For the past few years I’ve been a coquettish minx of the night, kicking men out of my bed with my Dolce and Gabanna heels and avoiding commitment like someone had just asked me to chew off my own toe nails.

But now I find myself with a real competitor for my affections, and it’s left me running for cover. For someone who has been able to conduct casual sex with the utmost of finesse, and get in and out (literally) without so much as flicker of emotion (yes, that was great, but please don’t be calling me or anything annoying like that) I was floored when I found myself kissing the man in question in the rain on Flinders St for a good ten minutes with traffic and people passing by and dancing under a gazebo whilst he hummed the music in my ear like a scene from The Notebook. There in those moments, time stood still and my heart burst open, and it was exquisite.

How the feck did this man manage to infiltrate my walls, and succeed where no man has before? Why is my heart shutting down again, and is it possible for me to open it again, and let love back in. Yikes! Did I just mention the L word?

I have known the man in question for over a year, but never for one moment did I think he was romantically interested in me. That was until he told me one night how he felt about me, and I was floored beyond belief. You might as well have told me that Jordan had given up botox.

I of course gave him a one night only pass, but he refused and said that I deserved so much more than that. Had he lost his marbles?! He was turning down a one night stand?! However, t’was not 5 minutes later that there was a knock at the door, after telling the taxi that he just got in to go home, that he was passing up the opportunity of a lifetime and that he was getting out.

The one night stand became a window of 3 strikes you’re out, to the status of “summer fling”. Even after spending a week together house sitting for a friend, I was still as cold as ever on the romance front. But then something changed. I started talking to him online at night.

It was in these conversations that I discovered someone that in all the time that I known him, I had never seen before. Deep. Beautiful. Tender. I won’t tell you all the beautiful things he said about me, because they are private, and he is the kind of person that holds things close to his heart, but I will tell you this. They came from a very pure place. So pure that they moved me to tears.

We started going out in the evenings. Walking on the beach and watching the sunset. Going to dinner. Sitting on the foreshore and watching the moon’s light glisten over the glassiness of the still and calm water. Just being with each other and spending time together. Laughing. Talking. Oh, and yes let’s not forget the dancing.

This is all sounding so swimmety swell, so why are you not falling head over your manolos for him, and why on earth did you run out of the car the other week and tell him to forget about you?

Well, I wish I had more control over my heart, but I don’t. You see, I had to shut it down in order to cope over the past few years. It was something I had to do for self preservation until I could get myself to a position of strength, and I here I am.  Yet, the thought of romance now entering my life has me spiralling out of control, and my heart has become so good at protecting itself from myself, that it goes into auto pilot and pushes away anyone or anything that resembles romance.

But, it’s time to start talking to my heart, and telling it just exactly who is boss. For, I can’t let it hold me back anymore. There will be some hoops to jump and emotions to move through, but if I don’t do it, I will stay where I am now. Sure my life is grand, and I am happy, but my heart is numb to love and romance, and it’s not who I really am.

For I believe in love. It’s more important than anything else, and it’s the driving force in our lives. For people don’t remember when you die how much money you earnt, the targets you achieved at work or the house you lived in – they remember how you made them feel and the love that you shared.

I also have someone in my life who puts me first. Who adores me. Who worships the ground I walk upon. Who gets me. Who is trustworthy. Who is willing to be patient with me as I work through this and put his heart out there knowing that there are no guarantees, knowing that I may come out the other end and he may not be the one for me. But I tell you this, no matter what happens, he has made me feel more special than anyone has ever before, and I’m sure there’s something in that.

As a woman who has no current interest in a relationship, I’m not impartial to the odd well timed one night stand. I love leaving the next morning and walking down the street with a bounce in my step looking like the cat that got the cream.

But too many one night stands and I would start to feel like a tart. I could also do without having to navigate strange men’s bedrooms praying that they have clean sheets; avoiding the awkward exchanges with their flatmates in the hallway whilst running to the toilet in the middle of the night with nothing but a sheet wrapped around my naked body; and also searching for my knickers in the cold hard light of day, so I can put the rest of my clothes on and get into a taxi.

Enter the FWB – Friends With Benefits. Whereas an FB is a straight sexual transaction (you’ll be pushing it to get breakfast in the morning), the FWB is no strings attached sex, but with the added bonus of being able to go to a movie together, do dinner and have an actual friendship. The FWB is one step away from the SBF (surrogate boyfriend), but that’s another story in itself.

But it’s usually nothing more than a concept, because in reality it will nearly always go pear shaped (just ask Jerry and Elaine). However, occasionally, v. occasionally, someone is able to pull off casual sex without eventually wanting more than a good shag on Wednesday night. Yes, they can act like a lady, yet have sex like a man (thanks to Steve Harvey for helping me to coin that phrase).

Well, that woman is me. Somehow in my 30s, I have the act of casual sex down to an art form. I can do the mercy shag with a friend, have one night stands and even repeat sex with the same person, without getting emotionally attached. How do I do it? Besides being rather emotionally closed off to romance, I know how to choose the right subjects and how to outsmart oxytocin. Oxy what, you ask? Well, there’ll be more of that in my book (I do apologise for being like a reality TV show – “we’ll be back just after this break to tell you whose been evicted”, but I know you’ll forgive me).

I’ve had my FWB since 2007. We’re the best of friends, hang out, look out for each other, and, oh, we have sex too. He’s the relationship without the relationship. Now, many of my friends think he is a real catch – and he is. But we could never be with each other romantically, and we both get that. We are more like best friends on school camp together, sneaking up to the top bunk in the middle of the night with our torches and counting out our lollies together . I am sure if we hung out when we were 8, we would have ridden down to the lake together to catch tadpoles after school. Oh, and, yes, we do a lot of laughing together. Like last night when we walked down to the 7/11 in the middle of the night to buy slurpies, whilst retelling jokes from the Steve Harvey stand up we had just watched.

There is no romantic commitment and we’re both free to sleep with other people (but our friends are off limits, because that would be just wrong). Not that we do sleep with other people all that often, because, let me tell you, we got it going on in the bedroom. There’s no head damage, no expectations of each other, no hour long phone calls to friends analysisng where it’s going, and wondering if one of us has feelings for each other (yes folks, I did that a lot in my 20s). And, no, I’m not in denial. It just is.

Come on, surely there must be a chance between the two of you? Everything sounds so peachy keen, you must have thought about something more with him. Well, sure, I am sure both of us would have considered it at some stage early on, but now, we both emphatically know that we’d drive each other nuts. Like really nuts. I could tell you all the ways he irritates the hell out of me, and the things I do that get him going, but then we’d just sound like an old married couple. We’re just wired differently, and we accept that. I like calm and easygoing, and he can be uptight ( he would beg to differ and will probably yell out, no, I’m not, when he reads this, but he is). Don’t worry, it won’t end our friendship, actually, it’s a bit of an injoke between us.

Sure, I will probably flip out when he meets someone who he wants to be in a relationship with (I know Katie is on standby for that phone call), and vice versa . That’s only natural. There’s still a bond between us that will be broken when one of us finds someone else, but we’ll both genuinely be happy for each other. Because he deserves someone special, and he feels the same way about me.

Ultimately the reason our arrangement works is because of who we both are and where we are both at, and I concede it’s a rare combination. I too have tried casual sex in the past (namely my 20s) and seen the best of intentions unravel. The key to a successful casual sex arrangement is choosing the right person, who understands that there also needs to be respect in the situation, which is why I much prefer an FWB to an FB in my hour of need.

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The below is the post I wrote for Jessica Downey on “All The Single Ladies” in Chicago. Jessica is a self confessed serial single girl, and her website will give you the lowdown on single life and dating in Chicago. Even if you don’t live in Chicago, it is full of great advice and insights for the modern single woman.

Without further adoo, here is an excerpt from my guest post for Jessica:

“Petrified of being alone, some women jump straight from one relationship to another, without taking the time they need to heal.

The problem with being a “relationship slut” is that you end up hauling baggage with you and inevitably dumping it on the next person.

Inevitably, if you haven’t worked through your relationship issues, you will just keep repeating them with other people. It’s like you are trying to put your foot down on the accelerator to escape the pain of the last relationship, but you have a trailer full of junk that is weighing you down, and the wheels are just spinning in the dirt and you are going nowhere fast.”

Click here to read the full article (go on, you know you want to)

No, I’m not talking about dumping him because he won’t put on his hat and gloves and accompany you down town shopping. Yes, we here at The Modern Woman’s Survival Guide want to know how important it is for a guy to go down town on, what shall we say, ahem, your lady bits.

Now, amongst my friends, there’s a consensus that a lot of men don’t like doing it, but the men who do do it, love it and approach it with all the gusto of a six year old and a melting ice cream. A male friend of mine actually said that if a girl didn’t like him doing it, then he considers that a deal breaker. Well, there’s a turn up for the books. I like the way he thinks. Lucky for me, he’s also my occasional friends with benefits.

Amongst my friends, ALL are of the agreement that if a man doesn’t like, nay, love going down, then it’s a definite deal breaker. For all those who may say, oh, that’s a bit shallow don’t you think, well, I’d like to respond and say that we’re talking about a life time of sexual happiness here, and I’m not afraid to admit that that’s important to me, and not something I will compromise on.

If his equipment is up to the job, but he just may be lack lustre in other areas, well I can teach him a thing or two. But, this going down bizzo is not negotiable. Love it or leave I say.

My friend and I were also wondering what the reciprocation requirements were? i.e. Does going down on him carry equal weight as him going down on you, and thus how often should you reciprocate? These could be useful stats for those amongst us who don’t enjoy going down (myself not included, I am giver and a taker) – i.e. is it two blow jobs a week in exchange for him going down town 6 times?

What about men? How many of them would consider it a deal breaker if a woman wouldn’t go down?

What do you think?

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

I rolled out of bed last Tuesday in the early hours of the morning with a hangover, ready to get my flight to Byron Bay. With only half an hour to pack my case (no, I am not a morning person) I opened my wardrobe and swiped the row of coat hangers in my wardrobe, and proceeded to the bathroom to grab whatever was residing on the top of my cabinet, resulting in a serious lack of product (including my fake tan). Violating Universal Law 1.1, which states one should never leave home without gloss, was a move I was to later regret.

After making my flight in the nick of time, I departed Melbourne for the Gold Coast. Upon walking out of the airport to meet my bus for the one hour trip to Byron Bay, I was greeted by glorious sunshine, and its warmth pervaded every part of my body, thawing me out post a long Melbourne winter and immediately elevating me to a new level of happiness.

After a beautiful trip through the NSW hinterlands, I arrived in Byron Bay ready to check into my first set of accommodation. Hello Villas of Byron. It was there I was to spend my first few days, luxuriating in the sub tropical weather and 5 star Balinese style accommodation. I’m talking a grand two bedroom villa compete with marble floors (which could be heated) and a private outdoor pool, spa and shower.

I took the short stroll into town (or should I say skipped like a six year old who has just started their summer holidays from school) and made an immediate beeline for the beach. As an ex Perthite who has not set foot on a beach in at least three years since becoming a Melbournite (one can only use the word beach in relation to St Kilda with a large amount of poetic licence) I was in what can only be described as heaven. I took my off my knee high boots and rolled up my jeans (hello, spot the city girl) and ran down to the shore.

As I walked back down the main street of town, I was engulfed with a sense of freedom, which personifies what I was soon to learn Byron Bay is all about.  I quickly acquainted myself with the stark contrast of sub cultures that seem to harmonically co-exist in the town – a mix of local hippies (real locals versus the people that have moved there during the past 10 years), transient holiday makers and the wealthy who’ve decided to make a sea change.

Come on tell me more about this Pacey, hurry up and get to the good stuff will you? I will, I will, I promise, but first I need to walk you through my first four days. You see, the main reason for me going to Byron Bay was to work on my book and get back in touch with my health, post a long wine fuelled Melbourne winter which had resulted in me carrying a lot more junk in my trunk in the form of a few extra kilos.

I declared a self imposed embargo on wine and committed to eating organic food, drinking water and daily beach walks to restore serenity to thy soul (and more importantly, my thighs). After two nights of luxury that was the Villas of Byron, I packed up my case and moved onto Seaview House on the other side of town, set high above the hill that overlooks the ocean.

It was there, that I found my writing mojo. The beach has always been special to me – not only does it seem to cleanse my soul, it also helps to clear my mind. Sitting on the balcony and taking in the spectacular view of the ocean whilst listening to the waves roll and crash into the shore, I realised I had been walking around all this time like a jigsaw that was missing its final few pieces. Yes, life in Melbourne has been fabulous these past few years, but it took me leaving it to realise there were in fact some gaping holes – like a painter rubbing his hands over a wall in preparation to paint it and filling the imperfections with Selley’s spack filler.

As thoughts naturally sifted through themselves, settling in the form of epiphanies and perspective, I clicked the final pieces of the puzzle into place, finding answers to questions I didn’t know I needed and it restored a contented peace to my heart. Following this came an insatiable urge to turn on my mac, as the inspiration flowed for my book. I suddenly found the words that I need to complete chapters that I had been previously agonising over for months, and, well, let’s be honest – years. My hands could barely keep up, as I furiously typed away in a quest to capture the steady stream of thoughts that were running through my brain.

Every time I took a break to have a cigarette and walk down through the steps which were surrounded with tropical trees and plants, I would have to butt it out and race back to my mac, scared I would forget the unexpected moments of literary brilliance. I went to bed contented, with the doors and windows open so that I could sleep with the sound and breeze of the ocean washing over me.

The following day I was scheduled to check into an apartment right in town. Any travel writer reviewing accommodation learns that the glamour of staying for free in luxury accommodation is abated by the early 10am checkout and not being able to check into the next hotel until 2pm. I soon learnt that this was the window of opportunity to sample the local day spas and beauticians. One delightful manicure and pedicure later, and I was ready to collect my suitcase from the apartment’s lobby and enter my room.

I settled in with an organic meal and a mango smoothie, and put on some Billy Holiday. I’m not sure if it was the jazz coupled with the writing, but I was soon hankering for a sauvignon blanc. After a few moments deliberation, whereby like any woman on a diet or detox, I started to deals with myself (well, I’ve been good all week, so surely that means I’ve earned myself a bottle of wine) and it wasn’t before long I had decided that I’d had enough of this health malarkey and headed to the nearest bottle shop.

Back in my room, I savoured three delightful glasses of wine, when I was overcome with an overwhelming need to hit town and meet some people. Sure, I was my on own, but what did I have to lose? Being adept at being able to get myself out of any unsavoury situation, I threw on some clothes and slapped on my face, and hit the Beach Hotel.

I circled the establishment and my initial suspicions that the place would be full of bogans were confirmed. Not one to be easily defeated, I did one more lap. It was then, there in the corner that I spotted three young boys. Ding, ding, ding!

“Hello, my name is Gaynor and I am in town on my own, would you like to be my friends for the night?” There were two intoxicated boys batting for Australia with the consumption of illicit substances, but then there was Peter. Cute, ever so tanned with gorgeous green eyes Peter – and more importantly unintoxicated Peter. Cool, calm and real – just, the way I like my men, or should I say, boys.

He reminded me not only of the kind of boy I would have been attracted to when I was 16, but also of a taller and better looking version of Pacey from Dawson’s Creek. I immediately informed him, from there on in, he would in fact for all intent purposes be called Pacey (for all my casual sex conquests are never referred to by their real names – I could tell you stories of Jesus, Robin Hood and Dave the Dapper Electrician, but I’ll save that for another time).

I moved onto another bar with my new friends, and soon began reveling in memories of my misspent youth. Oh, have I not told you that Pacey was only 23, and his comrades slightly less younger? The age difference became visibly apparent when they ordered “Jungle Juice” whilst I ordered a sauvignon blanc from the bar. However, I was in Byron Bay, and my new motto became “Only in Byron”. A motto that soon extended to many other escapades and violations of my normal code of conduct (including my “shoes are never an optional item in public” rule – but, more about that later).

After a few drinks we ventured back to the boys’ house, where Pacey cooked us all dinner. I looked around and realised that it was in fact one of those fabulous nights where you end up far from where you thought you would when you woke up in the morning and washed your hair and brushed your teeth – my favourite kind indeed – because these are the moments in life when you feel most alive.

Whilst the other two boys continued to hit sixes for Australia, Pacey and I headed back to the Beach Hotel for another drink. Whilst he was at the bar, I decided that it would be a good idea to go for a night time walk along the beach. “Pacey, here’s what I propose. I’m going to smuggle your beer out of here in my bag (an easy task considering I previously have done the same with bottles of wine under my coat in other establishments with much more security many a time) and buy us another packet of cigarettes, and then we’re going to hit the beach.”

We walked for miles along the beach, which seemed to stretch on forever. We eventually found a place to sit and spent the next hour chatting (or was it an hour, because it was one of those nights where time stood still). The kind of meeting random people on holiday conversation that means you skip past the obligatory getting to know you chit chat and get straight to the good stuff, knowing you may never seem them again. Magic.

On our way back, Pacey decided to walk into the water. It was surprisingly warm, and it didn’t take me long to run back to the shore to deposit my bag on its sand, in the name of swimming fully clothed in the water at midnight.

It was about this time that I decided I was going to take this new younger model for a test drive. For what he may have lacked in experience, he could surely make up for in stamina. After walking through the town bare foot and dripping wet, I whisked him back to my apartment so that I could have my way with him.

Now, I am usually all grab them by the collar and push them up against the wall. However, I displayed an unusual level of composure and restraint and snuggled up against him in bed whilst watching a DVD. It reminded me of encounters with high school crushes, when the anticipating expectation builds butterflies in your stomach, and you ever so surely, yet ever so slowly move closer and closer to the warm body in your bed, whilst your swirling sexual attraction is heightened by the will we, won’t we?

After an hour or so, we finally kissed. He was soft, tender and attentive. Warning, warning, Will Robinson, this kind of  encounter was not in the confines of my normal code of conduct for casual sex 101. Let me explain.

I have casual sex down to a fine art. The name of the game is to avoid the over production of oxytocin, which is a chemical produced when two people have sex, making them feel bonded to each other, in the name of procreation of the human species. Not wanting to get involved in a menage a trois with genetics, I have learnt that the less affection there is coupled with kicking them straight out of bed in your Dolce and Gabbana heels, the less production of oxytocin that there is, and the resultant danger of getting emotionally attached to what is essentially nothing more than a one night stand. The deviant coquettish side of my nature that underpins my Audrey Hepburn demeanor, doth love the juxtaposition of this kind of scenario.

But the kissing and the affection was far too nice. Like a teenager deciding whether to pop another ecstasy pill, I had a choice to make. I could milk this for all it was worth over the next few days and risk the inevitable oxytocin comedown, or I could play it safe. I, of course chose the former. After all, I was on holidays, and was never going to see him again and it was nothing a bottle of vino and a few cigarettes couldn’t fix when I got home … and did I mention how cute he was? It also appealed to the investigative nature of my writer’s mind – would this young boy’s equipment be up to the job?

After a number of nights and days of non stop shenanigans, I can report, that yes indeed, whilst he was young, he sure did know a few tricks of the trade. I always file men in the category of those who don’t like to go down, and the men that do, and let it be known that he was of the latter – and mighty good at it to boot (the former is a sexual deal breaker for me).

The only side effect that I must warn all women in their 30s who like myself might decide to indulge in the younger of the male species is this: the words “older woman” gets bandied around far too much, and whilst it is meant to be complimentary (fulfilling a fantasy or two for them) it can leave you running to the mirror to inspect the state of your wrinkles and seriously contemplating botox.

But, would I trade places with my young 20 year old counterparts? Not on your life. For, whilst I may have felt 16 during those few days, I have the mind of a woman in her 30s, who is able to see the situation for what it is and not get caught up in the lunacy that is fantacising about your holiday fling being something more, other than a straight sexual transaction, and well, if you get to actually connect with him and have some great conversations with him at the same time, well that’s a bonus, but something that is left behind at the destination.

I spent my last day of post coital bliss writing postcards, reading a magazine, filling a notepad with my thoughts and ideas for future articles and dispensing a few well timed vinos as I caught my last glimpses of the beauty that is the beach at Byron. Pacey came to briefly meet me for a drink, before I said goodbye and prepared myself to leave the paradise of Byron Bay.

Like an Italian woman in mourning, I put on my mandatory Melbourne black and greeted my limousine that was to drive me to the Gold Coast airport ready to board the plane for the big smoke. Yes, there was a definite lump in my throat and I was as flat as a day old pancake in desperate need for some maple syrup, but it was all worth it.

I am of course today relishing in my perpetual post shag high, which will be sure to see me through to the end of the week. Thank you Byron, and, yes, of course Pacey. You were magic. Thanks for the holiday memories – and I am sure you will be checking off the rest of your list over summer.

Madam Holiday xx

As a woman who has no current interest in a relationship, I’m not impartial to the odd well timed one night stand. I love leaving the next morning and walking down the street with a bounce in my step looking like the cat that got the cream.

But too many one night stands and I would start to feel like a tart. I could also do without having to navigate strange men’s bedrooms praying that they have clean sheets; avoiding the awkward exchanges with their flatmates in the hallway whilst running to the toilet in the middle of the night with nothing but a sheet wrapped around my naked body; and also searching for my knickers in the cold hard light of day, so I can put the rest of my clothes on and get into a taxi.

Enter the FWB – Friends With Benefits. Whereas an FB is a straight sexual transaction (you’ll be pushing it to get breakfast in the morning), the FWB is no strings attached sex, but with the added bonus of being able to go to a movie together, do dinner and have an actual friendship. The FWB is one step away from the SBF (surrogate boyfriend), but that’s another story in itself.

But it’s usually nothing more than a concept, because in reality it will nearly always go pear shaped (just ask Jerry and Elaine). However, occasionally, v. occasionally, someone is able to pull off casual sex without eventually wanting more than a good shag on Wednesday night. Yes, they can act like a lady, yet have sex like a man (thanks to Steve Harvey for helping me to coin that phrase).

Well, that woman is me. Somehow in my 30s, I have the act of casual sex down to an art form. I can do the mercy shag with a friend, have one night stands and even repeat sex with the same person, without getting emotionally attached. How do I do it? Besides being rather emotionally closed off to romance, I know how to choose the right subjects and how to outsmart oxytocin. Oxy what, you ask? Well, there’ll be more of that in my book (I do apologise for being like a reality TV show – “we’ll be back just after this break to tell you whose been evicted”, but I know you’ll forgive me).

I’ve had my FWB since 2007. We’re the best of friends, hang out, look out for each other, and, oh, we have sex too. He’s the relationship without the relationship. Now, many of my friends think he is a real catch – and he is. But we could never be with each other romantically, and we both get that. We are more like best friends on school camp together, sneaking up to the top bunk in the middle of the night with our torches and counting out our lollies together . I am sure if we hung out when we were 8, we would have ridden down to the lake together to catch tadpoles after school. Oh, and, yes, we do a lot of laughing together. Like last night when we walked down to the 7/11 in the middle of the night to buy slurpies, whilst retelling jokes from the Steve Harvey stand up we had just watched.

There is no romantic commitment and we’re both free to sleep with other people (but our friends are off limits, because that would be just wrong). Not that we do sleep with other people all that often, because, let me tell you, we got it going on in the bedroom. There’s no head damage, no expectations of each other, no hour long phone calls to friends analysisng where it’s going, and wondering if one of us has feelings for each other (yes folks, I did that a lot in my 20s). And, no, I’m not in denial. It just is.

Come on, surely there must be a chance between the two of you? Everything sounds so peachy keen, you must have thought about something more with him. Well, sure, I am sure both of us would have considered it at some stage early on, but now, we both emphatically know that we’d drive each other nuts. Like really nuts. I could tell you all the ways he irritates the hell out of me, and the things I do that get him going, but then we’d just sound like an old married couple. We’re just wired differently, and we accept that. I like calm and easygoing, and he can be uptight ( he would beg to differ and will probably yell out, no, I’m not, when he reads this, but he is). Don’t worry, it won’t end our friendship, actually, it’s a bit of an injoke between us.

Sure, I will probably flip out when he meets someone who he wants to be in a relationship with (I know Katie is on standby for that phone call), and vice versa . That’s only natural. There’s still a bond between us that will be broken when one of us finds someone else, but we’ll both genuinely be happy for each other. Because he deserves someone special, and he feels the same way about me.

Ultimately the reason our arrangement works is because of who we both are and where we are both at, and I concede it’s a rare combination. I too have tried casual sex in the past (namely my 20s) and seen the best of intentions unravel. The key to a successful casual sex arrangement is choosing the right person, who understands that there also needs to be respect in the situation, which is why I much prefer an FWB to an FB in my hour of need.

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In my 33rd year, I’ve not only come to appreciate the male anatomy more, I realise that I am in fact a bit of a snob. They come in all different shapes and sizes, but quite frankly, most of them are well, let’s face it, ugly. In particular the uncircumcised ones I have encountered in my travels over the years have left me cold.

I bought up the topic at a recent children’s birthday,(time and place and all that) and discovered that circumcision is commonly considered cruel and out of fashion, and anyhow, they all look the same when they’re doing their job. This is all well and good, but I prefer not having to close my eyes at the before shot, until I’m in the midst of proceedings and then there is that small matter of touching it – kind of kills the mood.

With circumcision seemingly on the way out the door, the men of Gen Z will be protected by safety in numbers, after all, if you’ve only ever tasted vanilla ice cream, how can you know what you’re missing out on if there’s no chocolate to choose from?

Perhaps it’s just the Libran in me that likes beautiful things (you’re talking about a woman who will take the longer route to get somewhere to avoid walking down an ugly street and turns her nose up at Coles Prahran) or call me old fashioned, precious, picky and potentially barbaric, but I can’t help but favour the well formed and aesthetically pleasing likes of renaissance man (and yes he is real, not just metaphorical).

When I’m shopping for the right pair of shoes, I’m not just looking for the right size and fit, I’m looking for the prettiest I can find. I’ve never been, and never will be a Hush Puppies kind of woman – no matter how comfortable they are.

Copyright 2009 | Gaynor Alder

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