Ten Things I Hate About Porn: Lack of Condoms

I am not currently on the pill. This is quite a rare occurrence: I’ve been on it almost continuously since I was 16. Two months ago, however, I decided to take a break in the hope that my acne would disappear. I was wrong; but I definitely feel better now I am not bombarding my body with hormones on a day to day basis. I feel more energetic and I have less of an urge to stuff myself with chocolate. 


I’ve felt so fantastic since stopping the pill that I am considering making it a permanent fixture. The only problem is that I’m going on a date tomorrow (with S – a guy I was sexting about a year ago but we only met for the first time this month) and I can guarantee I will want sex. And I don’t want to use a condom.

Why not? For me, it feels more or less the same. Bit of extra lube, which is good. Plus I don’t have to deal with the disgusting sensation of cum dribbling out of my vagina at some point between 2 minutes and 6 hours post-sex. I believe it feels a bit better for the guy without one, so I guess it’s to do with that. And laziness. Regardless of any of this, the outcome is the same: I hate using condoms, and almost never do so.

I’ve discussed this issue before, in relation to the transmission STIs. This irresponsible and lackadaisical attitude to condoms is totally unacceptable and down right dangerous. And it’s not just me: as I have discussed previously, I believe this is normal behaviour for heterosexual couples, even in causal sex.

For me, of course, the answer is obvious. If things go well on my date tomorrow and I end up shagging S, then I will use a condom. Simple. But what about those many occasions in the past where I have not bothered? And the millions of others out there who are happily shagging condom-free, simply due to laziness and habit?

Porn, I believe, has the answer.

Straight porn rarely features a condom. No big deal? I think it is. It normalizes the idea that having casual sex or group sex is fine without protection. In gay porn, condom use is far more widespread, and we see a corresponding increase in the percentage of gay people who use condoms regularly. Humans are simple creatures; we copy what we see. If we see porn stars shagging bareback, then we do too.

Only last week, Charlie Sheen disclosed his HIV positive diagnosis. I think this was a brave decision, and the right decision. It raises awareness of the disease and hopefully will reduce some of the stigma attached to it. But I also hope it will make people think more carefully about using a condom. I certainly will.


Ten Things I Hate About Porn: French Manicures

For some, a French manicure is the ultimate in nail design: classy, elegant, chic and sophisticated.

When I see a French manicure, however, I am instantly reminded of porn. I suppose this is why I’m not a fan: they look tacky to me. The Dutchess of Cambridge could have one, and I’d still think it looks naff.


Let us forget aesthetics for a moment, though, and consider a few practicalities:

  1. Nails are sharp.
  2. Nails break easily, and if you get those stick-on gel ones, they are notorious for falling off.

Ah, yes. Something sharp that may peel off at any moment. That’s exactly what I want to use to rub my clitoris and to slip inside my vagina and/or anus.

Oh wait.

No. No it is not. I cringe when I see women with French manicures playing with themselves or each other in porn. It makes me want to curl up in a ball and weep. My vagina literally contracts with horror.

Why the fuck would I want to put something sharp ON MY CLITORIS? Are you a total fucking lunatic? And why would anyone want to risk the (admittedly hilarious) possibility of a gel nail falling off inside one of their orifices? Besides, they don’t even look nice! Please, stop.

French manis can fuck off.


Ten Things I Hate About Porn: Women Who Look Like Girls

As with all aspects of the media, there are loads of issues regarding the impact porn has on women’s (and men’s) body image. When we think of porn stars, we think of curves: stereotypically, the women are cartoon-like in appearance, with huge tits, a big booty and a slim waist in between the two. Long hair, lots of make up, a shaved pussy and small labia are also ubiquitous to the ‘porn star’ look.

Despite being problematic in many ways, the issue of presenting an unrealistic body image is not my primary concern with porn. You don’t have to browse for long to discover that there are masses of videos starring women who are pretty ‘normal’ in appearance (perhaps due to the popularity of amateur films) and there are loads of mainstream categories which feature women who don’t fit the curvaceous stereotype. What concerns me more is the popularity of porn depicting women who, frankly, don’t look like women at all. They look like children.

To be clear: I’m not discussing child porn. I think we can all be in agreement that child porn is terrible. I am talking about porn where the actresses are over 18, but they look younger. The kind of stuff you find in categories like ‘teen’, ‘babe’, ‘young’ and ‘petite’.

Why is that so bad? Some might argue that these videos are representing a very real group of young women – women who are petite, slim and have small breasts – and that it has nothing to do with the fact that the women look like they are younger than 18. But I disagree. I spent less than a minute scrolling through today’s ‘featured videos’ on PornHub, and found films entitled ‘I need you daddy’ and ‘Schoolgirl gets her panties filled with cum’. Nothing to do with the fact the actresses look young, you say? Bollocks. And this kind of video is anything but niche: according to PornMD, ‘teen’ is the second most searched for term globally.


Is it wrong to watch women who look very young having sex with men who look decades older? Perhaps not: the actresses are 18, after all, and I don’t want to judge or stigmatize people for their preferences when it comes to porn. But personally, the ‘young and old’ theme makes me feel uncomfortable and I question why it has gained such widespread popularity, and whether this is having an impact on our real-life sexual activity.


10 Things I Hate About Porn

I was 19 when I lost my pornography virginity. I don’t know what took me so long: my real-life cherry had been popped 4 years previously, and I had been masturbating regularly (sans-porn) for considerably longer. Compelled to catch up from my late start, I spent my years at university watching porn as often as I could reasonably manage (which was a lot – I did an arts degree…)

If I’m honest, though, my first encounter with porn was rather like my first encounter with a cock: I felt nervous, guilty and scared. I didn’t know which websites were good, so I just typed ‘porn’ into Google and clicked on the top result: PornHub. I remember feeling sickened by the fat, middle-aged men who starred in the videos, and horrified by how violent everything seemed. I finally settled on watching a clip of an overly made-up woman masturbating with a dildo.

Like with sex, things improved once the first time was over.


Nowadays, I have a fairly healthy relationship with porn . Unlike when I first started watching it (when I would rarely masturbate without it) I now watch it far less frequently.That said, I don’t think I could ever give it up completely: I tried to quit for lent last year, but three days in I was browsing pictures of hot guys on Tumblr and one thing led to another and … yeah.

But despite the fact that I enjoy my adventures on the ‘other internet’, there are still lots of things I hate about porn. Some are trivial, some are troubling, and others are frankly terrifying. Over the next few days I will sharing my thoughts through a series of posts entitled: Ten Things I Hate About Porn. I’d love to hear your thoughts.



Thoughts which make me come

For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed inventing stories in my head, and since I hit puberty, the vast majority of these fantasies have involved sex (I’m sure my high school English teachers would be delighted that I have been putting my creative talents to such good use). It is rare for a day go by without a dirty daydream crossing my mind. I think this might be one reason why I enjoy sexting so much: it’s creative collaboration.

Yet despite my vivid imagination and the large bank of filthy fantasies I have catalogued in my mind over the years, when it comes to making me come (pun intended), I always imagine the same old thing: anal.


Nine times out of ten, when I make myself come, it is the thought of a big, throbbing cock being forced deep into my ass which pushes me over the edge.

Why? I’m not sure. Initially I think it was to do with anal having something of a ‘taboo’ status – to me at least – which made it seem extra kinky. Then, for a while, I kept on trying it while drunk (a lack of lube and a lack of patience led to a low success rate here), which only made me want to try it more. Now I wonder if it’s just a habit: I lie in bed, begin to construct an elaborate fantasy in my mind, and when I reach the point when I know I’m close, the man (or one of the men…) in my fantasy flips me onto my front and tells me that he is going to fuck my ass. I feel him press his dick against my asshole. Harder. I let out a moan as he begins to penetrate me. He feels intrusively large as he pushes deeper inside me … and I come.

A whole world of possibilities. A whole internet full of porn. And yet that is what does it for me more than anything else. I’m not even sure I’d like it if it happened in real life. But in my mind, it makes me come. Every. Single. Time.







A few weeks ago, I had a distressing realisation: I keep shagging without using a condom. And that’s bad.


I vowed to get myself down to the GUM clinic ASAP.

And so, this evening, I finally paid my local clinic a visit. (Yes, it’s taken me nearly three weeks … clearly lackadaisicality is a trait of mine both in and out of the bedroom…)

It’s been a while since I had a check up, which is ridiculous: appointments are FREE, you don’t have to book, and I live less than five minutes walk away from the clinic. There’s no excuse really.

I had, however, forgotten what a bizarre experience a GUM clinic check up is. The shame. The invasive questions. The mild physical discomfort. And for some reason, I always find the whole experience darkly comical. Today was no exception: from unexpected encounters to missing veins, I feel this anecdote needs sharing….

1. Shame

Obviously, there is no shame in visiting the GUM clinic. Taking care of one’s sexual health is a responsible thing to do. And yet, for some reason, whenever I go for a check up I find myself checking over my shoulder before I enter the building. I speak to the receptionist in hushed tones, so as not to be overheard (despite the fact that the only potential eavesdroppers are also clinic patients, just like me…). I fill in the questionnaire in my neatest handwriting, desperate to prove myself as a respectable human being. It’s daft.

Today, however, my worst fears were realised. The unthinkable happened. All of my irrational shame suddenly intensified a thousand times over.

You guessed it.

As I sat in the waiting room, who should stroll into the clinic but M.

I’ve known M for years. We were at uni together, and then, by coincidence, ended up working together. But in all that time, I wouldn’t say our relationship has ever reached a particularly comfortable point – this surprise encounter is not something we could just laugh off like best friends would. I give him a lift to work sometimes, and the conversation is usually just that: work. To make things even worse, he is hot, and I’m not going to lie, I’ve thought about the possibility of shagging him before (pretty recently, actually).

Basically, he’s right at the top of the list of people I don’t want to bump into at the GUM clinic (along with my Dad, my boss and any of my current or ex-pupils).

I did what anyone would have done: pretended I hadn’t seen him. I stared at my phone as if it was the most fascinating thing on earth. I blushed like a bride whose dress has just ripped and she has inadvertently mooned her parents, the vicar and a whole church full of friends and relatives. I wished for the ground to swallow me up.

He left pretty sharpish (potentially because he had seen me and also had a similar panic attack and didn’t fancy making small talk with me in the waiting room). Thank god.

I’m giving him a lift to work tomorrow though. Not quite sure yet whether to acknowledge having seen him. Maybe I’ll say something vague like “how was your evening?”. Or just be bold: “Morning – how’s your dick today?”. Ha. I probably just won’t say anything…

2. Invasive questions

I know they have to ask. And I know they don’t judge. But still… nobody goes to the GUM clinic after six months of celibacy, do they? No. They go because they’ve been getting laid. Lots, probably. And those bloody questions feel like an interrogation …

Q. When did you last have sex?

A: Beginning of May …. so … six weeks ago, roughly.

Q. Was this with a man, a woman, or both?

A: Man.

Q: Was it with a regular partner?

A. Um… well … we had sex more than once if that counts?

Q. Well, would you say you know him?

A. Yes.

Q. Did you have oral, anal or vaginal intercourse?

A. Oral and vaginal [fingers in the bum don’t count, right?]

Q. Did you use a condom?

A. No. [Why do you think I’m here?! For the banter?!]

Q. When was your last partner previous to this one?

A. About 2 weeks earlier.

Q. Was it with a man?

A. Yes.

Q. Oral/anal/vaginal?

A. Oral and vaginal [a tongue in the bum doesn’t count, right?]

Q. Did you use a condom?

A. I can’t remember [No.]

Q. And when your last partner before this one?

A. Err… about a week before that…

The conversation continues like this until she thinks I have done my penance for all my promiscuity. The worst one I ever had was upon returning from a six month ‘ski’ season (aka. sex fest). I honestly thought she was gonna offer me a chastity belt after that little chat.

3. Mild physical discomfort

If you haven’t had an STI check up before, it’s pretty simple. You stick something that looks like a cotton bud in your vag, give it a wiggle, and put it in a tube. Job done. (Except where I used to live … they were still in the dark ages and insisted you had to put your feet in the stirrups and then they would have a scrape around in there themselves with some metal prong…. that was nasty).

They also do a blood test for HIV.

Now, I am fine with needles. I associate them with sweets. The thought of having blood taken doesn’t bother me one bit.


Nurse: “Hmm. I can’t seem to find your vein.”

I discovered at my last check up that the phrase: “I can’t seem to find your vein” is medical speak for “imma poke you with this needle for a few minutes and bruise the fuck out of your arm.”

Or, if you are really lucky like I was today: “imma stick this needle in your hand instead and then leave it in there for a good ten minutes, wiggling it around occasionally, complaining that you won’t bleed quickly enough.”

Fuck needles.

4. Comedy

When sitting in the waiting room desperately trying to avoid making eye contact with M, I subconsciously started Tinder-ing. A few matches later, I suddenly came to my senses.

I am sitting in the GUM clinic waiting room…

… playing on Tinder.

Oh the irony.



I woke up this morning and, to my delight, this fantasy appeared fully formed in my mind. Inevitably, this led to some early morning masturbation and I was very nearly late for work…


Photo Credit: Getty

Not quite conscious, I am drifting in that blissful state in between sleeping and waking. I can feel his naked body pressed against mine, spooning me. His erection is throbbing against my bum – I know how much he wants to fuck me there – his fingers teasing my nipples. I smile, and open my eyes slightly.

His hand slides down my tummy and in between my legs. His fingers press against my clit, circling slowly. I let out a sigh. He presses harder: I run my hand over my breasts, squeezing my erect nipples. My heart starts to race and I can feel my pussy become wet. Sensing this, he slips two fingers deep inside me and I moan. As his fingers fuck me, his thumb is still pressed hard against my clit, moving from side to side, driving me crazy. I can feel my cheeks flush, my legs trembling slightly. “Fuck me,” I whisper, desperate to feel his cock push deep inside me.

He rolls me onto my front and I stretch my arms out in front of me, gripping the headboard, bracing myself for his first thrust. But he doesn’t move. Still lying on his side next to me, he runs his hand over my bum, squeezing one cheek and then the other. My breathing is unsteady – I am not sure how much of this torture I can take. I want to feel him inside me. I need him to fuck me.

Then, suddenly: Smack.

I gasp as his hand strikes my bum. I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. I want more.

Again: Smack. SMACK.

Harder this time. He runs his hand across the cheek he struck, soothing me. I tighten my grip on the headboard, my pussy wetter than ever.

Again and again he smacked me. Each time, I gasp and moan. I can feel my skin become hot where he hits me; I feel sure a big, red hand print is forming on my ass. With every smack I become more aroused, my cheeks rosier, my pussy aching for him to enter me.

And finally, my reward came. He straddled me from behind, gripping my shoulder with one hand for leverage, and in one smooth movement forced his cock between my legs and deep into my pussy. I couldn’t moan, I couldn’t scream. I just buried my face deep into the pillow, fists clenched, my whole body in total ecstasy. I could feel my bum burn even redder as his pelvis struck me with every thrust. The bed shook as he fucked me harder and harder and I began to moan louder and louder. He knew I was almost there: his hand snaked its way underneath me, across my tummy and again to my clit. It only took a few more seconds: his cock roughly fucking my pussy, his fingers rubbing hard against my clit. I came. My whole body shuddered, my pussy tightened around his cock. ‘I’m coming,’ I moaned – as if he didn’t already know. Seconds later, I felt his cock spasm as he came deep inside me.

He collapsed on top of me. Him still inside me, we lay, panting and sweaty, for a few moments more. Wordlessly, he kissed my neck as he slid off me and went to shower.