I am in The Sun today, alongside four other women, talking about how many people I’ve slept with.
At first, I was just going to do the piece, have my photo taken in a nice dress, and not tell anyone about it. Because, you know, it’s kind of a personal thing, isn’t it? Talking about how many people you’ve slept with is seen as a bit unladylike, isn’t it.
But then I thought, balls to it. I’m in a bloody national paper, and I loved the way I looked in the photos. I had a lovely day, met some brilliant people, and had some great photos taken by one of the best photographers in the country. It’s not often you get to text your friends saying, “guess what, I’m in the biggest newspaper in the country!”
So why talk about it in the first place? Why reveal just how many people I’ve slept with to the entire nation?
Because I don’t care what the entire nation thinks. And to be fair, of all the things people can judge me on, the number of men I’ve shared a bed with is really the least of my concern. If people thought I was a bad mother, I would be bothered. If you think I’m a slag, you crack on.
The thing is, there is a certain section of society that hates women, isn’t there. And it’s not made up solely of men. Women are encouraged by the media to judge and to hate each other. If my number is higher than yours, I’m a slag. Lower, I’m a prude. I can’t win either way!
In a world where female celebrities are on the front of magazines with captions saying they’re too skinny, too curvy, piling on the pounds, with a new boyfriend, crying over their split from a boyfriend, getting married for the umpteenth time, spotted kissing a mystery man… society loves to judge, and we’re encouraged to do it. And it’s often women rather than men that judge each other so harshly. Men on the whole tend not to care about such things, in my experience. It’s the women who congregate in groups, gossipping about a woman’s outfit, the way her toes looked in those shoes, her bad hair extensions, you name it. We seem determined to balance our own sense of self-worth precariously atop others’ failings, and it’s ridiculous and frankly boring!
Of the five women in the piece, I am the oldest, but in the middle number-wise. One of the ladies has slept with 100 men; another is still a virgin. Does it matter? Can you tell from our faces? No. It makes no difference at all to who we are as people and that’s why I really wasn’t bothered by revealing my “magic number” to a national newspaper!