I left the livestream the other day, and there have been some comments I need to address. You ladies are great. Some of you, with your ethics and values from the 1950’s are clearly in the wrong place, but the fact you’re here, means there’s chinks in your armour. So I’m going to address these questions you have; these analytical arguments, suspicious subjects, and judgemental interrogations, and let you cross-examine me. Most of them I answered in the stream, so I won’t repeat them. I’ve been broken and dismantled by the best, you can’t break me, so if you have further questions, no matter how bad or harsh, comment below or DM me and I’ll answer them in the comments if they are short, and article them if the answer isn’t so simple. Keep them coming. I love it.
Was that a Wedding Ring you were wearing in your livestream?
I put my wedding ring back on three years ago and I’ve barely taken it off since. People notice it straight away, especially when I’m out on my own. I’ll be stood at the bar or waiting for a coffee and some bloke will clock it, then look at me like he’s trying to work something out. Sometimes they ask. Most of the time they don’t. They just assume. And that assumption is exactly why I wear it.
I was married a long time ago, I had a husband once. So, yes, it’s a wedding ring. The same one I couldn’t wait to rip off when everything fell apart. Back then it felt like a lie sitting on my finger. Now I wear it like armour.
We were together for four years. I did the whole almost-wife thing, cooked, cleaned, tried to be what he wanted, even though deep down I knew I wasn’t. He was one of those lads who says he wants a “real woman” but actually just wants someone who won’t challenge him. The sex was never good. At the time I thought it was fine because I didn’t know any better. He used to tell me I was like fucking a bag of potatoes, said it like he was doing me a favour. I believed him longer than I should have. When you’ve spent your whole life being told you’re not quite enough, you start thinking maybe he’s right.
He left me for a twenty-one-year-old. Didn’t even try to hide it. The divorce was quick. No kids, no house, no real fight. Just two people who never should’ve got married in the first place. He was having affairs, I also had a hobby going on now and then I couldn’t let go of. (Get into that later)
When I finally took the ring off, I felt free for about three days. Then reality hit.
I’m not ugly, but I’m also not the kind of beautiful woman who intimidates men. I’m in that awkward middle ground, approachable, possible, worth a try. The sort that blokes think they’ve got a chance with by default. A 50/50 chance. Once that ring came off, I had man-nip strapped across my forehead. It started with comments in the pub and men sliding into the seat next to me. Then it got worse. Guys following me to my car. Blokes in the supermarket queue asking for my number like it was their right. One man even grabbed my arm outside a coffee shop because he “just wanted to talk.” I had to shove him off.
I started feeling like prey. Like every time I left the house I was open season. The worst part was that a lot of them weren’t even aggressive. They were “nice.” They smiled, made jokes, acted like I should be grateful for the attention. That entitlement dressed up as charm was what really got to me.
I lasted maybe six weeks without the ring. One night I was walking back from the pub and some lad started walking alongside me, chatting like we were mates. I kept saying I was fine, but he wouldn’t take the hint. I ended up speed-walking home with my keys between my fingers. I looked at my phone and a random guy had sent me a dick-pic and there were ten messages from men I didn’t even know. When I got inside I sat on the floor and cried. Not because I was scared, but because I was tired. Tired of having to be on guard all the time.
The next morning I put the ring back on.
It felt strange at first, almost like admitting defeat. But after a few days I realised the ring actually changed how men treated me. Not all of them, but enough to make it easier. There were men in relationships, married even, with stunning and beautiful partners, all shooting their shot with me, I was someone clearly not as beautiful as what they had, and it was obvious what they were after, I was just a wet hole. The ones who saw it and still tried it on got shut down quicker. The ones who respected it left me alone. And for the ones who didn’t, at least now I had an easy line: “I’m married.” Short, simple, and effective.
It’s not about pretending I belong to someone. It’s about giving myself a boundary that other people actually understand. Because “no” and “I’m not interested” don’t always land, but a ring on the left hand usually does.
I know some people would call it sad that I need a piece of jewellery to keep men at bay. Maybe it is. But I’d rather be practical than harassed. I’d rather wear a ring I once hated than feel like I have to perform being unapproachable every time I leave the house.
The irony isn’t lost on me. The same ring that once made me feel trapped now makes me feel safer. The same symbol that used to represent a man who thought I was shit in bed is now the thing that stops other men from treating me like I owe them something.
I don’t wear it for him. I wear it for me. It’s a reminder that I get to decide what protection looks like. That I don’t have to be single and available just because I’m not in a relationship any more. That I can be complicated and difficult and still wear the ring if it makes my life easier.
I’m not hiding. I’m not ashamed of being single. I’m just done with being treated like public property the second I step outside without a visible claim on me.
So yeah. I’m still wearing the ring. And I’m not taking it off again.
You said in a previous article you had a fling with your friends ex? Where’s your loyalty?
Okay, it was a passing comment I made in an article recently that I never expected to hit you as hard as it did. Let’s get one thing clear. Loyalty is not fucking your friend’s partner. When they split up, it’s open season. I fuck who I want. And I don’t feel bad about it. Not even a little bit.
He’s not her property. She doesn’t get to call dibs on someone for life just because they were together. That’s not how any of this works, and I’m done pretending it does.
She used to boast for years about how great he was in bed. While I was single and going through dry spells, she’d drop little comments about how he could go for hours and how lucky she was. I’d sit there smiling like it didn’t bother me. But it did. Not because I wanted what she had at the time, but because I’d always found him fit. Intriguing. There was something about him that pulled at me, even when I knew I couldn’t go near it.
And I didn’t. While they were together, I stayed well away. I’m not that girl. But the second they split, everything changed. She moved on quickly with someone else, and that’s when I took my shot.
It wasn’t planned. We bumped into each other, got talking, and the tension that had always been there finally had somewhere to go. One thing led to another and we started sneaking around. It was secret, messy, and exactly what I needed. He fucked the absolute shit out of me for about two months. Proper, no-holds-barred, mind-melting sex. The kind that leaves you walking funny the next day. I was guaranteed an orgasm with this guy. That one orgasm was my lifeline. We both knew it was never going anywhere serious. It was just fun. Filthy, uncomplicated, exactly-what-I-needed fun. And I don’t regret a single second of it.
I’m here to please myself in this life. I have needs. I like who I like. And I’m not going to deny myself something I want just because it might make someone else uncomfortable. What right does she have to tell me who I can sleep with? We’re all adults. If she wanted to keep some eternal claim on him, she should’ve stayed with him. But she didn’t. Once that relationship ended, any imaginary ownership she thought she had ended with it.
People love to act like this is some massive betrayal. Like I stabbed her in the back by daring to fancy someone she used to fuck. But it’s not that deep. They broke up. He’s single. I’m single. What’s the actual problem? Why should I sit on my hands and miss out on good sex just because it might ruffle a few feathers?
I’m not doing that any more. I spent too long in a relationship where I was made to feel like I wasn’t enough. Where I was told I was shit in bed and made to feel small. I’m not going back to shrinking myself for anyone. Not for an ex, not for a friend, and definitely not for some unspoken rule that only seems to apply to women.
I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel like I betrayed anyone. We’re grown women with our own lives and our own desires. I’m not going to limit who I sleep with because someone else had them first. That’s weird. That’s possessive. And it’s not how adult relationships work.
She boasted about him for years while I had nothing. When I finally got the chance to see for myself what all the fuss was about, I took it. I didn’t do it to hurt her. I did it because I wanted to. Because after everything I’d been through with my own ex, it felt good to be desired again. To be fucked properly. To have something that was just for me, even if it only lasted two months.
I don’t owe anyone an apology for that. This is my body. My choices. My life. And if that makes me a bad friend in some people’s eyes, they can go find better friends. I’m not here to perform loyalty that only ever seems to go one way.
The truth is, I always found him intriguing. Even when they were together, I noticed him. But I respected the boundary while it existed. The second that boundary was gone, I didn’t see any reason to keep pretending I didn’t want what I wanted. And I still don’t.
People break up every day. Life moves on. I’m not going to sit there lonely or frustrated because someone I know once went out with a guy I happen to fancy. That’s self-sabotage dressed up as being a good friend. And I’m done with that version of myself.
I like who I like. I sleep with who I want to sleep with. And if that person happens to be someone my friend used to date, then so be it. I’m not going to feel bad for wanting something. Or someone. That’s not how this works.
You kept your ex as a sex hobby during your marriage. How do you justify it?
The simple version is straightforward. My husband gave me the attention, the safety, and the relationship. But in bed, he wasn’t a patch on my ex. My ex knew how to screw me properly. These days I’ve found guys even better than him, and that’s understating it, but back then my husband was very dull in bed. It was all by-the-numbers stuff. My ex was wild, unpredictable, and knew exactly what I needed. Randomly, he would just pull his dick out and eat kitty for a few moments, before screwing me again. He wasn’t what I wanted fantasy wise: that high energy doormat porn style stuff, I would stumble upon that much later in life. But he was still really, really good, good enough for me to take the risk. Another guy that I was guaranteed to have that one orgasm with.
It wasn’t a regular thing. Just now and then, when the frustration built up too much and I needed a proper hard fucking. He was the guy for that. When I was hungry, every three or four months or so, I promised myself it would be the last time. But it never was. The frustration was terrible.
It was like this constant, low, throbbing ache deep inside me that never really went away. My kitty would feel heavy and swollen, almost like it was full of pressure that had nowhere to go, and there’d be this deep, nagging itch right up inside that fingers or a vibrator could never quite reach. It wasn’t just horny, it was desperate. I’d lie there next to him after another boring, by-the-numbers fuck and feel this hot, restless tension in my pelvis that made me want to scream. I needed to be stretched open and fucked hard, properly used, the kind of fucking that makes your eyes roll back and your legs shake. Instead I was left with this hollow, aching emptiness that made me irritable and distracted for days. Sometimes it got so bad it felt like my whole lower body was buzzing with frustration, like my kitty was literally clenching and twitching on nothing, begging to be filled and pounded until the itch finally went away.
We’re going back years now, and we’ve fallen out since. He’s a toxic dick, but I can still wake up some mornings and yearn for it. As I said, my husband said I was like fucking a bag of potatoes, and that’s partially his fault. He just wasn’t good enough to get me moving.
I don’t feel like I need to justify it to anyone. My marriage doesn’t mean I handed over ownership of my body the second I said yes. Being married doesn’t mean I stop wanting what I want. It doesn’t work like that for me. I wanted it. He wanted it. We did it. Simple as that.
I don’t care if people think it’s wrong. I’m not living my life by rules that only exist to control women’s bodies. I’m not going to sit here and perform guilt about it. I like what I like. I do what I want. That’s it.
I stand by it completely. Being married doesn’t mean I suddenly stop being a sexual person with my own wants. That’s not how I work. I’m not going to act like marriage turned me into another man’s possession. I still have needs. I still get turned on. I still want to feel wanted in ways that sometimes only certain people can give me.
I genuinely don’t care what anyone thinks about it. I’m not here to live up to other people’s idea of what a wife should be. I just did what felt right for me at the time. I’m not going to shrink my life to fit inside someone else’s idea of marriage.
I’m still the same person I was before I got married. I still have the same desires, the same history, the same needs. Marriage didn’t erase any of that, and I never agreed to let it. People love to act shocked when a married woman admits she still has a sexual past that sometimes bleeds into the present. Like the second you get married, you’re supposed to delete every ex from your memory and your body. That’s not how it works for me.
I didn’t sign up for that version of marriage. I signed up for the version where I still get to be me, fully, messily, and honestly.
I kept a thing going with my ex because I wanted to. Because it felt good. Because sometimes the chemistry with someone from your past is just different, and I wasn’t ready to throw that away just because I got married. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen or that it didn’t mean something to me at the time. And I’m definitely not going to sit here and apologise for still having needs that my marriage didn’t always meet.
That’s not betrayal. That’s being honest. That’s being a grown woman who knows her own body and her own wants.
Sometimes you meet someone who sexually locks with you so hard that it’s really difficult to give it up. I chose not to. You can call me a cheat if you want, but I don’t care. If you ever meet a guy who rearranges your insides and makes you feel like you’re floating when he’s fucking you, you don’t give that up easily. If he’s happy to service you and be used in that way (and let’s be honest, most men are), then put him on speed dial and text him when you need it. Men are not called tools for no good reason.
You’re on this planet for you. Do what makes you happy.
How high is your body count at this point? And do you ever worry you’ve become the kind of woman men just use and move on from?
This one made me chuckle. I like to think my entire follower base is women, but this is definitely a man question. Women don’t even acknowledge the term “Body Count”, we call it “Mistake Total”, but I’ll answer it.
I don’t keep count. Men keep count. That’s the difference. I’ve never sat there adding up names like it’s some kind of score. It’s not many anyway, not compared to some girls I know.
The only reason women tend to have higher body counts than men is because it’s easier for us to attract people. We get approached more, we get more options, and because of that we end up sleeping with more idiots before we realise we’ve made another mistake. That’s the real curse. Not the number itself, but the fact that we have to wade through so many useless men to find the ones who are actually decent.
I don’t do one night stands. I never have. There’s always some kind of history or reason behind me sleeping with someone. Even if it’s messy or complicated, there’s always a thread. I don’t just fuck random men for the sake of it. I need to feel something, even if it’s only lust, curiosity, or the need to feel wanted for a few hours.
That’s why I don’t feel ashamed of the number. Every single person on that list meant something to me at the time, even if it only lasted a week or two.
And no, I don’t worry about men using me. I’m very good at using them and then moving on myself. I go into these situations with my eyes wide open. I know exactly what I’m doing and what I want from it. If I want good sex, I take it (If I can find the bloody stuff). If I want to feel desired, I take that too. And when I’m done, I leave. No guilt. No chasing. No sitting around waiting for a text that’s never going to come.
Worrying about being “used” has never been my problem. I’m not some naïve girl who thinks every man who fucks me is going to fall in love. I know the game. I play it. And most of the time, I’m the one who decides when it ends.
I’m not going to feel bad for knowing what I want and taking it without apology. I’m not the kind of woman who racks up bodies just because she can. I’m selective in my own way. I need a reason. I need chemistry. I need to feel something pulling me towards them, even if it’s just pure, filthy attraction. And because of that, the number stays low. Lower than people probably assume when they hear me talk openly about sex.
The truth is, I’ve made mistakes. Plenty of them. I’ve slept with men who turned out to be complete wankers. I’ve ignored red flags because I wanted to feel good for a while. But those mistakes were mine. I own them. I don’t sit around blaming men for “using” me. I knew what I was doing every single time. I just sometimes chose badly. That’s on me.
I’m not going to sit here and pretend my body count is something I’m ashamed of. It’s not. It’s small enough that I don’t even think about it most days. And even if it was higher, I still wouldn’t be ashamed. I’m a grown woman. I have needs. I like sex (mostly). I like feeling wanted. And I’m not going to punish myself for that just because society thinks women should keep their numbers low.
I go into these situations with my eyes open and I get what I want. That’s the part that matters to me. Not the number. Not what other people think. Just whether I walked away satisfied and in control of myself.
And most of the time, I walk a way at least in control. Satisfied? Not so much.
Conclusion
Right, those were the more interesting superchats that came through. I answered most of the others live on the stream, but these ones felt worth sitting down and properly replying to. There’s two more, but it’s 2AM here and I’ve been with old friends on the July 4th celebrations here all day, these guys are mad fucking eaters here, and they drink alcohol like water, so I’m a little fucked. I’ll publish this one now, and maybe do the other two questions later.
The main thing I want to leave you with is this: it’s not the 1950s any more. Things have changed. Attitudes have changed. Women are on more equal footing with men now than we’ve ever been, and sexually, we’ve got this. We don’t have to follow the same tired old rules that were mostly written by men who wanted to control us. You don’t have to waste your life feeling guilty or restricted because of some outdated idea of how a woman is “supposed” to behave.
The pay gap and everyday misogyny still needs work, there’s no denying that. But when it comes to your body, your desires, and your sex life, you get to make the rules. Not your friends, not society, and definitely not some dusty old expectations that don’t serve you any more.
If you’ve got more questions, feel free to drop them in the comments or DM me. I’m happy to answer them. And if you’ve got something going on in your own sex life or relationship and you want my unhinged feminist take on it, you can DM me too. Free subscribers can DM me and are welcome to do the same. I’ll keep it completely anonymous and give it to you straight.
Until then, have a great life. Do what feels good. Be a bit selfish with your pleasure. You’re allowed.
Also, just a quick note, I’m in California at the moment, so I’m six or seven hours behind most of you in the UK. That’s why some of these notifications have been dropping when the bats and owls are shagging in the trees. Sorry about that. At least you’ve got something to read with your coffee in the morning.
Take care of yourselves.