My Boyfriend Lives Somewhere Else

The world is shrinking. I’m just a simpleton without an astrophysics degree, so maybe it’s also expanding. Let’s all agree on this instead: we live inside the internet-machine now. The internet-machine laughs in the face of city walls. We co-exist with an online and offline life. Offline, moving around is easier than ever before. You can fly from New York to London in six hours. The barriers which traditionally separated communities are being eroded. “Cool, I didn’t realise I’d clicked on an A-Level Sociology essay, isn’t this meant to be about sex, mate?”

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I’m Not Having Good Sex

I didn’t start having good sex until my early twenties. I lost my virginity at sixteen, complying with government legislation on the matter. I’d wrongly been led to believe that if I consensually did the sex before my sweet sixteenth, a police squad accompanied by a Channel 4 film crew would burst through my door. I’d be behind bars, watching myself star in the fictional documentary “Britain’s Teens: Young, Dumb and Full of Cum”, probably narrated by Dr Christian Jessen.

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I’ve Lost a Friendship

At primary school, friendships were easy. You befriended the person who sat next to you in registration. This secured your bond for the next seven years through the alphabetical order of the British schooling system. You slowly killed your Tamagotchis together. You traded Pokémon cards illicitly on the playground. You stole pick ‘n mix from Woolworths, thus ensuring the collapse of the franchise. Then, breasts, Twitter and iPhones happened. We’re not on the playground anymore, Dorothy.

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They Called Me A ‘Slut’

Some kids on the World Wide Web refer to the number of sexual partners a person has had as their “body count”. When I discovered this, I wanted to delete today’s blog and just publish this sentence instead: the only time a body count is relevant is if somebody has died. Then I could have logged off, sipped on a sweet Rubicon and spent the rest of my afternoon watching Frasier instead.

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