Cause, baby, these things you’re doing to me
It hurts so bad but, It’s worth all the misery

Cause it hurts so good, don’t you know that
It hurts so good
-Millie Jackson, It Hurts So Good

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It was a silly dance. One repeated over and over and over again. Me meeting her new boyfriends over and over, me forced to pretend that it didn’t matter. Make that, forced myself to pretend. She was always quick to remind me of that, that I didn’t have to sleep with her anymore if I didn’t want to. But she would say that they didn’t understand her like I did. They didn’t touch her like I did. But for Christ sakes how many times can you meet some poor bloke and say, “it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you” without feeling….something.

“When we were together, did you have other men?” I asked her once.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snorted “There was never anyone but you”

I once told myself that I would stop. So the next time she called I didn’t answer my phone. She showed up at my door anyway; with a bottle of rum, a bottle of wine and some massage oils.

“One for you, one for me and a little something for both of us” she said.

Apparently the more she took the more I gave. The more we behaved as if we were together. Until the morning would come, or her phone would ring or…then it would start all over again.

It didn’t make sense unless we were naked. I loved to run my tongue along the back of her thighs, linger in the small of her back, tasting her. Caressing her. I’d press my body against hers, making sure that she could feel me against her ass, on her thighs. Or in between them.

She loved to hold my hands and extend our arms over our heads until they hung over the rails of my bed. Then she would look me in the eye and ask me if I was ready. She would proceed to kiss and nibble on my neck, slowly meander in sinuous fashion over my chest and abdomen. Releasing my arms she would put my hands on her head so I could guide her.

Our last time together wasn’t tender. Or gentle. Or sweet. It started as a casual conversation over drinks at my place. I was telling her about Jen, whom I’d just started seeing. For some reason things got heated. Insults were exchanged. Names were called.

I told her to fuck off. She followed me into the kitchen, hit me in the back of the head and tried to slap me again as I turned around. But I grabbed her arm. And then the other one and backed her against the wall. It was stupid. It was some clichéd movie bullshit. But I was hard. She could tell.

She placed her hands on the inside of my thigh and started to kiss me. I pushed her away, turned her around and bent her over my counter. She stepped out of her panties as I hiked up her skirt and undid my pants. I entered her. We both moaned. Deeply. It was violent. It was hard. It was fucked up. It felt fuckin’ good. But it hurt. Really hurt.

A couple of weeks later I was at the Rivoli with Jen when she walked in with a group of her friends. Our eyes made four. She approached my table and said hello.

“Jen, this is______, ______ this is Jen”

She focused her gaze on Jen.

“Pleased to meet you” she said, “I’ve heard so much about you”.

JFB posed an interesting question to me, both in the comment section of my last post here and in private:

“…I would like to see some specifics as to why this is enjoyable for women… Will this be covered in the next part of the series?”

It took me a couple of days to sort through what direction I wanted to go in with this essay… Do I poll groups of women to find out why they like butt secks? Do I dig out the books and pile this article full of statistics and research? Do I talk about my personal preferences?

I’ll start with this video clip:

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And now, picture me with a stupid grin on my face, eyes bright and wide, nodding my head up and down,

“Yes. Yes. I would allow that to be done to me. And YES, old broad, it’s normal.”

Then imagine me assuming the position, either with my clothes on in order to get a laugh out of the crowd or with my girly bits al fresco to, well…have some butt secks.

I think it’s impossible to really outline why people like butt secks – it’s totally subjective! Popular reasons, according to Ask Men, women love anal sex because it feels good and because it’s naughty. The article, while not a bad read, bothered me because only offered up two reasons why a woman would be into butt secks. I mean sure, the nerve endings all piled up in my bum light up with electricity and send waves of pleasure through my body in an entirely different language. Yep, I really enjoy that “full” feeling, particularly when I’m manually stimulated, or (gasp!) penetrated vaginally at the same time. But I feel like these physical manifestations are not doing butt secks justice! It would be like saying, “I like kissing because of the way it feels on my lips and tongue.” What about the feelings you get? The butterflies and flippy-sensation in your stomach when you’re in serious lip-lock with your lover? Those things count just as much. The same thing applies to butt secks for me. It’s about way more than just the act. And it’s not that it’s kinky. It really isn’t about it being naughty for me. I mean, I’m writing a column about why I like butt secks… I think that sort of takes the whole naughty-factor out of the equation, right?

No, for me, it’s about submission. I really had to dig deep for the answers here and I really wasn’t comfortable with them once I sorted through them. Me? Submissive? But I’m the least submissive person you’ll ever meet! I’m never going to wear a ball gag. I’m never going to answer to a Master. This is not the kind of submission that I enjoy. For me, it’s about being so intimately close to another person that I trust them to do with me what they will…to let go of the control, even if I don’t give it up entirely.

My friend Mandy taught me a phrase earlier this year: topping from the bottom. Basically, this means you are a submissive person, but still bossy and controlling in bed. With some discussion, we decided this was the best term to describe me.

In some ways, I think of my pussy as my property but there is this shared-ownership situation between my lover and myself over my ass. There’s a woman in Atlanta, Alexyss Tylor, who used to have a cable access show and would go on and on about Vagina Power. Now, she’s mostly crazy and I wouldn’t take her too seriously, but there IS power in it, guys. I never surrender my pussy – it’s a gift I give, after an appropriate amount of teasing. But my ass? I don’t think about “giving” butt secks, I think about my lover “having” butt secks with me.

In essence, vaginal sex means I fuck him. Anal sex means he’s fucking me.

It’s the give and the take. There is a complete shift in my being when I have anal sex with my partner – the noises I make change, my orgasms are entirely different. It is the time when I most feel like an animal. And I can ride his cock and run the show and be the one that’s breaking a sweat and getting tired, but at the end of it all, he was the one that was fucking me.

I’m the girl that walks up to a group of men at a party, brazen and not shy. I’m the girl that makes eyes at that skinny bearded and bespectacled boy at the end of the bar. I’m the girl that will straight-up put her car in park and get out to yell at some road raging asshole. I’m the girl with the confidence. The gusto. I don’t demand attention, I just get it.

But you see, that’s exactly why I love butt secks. It’s the ONE time that I put all of my control on the shelf, put myself face-down in a pose that would be fit for worshiping a gilded god, and I do what I’m told.

“Lift your hips,” he’ll say.

“Come closer to the edge of the bed.”

Strong hands, pressing into my hips and then into the small of my back, causing that really great deep arch.

“Give me your hands.”

And then, because I can never totally let go, a command from me, the girl that likes to top from the bottom…

“Pull my hair!”

Man Month.

How could we have just one month focusing on those hairy,
grunting, bear-wrestling MALE specimens when I spend every month focusing my lady parts towards in a slightly intimidating and oft unnerving fashion?

A hairy, grunting, bear-wrestling MALE specimen - the stuff ER's nether regions dreams are made of.

So what wonderful insights did we grasp from this month of old spice, cigar smoke and whisky?

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Firstly we tackled the myth that men have feelings?! Oh sorry, I mean the myth that men don’t have feelings. Mind you, I didn’t – I chose a more self indulgent route. Sue me.

Men Have Feelings

10 Things You Shouldn’t Say When a Man Opens Up

All Men Are Bastards

FYI Ladies: Only Sociopaths Feel Nothing

Guest Post: A Word on Men and Emotions

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Next, as we discussed men and skinny women, we shared a catchy new T shirt slogan,  and Ken explained how he discovered his love for voluptuous women after suffering a broken nose during a romp with a skinny girl:

Do All Men Prefer Skinny Women

The Skinny on Women and Thinness

Why Skinny Chicks?

Two in the Pink, One in the…aka My Favourite Links (A brief side step by Sam for comedic relief.)

Guest Post: In Praise of Not-So-Skinny Women

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During week three we shared ours thoughts on men and their one track minds. This time Skye took a diversionary tactic. (Seriously, you cannot keep us on topic here at metanotherfrog.com, it’s like herding kittens. Get them all in one place and you have an urge to drown them in a sack.)

Sex We All Want It

Sex is Awesome

Do Men Really Have One Track Minds

Say It Loud – I’m a Slut and I’m Proud

Guest Post: Men Want Sex

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Next up…men and cheating, which since I don’t believe in monogamy to begin with gave me a wonderful excuse to run delightfully off topic again. Meow. (Oh look, a large bag with tuna in it - I’ll just step inside, purrr.)

Is Polyamory Right for You?

Cheat Sheet

Men and Cheating: A Reality Check

Top 10 Ways to Tell He’s Cheating

Guest Post: Men Only Cheat When…

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Finally, we ended the marvels of man month by proving beyond all doubt that men are stupid. Sorry, that’s not right; we proved they aren’t all stupid. (I am having trouble focusing. The tuna bag seems to have closed above me and now I’m in the  sack with water rising around my feet…)

Men Are Stupid

If Men Are So Stupid

Rules of Engagement

A Little Bit of This, a Little Bit of That

Guest Post: Men Aren’t Stupid

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Enjoy!

Elizabeth Rose

The gods of the blogosphere have determined that it is my task, my duty to recap the shenanigans we got up to during Relationship Month. Considering my studied and determined disdain for the manner in which most people go about handling their relationships and considering that Barack Obama was still a senator in Illinois the last time I was in a “proper” relationship, I thought this was akin to asking David Duke to address the NAACP or asking R. Kelly to take your daughter out for ice cream. You know. Ill advised.

Well, it appears the gods have a sense of humour. So here I am. I figured the best way for me to sum up Relationship Month was to share what I learned. Or to share the nuggets of wisdom that have made me look upon the conventional modern day committed monogamous relationship in a favourable light. So, without further ado here is my list of things learned about relationships during metanotherfrog’s Relationship Month:

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3.

4.

5.

Ha Ha! Just kidding. Relationship Month was a treasure trove of insightful and hilarious commentary on the modern day love match. From first phone calls, first dates and first f****, to office parties, trips together, waning lust, communication tips and the pain of a break up, we covered a lot of territory. With that said, take a look through our archives and rediscover the joys and pains (word to Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock) of metanotherfrog’s relationship month.

Sam Sharpe (aka The F’in Man)

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The Highs: From The Meet Cute to the First I Love Yous

The Meet Cute

The First Phone Call

The First Date

The First Kiss

The First Time

A Perfect Night

On The Wings of Love? (The First Trip)

For You, Just Because

Sex + Experimenting = Fun

Meeting the Fam

First Office Party Survival Tips

Guest Post: Love – A Choice

I LOVE YOU

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The Lows: Right After the First I Love Yous to the (Often) Bitter End

Planning: The Beginning of the End?

Living Together

Upgrade You

Many Sexless Nights

Hello Granny Panties, Goodbye Morning Wood

Intolerable Defects

4 Tips to Keep You Communicating

Noticing His Friends

Sharing Bodily Functions

Away From Her

IT’S OVER

Hi. I’m Mike from the relationship website MiketheMasterDater.com. Recently Skye asked me to write about female double standards in relationships. As I understand it, this particular topic was not one that other guy bloggers were very excited to take off her hands. Why? Because you women are scary!! See proof here.

I spend a lot of my time on my site talking to women about what men think and why they do what they do. I don’t really hold much back, however when I turn my attention to why women do what they do I don’t get the best feedback. Usually, I get a pile of hate mail that involves plying my genitals to a cheese grater.

Before you think of other ways to mutilate my loved ones please understand that I love women, I love hanging out with women and I love talking to women. That’s why I feel I can get away with giving you all a little bit of hell once in a while. So I would like to be honest – really, really honest about the things that drive many men to chronic masturbation rather than asking you out.

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Pay attention to me!!! But not too much

God, he brings me flowers every fricken day! – The poor guy probably hand picked them from his grandmother’s garden and your response was to vomit a little in the vase.

God I hate guys like him! – Unfortunately your vagina had a totally different agenda and that nice guy you like just spotted your car parked in front of the asshole’s place at three in the morning.

I fucking hate men that play games. – This is yelled through your locked front door because he’s 10 minutes late. Then you find out it was because he was buying you ice cream.

All men are cheaters. – Come on… you only notice it because it’s not YOU doing it. I used to be the guy that women cheated with. I know the score. Please stop dropping this entirely in the guy’s lap.

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You have to look great but don’t you dare judge me

Eww, he is fat and bald! – The last time I heard this line was from a 250 pound woman who was talking about her blind date. WTF? Seriously?

Why do you always wear shirts like that? – Huge EYE ROLL. If you didn’t have friends to impress would this really be an issue?

Are you fucking looking at my tits?? – Your boob job is screaming against your bra and your camel toe looks more like a moose knuckle. What? You didn’t think he would stare?

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90% of good sex is reliant on the man, why should I help out?

How big was he?? – And you wonder why men are so obsessed with size. If more men knew this is the first question your girlfriends ask they would super glue an extension on.

OMG he couldn’t even get it up! – Lets not mention that the two of you killed a bottle of tequila or the tumble weeds that were blowing out of your vagina.

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You got it, I want it, but I will never admit it except to my girlfriends

OMG you met a doctor?? He sucks in bed? I think I like him! – This is a totally acceptable situation, one where you have to be wary that none of your girlfriends is going to try to take him.

He asked you to pay for something!!? – Cue angry girlfriend: “If he really liked you he would have bought that plane ticket!” Ironically, this girl’s guy is so broke he recycles condoms.

What kind of car does he drive? – Your date the 35k a year millionaire shows up in his newly leased Lexus, and we wonder why the economy sucks??

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Hopefully as you read that you giggled a bit, because you realized (yet again) that both sexes are fucked. Even so, at bottom we really all just want to find someone that loves us and accepts us for who we are.

Personally all I want in a woman is simple. She would have to: be a lawyer, have huge tits and a body like Angelina Jolie’s, cater to my every whim, and last but not least, be really, really, REALLY enthusiastic about the idea of me sleeping with her friends.

I’ve been trying to write this piece for a couple of weeks now. I’ve asked friends, family, andthe man-friend. I’ve consulted Jane Austen, Margaret Mitchell…even Dan Savage and what I’ve come up with is this…
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Women ARE emotional.
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But guess what? Being emotional is NOT the terrible thing it is made out to be. The problem isn’t that woman are too emotional, it’s that people associate having emotions with weakness. However, emotions are not a sign of weakness; in fact they are completely the opposite they make us stronger. Imagine for a second what it’s like to be a guy, what it’s like to have to hide your emotions because if your dudes saw you crying they’d assume you were less of a man. Unless of course you were all crying after a big game…that kind of crying is cool.

There is something special about the relationship between two women. It’s a sisterhood that no man can ever really understand. We know each others secrets, we cry together, we laugh together and we love together – all without fear of retribution. Sometimes I even wonder if men are jealous of our bonds, of our connections. I wonder if they ever think about what it would be like to live without fearing their emotions.

Before you get excited by my Spice Girl-esque girl power schpeal keep reading; there is another side to this coin. While I’m happy to say that as a woman I can feel freely, that most people will just accept it as part of my innate femininity; I am also frustrated by my inability to separate myself from those very same emotions. Girls you know what I’m talking about. When the man-friend says something we don’t like, we tend to try and read more into the words that he is saying than is actually there. We search for emotions behind the words, even if it isn’t there. Usually he is saying exactly what he’s thinking and we spend so much time trying to decode words that don’t need decoding that we end up fighting over nothing.

Recently I found myself doing exactly that – putting meaning into words that were so very clear and honest that I assumed they had to have some big and deeply hidden emotion behind them. I ran through past relationships, books and Sex & The City quotes in my head, thinking, “He’s just not that into you” in a situation where I had no right to be thinking anything aside from, “Isn’t it awesome that there’s a dude in my life who wants to be totally straight with me.” I let my emotions and my history take over and I made him feel guilty for being honest with me. Right move? No. Chick move? I’m ashamed to say…yes.

But how do you find a middle ground? How do you embrace your emotions without assuming every sentence uttered by his pouty just shy of perfect lips is fraught with the same kind of emotion we throw behind our own words? You can try to…

Remember that not everything has a double meaning.

Remember that he is capable of the same kind of intense mind shattering feelings that you are.

Remember that when he’s feeling something he’ll tell you (and trust me you won’t have to decode a word).

Remember that unless you have a very CLEAR and REAL reason to believe otherwise, you should 1) ALWAYS assume that your man-friend is being straight with you, and 2) AVOID geting mad about things that were unsaid – because if he’s not saying it, you’re probably the only one thinking it.

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And ladies, the next time you feel something intense, wonderful, sad, terrible or lovely – just go with it. The boys aren’t watching and even if they are, they’ll likely chalk it all up to your girlishness. Too bad for them they don’t know how awesome it is to be a girl.

Women. Too emotional? Irrational? Reactionary?

I can only speak from my own personal experience. And that experience tells me that the answer is a resounding, emphatic, delivered-while-jumping-up-and-down-and-waving-my-arms “Yes!”

There may be one or two exceptions in my chequered past. But for the most part, they’re all the same. If I’m a few minutes late coming home, I get a crazed call screaming, “Who is she?” If I can’t make her Dad’s birthday party because of a business trip, she insists I hate her parents and want them dead. If I fall asleep during the chick flick we’re watching, I’m not sensitive to her feelings.

I’ve had girlfriends break down in tears because I was too slow to notice a new haircut. One who threatened to punch out a female ticket-taker at the local movie house because she thought she was “making a play for my guy.” Another who stopped talking to her best friend for three years because she was convinced the girl wore the same dress as her to a wedding out of spite.

Again, I can only base this on the women I know. And with my predilections and obtuse desires (which I give far too much screen-time to at my blog, Lustmongers), it could very well be that the women I know represent a small demographic. But in my experience, if there’s a conclusion to be jumped to, a handle to be flown off, or a boyfriend to be kicked in the balls based purely on suspicion and nothing resembling hardcore facts, women are gonna do it.

But, in fairness, I can honestly say that most guys I know – including myself – are pretty much the same. In fact, I’d say that a lot of my buds are far more emotional and reactionary than the women I know. This is especially evident when it comes to relationships. I’ve known some jealous women in my time, but those women got nothin’ on us guys. In fact, jealousy is the one emotion men do particularly well.

A good example of this is my pal Owen. Owen has never trusted a single woman he’s dated. In fact, whenever these women are out of his sight, he organizes groups of buddies to pull some undercover work and follow her at various check-points throughout the city. And as a guy once assigned to the “Beacon to Newbury Street” beat, I can tell you that I’m not exaggerating. God as my witness, I even saw Owen don a fake beard to follow a former girlfriend on the subway to make sure she really was going to a cousin’s birthday party as she claimed.

Though his motives can be questioned, I totally sympathize with Owen. There’s a reason most guys wanna make like Spider-Man and slap a tracer on their girlfriends’ backs whenever said ladies — particularly in packs — are hitting the town. And that reason is that we, as men, hit the town. And we know what we do when we hit the town, and that is mentally undress everything with breasts and a heartbeat that happens within our field of vision. After a few beers, it only gets worse, as we start imagining what it would be like to 69 the hat-rack in the corner of the bar.

Actually, I’m only half-joking. But the bottom line is that when guys head out on the town, the punch list of activities usually looks something like this:
1) Look at women.
2) Consume massive quantities of alcohol.
3) Shift from “Looking at” to “Interacting With” mode.
4) Attempt to sell women on the virtues of letting us in their trousers.
5) Absorb slap, continue drinking, continue ogling.
6) Repeat until arrested, broke, shot, etc.

You get the point. Guys go out because that’s where the women are. So when our ladies tell us that they’re going out, we figure that unless they’re heading to “2-for-1 dyke night” at the local Pizza Hut, they will most likely be in some establishment where there will be men for them to look at, and men looking back at them. And this bothers us to no end.

For inexplicable chromosomal reasons, women seem perfectly capable of going out with their friends, having some drinks, dancing and flirting innocently, and actually heading back home without the need to blow the bartender. Guys have never been able to get our arms around this concept, and the amount of suspicion our bodies can hold is usually directly proportionate to the amount of guilt we’re carrying.

But it’s always been this way. We’re all emotional, irrational and reactionary, but we make each other that way. And so long as we all love fucking, spooning, snogging, dry-humping, six-hour make-out sessions, slow dances at the corner bar and pressing each other against alley walls in a dull haze of sweat and booze, that’s just the way it’s going to be.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a fake beard to put on, and a girlfriend to follow through downtown Boston.

I get mad when you walk away (don’t walk away)
So I tell you leave, when I mean stay

–‘Sweetest Thing’ by Lauryn Hill

My childhood friend Mikey always said that women were just flat out irrational and illogical. Too dependent on their emotions he’d say. Can’t trust ‘em. They should never be CEO’s or run countries. Running a household was as much responsibility as they should have. That was Mikey’s stance and he wasn’t budging. To be fair, Mikey had women do and say the craziest shit in order to get with or stay with him. Or to push his buttons.

As for myself, I’ve got to be honest. I think women are bat-shit crazy. Maybe I’m too much of a man to wrap my head around thought processes that differ from my own brain and cock centred logic, but more often than not women leave me scratching my heads. I mean all women. My mother, my sister, my aunts, my cousins and women I’ve dated. Especially ones I’ve dated.

I had one girlfriend break up with me because I wouldn’t fight with her. Note that I didn’t say I wouldn’t argue with her. Those who know me, know just how argumentative I can be. She broke it off because I refused to have prolonged and protracted fights over things like the correct way to make tea or the colour of Alex Trebek’s moustache. Things that just aren’t important when you’re 21, fresh out of university, underemployed and still living in your momma’s basement.

I had another girlfriend start a yelling match with me in a bookstore because I didn’t introduce her to Mikey as my girlfriend, I only called her name. Never mind the fact that as one of my closest friends Mikey already knew all about her, so he didn’t need to know her title or job description.

Then there was the girl who had the meltdown in the mall while trying to buy a new skirt. Seemed she didn’t like the fit. Wanted to know what I thought. When I told her it looked okay, everything became un-okay. It became a “you’re so mean, so inconsiderate and so inattentive” conversation. I was the devil apparently. There were tears and recriminations. Pointed fingers and accusations. I didn’t know what to do as we roamed the cavernous shopping mall. In a panic I offered to buy her ice cream. She always liked ice cream. I knew it. She knew it. Everyone who knew her knew it. However, this gesture was interpreted as some indication that she was fat or an invitation to get fat or…frankly all these years later I’m not sure what happened but offering to get her an ice cream cone (did I mention how much she looooooved ice cream?) was interpreted as an act of aggression.

But here’s the piece de resistance. In the aftermath of my grandmother’s death, my friends wanted to take me out for drinks to help ease the pain. After all, just like everyone who knows me they knew how I close I was to my grandmother. Anyway, my then girlfriend threw a fit. She wanted to spend the night with me. I told her I was going out with the boys and that I would see her the next day. She said that I should be with her instead of my friends. I said that wasn’t going to happen. She said that I was an asshole. I said maybe I am, but I’m still going out with the boys. With a voice filled with rage she said, “fine don’t call me anymore”. So I didn’t. Two weeks later she called me wanting to know why I hadn’t called her.

Sweetest woman in the world,
Could be the meanest woman in the world
If you make her that way.

–“It’s a Thin Line Between Love and Hate” by The Persuaders

I’m generally a good guy, but I’ve done some dirt in my time. I’ve ignored phone calls or didn’t call when I said I would. I’ve been out on the town drinking with the boys when she’s at home by herself. I’ve been “sometimeish” with my affections. At times I’ve been a shitty boyfriend. And when you’re a shitty boyfriend you can’t expect your lady to be sweet like sugar all the time.

That’s the thing about calling women emotional, illogical and irrational. They might be, but how these things manifest themselves can often be determined by how you treat the woman or treat the situation. Take my friend Mikey, president of the women are emotional, illogical and irrational school of thought. Mikey never met a woman he didn’t want to flirt with—even if he had a girlfriend. Nor did Mikey really know what it meant to be faithful. Or to commit.

In fact Mikey treated the woman he wasn’t with better than the woman he was with. All the time. So it kind of goes without saying that there are going to be some trust issues there. Or some emotion. Some illogic. And a lack of rationality.

Now this isn’t to excuse batshit crazy women (which based on my own unscientific and wholly anecdotal experience is roughly…all of you). But the thing is even though in my gut, in my heart of hearts, in that part of my being that governs my emotions I think women are crazy, my logical, rational man brain tells me this can’t be true. Or the entire story.

Anyway. Many moons ago my brother was venting to me about the latest in a long line of women to frustrate him with crazy, logically inconsistent and emotional behaviour.

“I just don’t get it” he said “what the f*** is wrong with women, why the f*** do I even bother?”

My response was simple. And maybe the “truest” thing I’ve ever said.

“Dude, our job isn’t to understand women. It’s to love and respect them as best we can. Period. Leave the understanding to someone else.”

ALL women want to get married and have babies? I’m not so sure.

I think there was a time where maybe that did hold true. Not necessarily because women wanted to get married and have babies per se, but because that was what society expected; nay even demanded. Plain and simple. Indeed, for a woman to veer from that path she was considered a ‘transgressor’.

My grandmother is an interesting case in point. Married during the Second World War, to my grandfather – a man she had gone on a handful of dates with before he left for the war effort – she had three children. Because that was what you did in the 1940’s, right?

By the time she was in her late thirties she had started a career in broadcasting, and became a minor celebrity of sorts. She loved the work and the glamour and had an affair with a much younger man.

The thing is motherhood just never sat well with my grandmother. And she certainly wasn’t very good at it. Born fifty years later, I’d venture to say that she would have chosen a very different path. One that probably would’ve involved a career, a lot more men and if a child did come, it would’ve been an afterthought. Or something she did when she was much older.

Now, I tell you all of this because I think (some) men do still believe that the only thing a woman wants is to put a ring on it and have babies. Because that’s how we’re programmed, or somethin’. For the record I’d like to state that, just because we’re girls does not mean that we automatically dream of wearing big white pouffy dresses and hearing the pitter patter of tiny feet.

Just like all men are not commitment-phobic cheats, not all women embrace the idea of motherhood and marriage. In fact, the thought scares many of us just as much as it does a man.

I have never liked babies, and when I was younger I was very put off by the sight of pregnant women. I’m still very ambivalent about the whole baby thing and am more open to the idea of adopting a child, than I am to having one of my own (I still find the thought of child birth rather disconcerting).

I have a lot of friends, fantastic women in their early thirties all of whom are convinced that motherhood is not for them. I also have a couple of friends who have had a kid with their partner but they are not in the slightest bit interested in getting married. “Why would I go and do that for?” my good friend Sash asked me.

The playing field has shifted so dramatically in the last forty odd years or so, and women today have so many choices. That’s not to say that motherhood and marriage are not great choices, but they are not the only ones. We hear stories all the time about women juggling successful careers with marriage and motherhood, and having it all (or at least trying to).

But the idea that ALL women want to get married and have babies? That’s a load of baloney. And, it also presupposes that it is not something men want. Which is bullshit, because I know a lot of men who want nothing more than to settle down and have a family.

I’m not opposed to marriage (my quest for an American husband has been well documented), and it doesn’t mean that I don’t want to have children. But it’s not something that I lie awake dreaming about. I would venture to say that this is true for a lot of women. We want career success, financial independence and when it’s right, maybe a family. More than anything, we like the freedom our choices afford us.

All that being said, it’s probably best NEVER to assume anything especially when it comes to what men and women want in dating, love and life.

KB is the author of the searingly honest and the (sometimes) saucy blog, KB IN NYC. She is the quintessential single girl, and has been around the proverbial dating block more times than she cares to remember. She believes fiercely in the power of red nails, has a penchant for five-star hotels and hasn’t given up, just yet, on finding Mr. Right. KB lives in New York .

“I never married because there was no need. I have three pets at home which answer the same purpose as a husband. I have a dog that growls every morning, a parrot that swears all afternoon, and a cat that comes home late at night.” – Marie Corelli

This week we are debunking the myth that all women want marriage and babies. I don’t agree with statements that make such sweeping generalisations, but here’s a confession: I do.

I, Elizabeth Rose, self proclaimed slut of the first and finest order would some day like to get married and have babies. I want a husband and children. I daydream of a nice house in a happy chaos of books, pets and artwork. I picture a brood of my curly haired miniatures dashing in from the garden in their jelly shoes and my beloved looking up from the crossword to scold “No running in the house!”.

I even have my wedding planned. I hope to elope to Vegas where the service will be performed by a JP dressed as Elvis, before holding my reception at a karaoke bar.

And I’m broody. I can’t see a pair of baby shoes without spontaneously ovulating.  But, and this is a huge BUT:

I don’t want to marry you.

I don’t want to have your babies.

I did not agree to sleep with you as part of some master plan to trap you into getting your last name.

The presumption that I am trying to entice you into more than a passing flirtation or a momentary distraction is almost insulting. If I thought you were my equal and the potential source for half my spawns’ genetics; then you would be intelligent enough to know I am not into playing games.

Maybe there are women out there who would try to ensnare a mate through falsehoods and trickery, likely there are men like that as well. But let’s not assume all our current bedfellows are from the lower end of the integrity scale. Be honest with yourself about what you want from a connection and communicate it to the other parties. If it evolves, then have that conversation too.

And just remember, just because I can’t hide my yearning when I hold a friend’s baby it doesn’t mean that I will be looking for your swimmers to make that final charge.