Whilst male fantasies are short, powerful and to the point – a bit like ‘My Sharona’ by The Knack, say – female fantasies are some symphonic, shape-shifting thing by Alice Coltrane. In their fantasies, the women grow and shrink, shape-shift, change age, colour and location. They manifest as vapour, light and sound, they strobe through conflicting personas (nurse, robot, mother, virgin, boy, wolf) and a zodiac of positions whilst, you suspect, also imagining consistently great-looking hair.
At its best fashion is a game. But for women it’s a compulsory game, like net ball, and you can’t get out of it by faking your period. I know I have tried. And so for a woman every outfit is a hopeful spell, cast to influence the outcome of the day. An act of trying to predict your fate, like looking at your horoscope.
"I personally have a cunt. Sometimes it’s ‘flaps’ or ‘twat’, but most of the time, it’s my cunt. Cunt is a proper, old, historic, strong word. I like that my fire escape also doubles up as the most potent swearword in the English language. Yeah. That’s how powerful it is, guys. If I tell you what I’ve got down there, old ladies and clerics might faint. I like how shocked people are when you say ‘cunt’. It’s like I have a nuclear bomb in my pants, or a tiger, or a gun.
Compared to this the most powerful swearword men have got out of their privates is ‘dick’, which is frankly vanilla, and I believe you’re allowed to use on, like, Blue Peter if something goes wrong. In a culture where nearly everything female is still seen as squeam-inducing, and/or weak - menstruation, menopause, just the sheer simple act of calling someone ‘a girl’ - I love that ‘cunt’ stands, on its own, as the supreme unvanquishable word. It has almost mystic resonance. It is a cunt - we all know it’s a cunt - but we can’t call it a cunt. We can’t say the actual word. It’s too powerful. Like Jews can never utter the Tetragrammaton - and must make do with ‘Jehovah’, instead.”
— Caitlin Moran.
When the subject turns to abortion, cosmetic intervention, birth, motherhood, sex, love, work, misogyny, fear, or just how you feel in your own skin, women still won’t often tell the truth to each other unless they are very, very drunk.
More like How to Be a $1.99 eBook, amirite?
(If you missed the runaway-bestseller train, it’s circling back around and only costs $1.99. You should click over if only to save yourself from my metaphors.)
the single greatest slang term for vagina that I have ever read (even if it’s spelt wrong)
I discovered what love is, and found that it’s just feeling very interested. More interested than I had ever been about anything else before.
Along with underwear, love is a woman’s work. Women are to be fallen in love with. When we discuss the great tragedies that can possibly befall a woman, once we have discounted war and injury, it is the idea of being unloved, and therefore unwanted, that we wince over the most. Elizabeth I may have laid the groundworks of the British Empire, but she could never marry—poor, pale, mercury-caked queen. Jennifer Aniston is a beautiful, successful millionairess who lives in a beach house in LA and will never have to stand in a queue to post a pair of boots back to Topshop’s online return department with a head cold—and yet her entire thirties were written off as the decade in which she just could not keep hold of first Brad Pitt, and then John Mayer. Princess Diana—so unlucky! Cheryl Cole—lonely! Hilary Swank and Reese Witherspoon—got those Oscars, but their husbands left them!
Caitlin Moran, author of How To Be A Woman (via kurisukanji)