washington, founding father of the USA, about the time he chopped down his father's favourite cherry tree for a laugh. To this day, one of my own father's favourite sayings.

Yes,” I replied simply. I could have died of embarrassment. And anger! I was so angry with myself for letting myself get caught. And in all the shame and mortification of this immediate confrontation, I forgot to ask him not to tell my mum. Too bloody late. My father is almost congenitally incapable of keeping a secret anyway, so she almost definitely would have found out. Still, I felt after, I could have asked him not to say anything.

My mum's reaction was even worse. All she kept saying was, “my little boy!” over and over again in the 'I'm not angry just disappointed' voice. I was so ashamed.* I just wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. I disappeared to my room and stayed there, as if, by not looking at the concern on their faces, I could evade the disappointment it conveyed.

* Could be that all the shame I attach to porn (and my usage thereof) could spring almost entirely from this one traumatic episode from my childhood. Just a thought.

And then the darnedest thing happened: we didn't discuss it. I'm not sure we ever spoke of it again. Not directly, anyway. It was occasionally alluded to, but we never 'talked it out.' My family are so classically English that we almost never discuss(ed) our feelings. My father is a master of changing the subject if he finds it uncomfortable and my mother a mistress of denial. They say 'never underestimate the power of denial' and 'they' are absolutely right.

If my parents didn't like something me and my sister were doing (like quite obviously smoking throughout most of our teens), they would just pretend it wasn't happening. This would go to absurd lengths like my mum finding my sister's smokes in the bathroom (where she had forgotten them) and putting them in her room but never mentioning it. In classic 'hanging on in quiet desperation,' if they didn't like it and they didn't have to confront it directly, they just pretended it didn't exist.

I'm not blaming them. They are from a generation of people who put up, shut up and got on with it. They had no time for talking about feelings. And I know it can be scary confronting things your children are doing which you don't understand or find frightening. I can quite understand (now) why this went undiscussed. But I still think I should have got a bollocking.

Or a banning from the computer or a grounding or something. But nothing came (no pun intended). We all just pretended it hadn't happened and carried on, except now I had become a master of my own; a master of covering my porn-based internet tracks. From thenceforth I was meticulous. No less porn was viewed, of course (don't be silly), but now no trace was left. Not one single address or cookie; from the desktop to the innermost directories, no porn would ever be found again.*

* This probably had the knock-on effect of teaching me a great deal about computers. Just don't let me hear me say porn never taught me nothing.

Now that I think about it, this could indeed have been the turning point. The point when I realised that I should feel ashamed and when I knew I had to keep it all a secret. It could be that this experience – as with the criminalisation of drugs – drove me 'underground' to a place from which I would not emerge for years to come.

Thursday, 26 March 2015

The Joy Of Socks

84 days porn-free

This post is gross. Copious and heartfelt apologies in advance.

It always used to be about the 'wankerchief.' Back in the day, when teenagers of my generation were whacking off with reckless abandon in every spare minute, this was the weapon of choice in the war of 'mopping up' the veritable gallons of precious bodily fluid expressed at every available opportunity. It's probably much the same now and, I have to say, I envy the parents of teenage boys very little.

I don't know about you guys, but when I discovered wanking, there was jizz everywhere; on tissues stuffed down the side of my bed (as if I thought my mum wouldn't notice); on the wall of the shower; between the keys of the computer (I told you this was gross); in my pants; on my chest (one time I even got it in my own ear). What I'm saying is, it wasn't pretty. But did we care? Did we fuck.

We were (are) obsessed with our dicks. How many times could we do it? How far could we shoot it? How much would come out? What did it taste like (yeah, I went there)?

Then came the era of the 'wankerchief': an old or unwanted t-shirt or pair of pants which would be used, in place of tissues, to catch your daily deposits of teenage jism. It quickly became gross but that didn't stop us using it for way longer than was reasonable. Each night (for what better time for self abuse than after dark?), we would pull out the rag, stiff and cracking with dried semen (eww) and jizz into it again, and again, until it was like a palimpsest of sedimentary genetic material.

But this couldn't go on forever. No t-shirt, however robust, could ever withstand this nightly hosing. The rags became too much even for our filthy teenage sensibilities and would be clandestinely binned, or even ceremonially burnt. And then, like a vision; like something so obvious finally becoming clear, there came socks!

Socks! Not only the best item of clothing to both put on and take off, but – more importantly at this age – shaped almost exactly like a material-made condom! How good? Unlike the wankerchief, the sock had the advantage of being enclosed at one end, meaning that one could just slip it on, go cock-berserk and not have to worry about your jizz ending up all over yourself, your surroundings, your clothes or – worst of all – somewhere you couldn't find at all.*

* The enjoyment of many-a teenage wank was curtailed by the knowledge that, precisely the time it was over, a swift, thorough (and buzz-killing) clean-up would have to be undertaken.

Socks, socks, glorious socks! We'd found the answer. No longer had we any need for a fetid cum rag stinking up our (already semen-soaked) bedrooms. We had socks. And they even got washed. Not by us,* obviously, but what did we care? We now had single-serving (and endlessly 'self-renewing') clean-up devices right there in the drawer.

* Our poor mothers.

In many ways, (as for so many other things, including the term MILF) the film American Pie is to blame. This film was viewed ubiquitously by boys (and girls) of my generation, and the scene where Jason Biggs is caught sock-on-cock by his mortified parents, either gave us the idea or endorsed it as acceptable behaviour.

And this, friends, is why you should be careful when borrowing (or stealing) socks from a man. Has he wanked into them more times than you can count? Is it worth the risk? Just a little food for thought.


Monday, 23 March 2015

A Guide To Mountain Town Dating

81 days porn-free

Mountain towns are not, by their nature, very big. They are really little more than isolated outposts, situated in places that, by virtue of having no interest in mountains and/or skiing, most people have little or no reason to ever go to. This means that, when it comes to 'dating' (and by 'dating' I obviously mean sexytime), your (my) options can be somewhat limited. Here, then, is a guide to finding said sexytime when you live in a place no human really should, and not many actually do.

Option one is to have a girl/boyfriend. This seems to be what most people have gone for as far as I can tell: get hold of someone you fancy and can tolerate, then hold onto them for dear life. Under no circumstances let go of them and make sure that you a. parade them around with you wherever you go, emanating a demeanour that says: 'we're just so in love' and b. tell every interested (or not) party about them in the first five seconds of conversation (you to her: “What's your name?” Her to you: “my boyfriend calls me Kate”).*

* Although this kind of defensive 'boyfriend bombing' can be frustrating, it is much preferred to the one that comes after several flirty days and/or dances/dates. At one time I tried to come up with a formula for how much a girl likes you (me) vs. when she drops the boyfriend bomb. I mean, when she does it straight away, is it because she feels she can't trust herself around you or because she's deeply in love with said boyf (or both)? Have I been thinking about this too much? Probably.

Being new in town (like nobody I know), this option may not be available to you, especially since everyone you ever meet has already gone for it and, in all likelihood, is already blissfully engagé. You will therefore be left with the unenviable task of finding a mate in the population of the town's singles. But how will you do this? Where do they hang out? What should you say? Well may you wonder. Here then is some solid gold advice from a Master of the Art.*

* Read: loneliest man in western Canada.

Spending most of your days on the mountain, your 'courting' opportunities will likely be limited to evenings/night times. There are some chances for mountain-flirting on chairlifts and whatnot, but there is equal chance that you will spend long days on your own or eventually pull someone who is only gogglehot.*

* An individual with an attractive mouth/jawline who, although hot-looking on the mountain, having removed the titular item of ski faceware, is revealed to be a hideous, mono-browed ug.

Your night of tail-chasing, then, will probably break down something like this:

7 – 9pm – 'Pre-drinking' at your own house. In order to avoid spending too much $$ on primo drinks in a bar, you shotgun tins for two hours at home before heading out. There will either be nobody of the opposite sex present or, if there is, it will be your mate's girl/boyf and/or your Australian housemate. Obviously neither of these are options as one is your mate's bird and the other, although female, is more of a man than you will ever be.

9 – 11 – The Bar(s). This is where your groundwork is done. Hopefully you are meeting a larger group consisting of one or more singles. Here you will be (relatively) sober and may be able pull off some half-decent chat which will potentially pay dividends later. Much drinking will also take place which may or may not improve the quality of said chat.

Pool will also take place in The Bar and men will demonstrate their abundant sexual prowess by expertly firing balls into holes. Is this a metaphor? I don't even know. But men take this pursuit deadly seriously and, for some reason, women seem to pay attention. Pool also has the potential to cause (testosterone/alcohol-fuelled – is there another kind?) fights and for even more flirting during the playing of 'doubles.'*

* During games of mixed doubles, the game is largely forgotten in the place of gaming tips (flirting) and the age-old mating ritual of 'chase me round the table till I'm tired!'

12* – 2 am – The Club. This is where things really hot up. If you have made a 'connection' at the Bar, the Club is where it will all play out. If you have not, you now have two (desperate) hours to find and make said connection before heading home alone like one sad old fuck.

* This when dick'eads who work nights (guess who?) join the race. Usually feeling tired, under-dressed and painfully sober, they will probably smash $3 Jäger Bombs in an effort to catch up, then fall over and cry at about 2:30.

The Club is where the serious drinking takes place and most people start hoofing cocaine like it's going out of fashion. The atmosphere is charged with lust, libido and (male) sexual aggression. The music is utter, unlistenable shite. Men who have made a 'connection' with a single female will fiercely guard her from any other male interaction, 'herding' her round the club like some kind of over-familiar bodyguard.

If you are as yet unaffiliated, your chances are improved by having and offering drugs and/or successfully 'dancing'* with a woman until she lets you kiss her face off. Once shameless making out has occurred, full sexytime is almost definitely on the cards. A full-on make-out is the basic aim of most of the dancefloor/drug-related club activity.

* What I mean by 'dancing' is obviously just grabbing and/or grinding against every woman in the place until one reciprocates/does not immediately register displeasure (see Cock Blocker post for more details). I have never been good at this. Either I am too shy or too awkward, but most of the times I have ever tried it I have been (rightfully) slapped.

2:30 – 3 am – The Street Outside The Club/McDonald's. If you haven't yet 'got lucky,' all is not lost. You still have a chance of getting with someone who was able to evade the hoards of sex-hungry males in The Club and is now standing around smoking on the street outside. There may be a party to go to, you may still have drugs to offer or you might be able to impress them doing ill-advised acrobatics off a park bench. The only problem with 'courting' at this time is that everyone is wasted and therefore taking a woman you have just met home becomes somewhat morally questionable. Is she really in control of her decision-making? Really?*

* Worryingly some guy at work described to me how he goes 'street sweeping' (actual words) at this time of night i.e. essentially 'crawling' the pavements picking up girls who are too wasted to know any better. Is he in fact a rapist? Discuss.

3 am – Taxi Time (or the most dangerous time in the world). This is when to cut and run. If you have 'made it' with a girl or a guy, time to high tail it out of there if you have not already done so. A taxi is the only sensible form of getaway vehicle. If you have a bike or other mode of transport, you better hope it's securely locked, cos you're abandoning that shit till such time as you can retrieve it, in all probability no earlier than tomorrow AM. Thankfully taxis are numerous and cheap, so that's something.

During this phase, all females will gradually leave the scene as they pair off and/or head home with their girlfriends. All that will remain is a crowd of twenty or so wasted, frustrated men looking for a fight. This locale now becomes statistically one of the more dangerous places in North America. If you stick around here, your chances of a black eye and a night in the cells are beyond high.

Although you are secretly hoping something like this ( will happen, your best bet at this point is to accept defeat, cycle home, get in bed and then harvest* Tinder until you fall asleep with the light on. Repeat nightly until you lose all hope.

* Swipe right till you run out of likes.