I had big plans to do a sex meme tonight as I am both tired and more than a little anxious about tomorrow’s appointment at the Gynaecology Department. My anxiety comes in two parts - the usual fairly boring ‘what if they find something horrible which ends up with lying on a trolley being wheeled into surgery or being on the front cover of the British Medical Journal (or both); and the other slightly more interesting and definitely more blog-able.

I am not sure what is going to happen tomorrow - whether or not there will be some kind of scan or… exam… I would totally prefer a pen and paper - you have two hours - in a stuffy room type but the physical? No… It’s not the embarrassing exposure part - well, it is but its also…

To put it another way… I’m a little sensitive … and not exactly hard to please…

The last time I had an exam I was asked twice if it was too warm as I looked a little flushed. It was difficult to explain that the slightest touch…

I’m not, thank God, one of those woman who can’t control herself; but it does get hard difficult interesting sometimes trying to think of new ways to take my mind off what is going on… and not suggesting ‘a little to the left and a little harder please’.

I usually try dividing phone numbers by 2 or 3 or something or trying to remember all the lyrics to Stairway To Heaven but that doesn’t help when whoever is examining you is trying to keep up a conversation in a light hearted way.

So my question to you is what is your mental cold shower? Have you ever needed one?

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I saw this quiz over on Citizen of the Month , and knowing what I was going to be writing about today decided to take it.

Powered By Adult Toy Shop

So, that’s not bad right? I mean, at about £500 an hour I could get a place to live and pretty much anything I want. I mean, obviously men all over the place are just dying to sleep with me , even to the point of dropping a months rent on 60 minutes in heaven with me!

Prostitutes, or if we are going to be all PC about it - Sex Care Providers - fall into two groups in my head.

• The willing
• The not

The willing to me are those men and women who have chose this as their profession, much in the same way someone chooses to be a lawyer, or an administrator, or a call centre operator. They are providing a service, filling a niche; it’s just their job is unsavoury to a lot of people. But they work hard at their jobs… and get about as much enjoyment as the rest of us do… I suppose. Having never actually spoken to anyone in that industry i am getting all of this info from the blog which inspired the TV Series Secret Diary of a Call Girl (Yes the one with Billie Piper in it).

The only difference between us and them is that they probably have better stories to tell at the water cooler.

The ‘not’ are victims of horrible circumstances, horrible people, a part of a horrible world. There is a special place in hell reserved for those who control the lives of these men and women, boys and girls, and it is the responsibility of all of us who enjoy sex to do what we can to let other’s enjoy it again too.

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So I am sitting in Starbucks, drinking my grande Caramel Macchiato and picking the frosting from my Sicilian Lemon Cupcake (heaven on a plate) thinking about sex.

I know, Starbucks just says sex, doesn’t it? The froth on the top of the coffee, the drizzling of the caramel, the lick as the tip of your tongue brushes away the touch of frosting from your still moist lips. Mmmm…

But seriously, the Starbucks I was sitting in is opposite a jewellery shop and this got me thinking about sex as well. The bling bling jewels on the soft satin sheets and crushed velvet (that no one in the history of man has ever put on their bed in a serious fashion, have they? Oh, you have. Sorry - am a first class moron here, but come on?!). The furtive glances between man buying jewels and the woman he is hope that this’ll be the gift that persuades her to do thing he really wants (make Tiramisu obviously) . Even the uniform they are wearing ( a austere black suit) screams sex. It’s the outfit the sexy secretary wears just shortly before being bent over the desk and spanked. “Ooo, harder, harder. Kitty had been a very naughty girl for not filing the quarterly returns, and needs to be taught a lesson…”

There doesn’t seem to be much which, since I started thinking about it, doesn’t relate to sex in some way. It’s probably because of a conversation we had today about sex and the internet. This started because of news that all sexual offenders have to hand their email addresses in so that social networking sites like Bebo, MySpace and Facebook can ban them from their internet sites (a policy so ridiculously full of holes that even the most stupid of all sex offenders will find their way round it). Follow me if you will form this to sex on the net. It was a whole, sex offenders… protect kids, bad things on the computer, they see bad things, sex is bad, sex on the internet thing - hardly Led Zeppelin to nachos and cheese in six moves or less.

I had to explain to someone how anything can be plugged into Google and a sex related site will pop out - maybe not on page one but somewhere down the list it will… Of course that was 20 minutes of trying ridiculous things like “crochet pattern” and “MacBook Air” (which of course is just pure sex anyway) trying to prove me wrong in a ‘that just can’t be true’ way.

Please note, I am not endorsing these websites and think they really should sort themselves out so that only the people who actually want to see “Fruit Salad” will see that. Obviously these people are going to lose their buzz when re-directed to the Delia Smith and see a different use for a Granny Smith.

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Where better to start a month of talking about sex and sexuality than the first time.

Set the scene. Okay.

I was young and pathetically in ‘follow you round like a dumb animal’ love. I had always been the ‘friend’ who lived vicariously through her much more attractive friends romances. So when someone paid attention I would really focus. I would giggle in all the right places and hold hands and do pretty much anything to make sure that I stayed in my happy fantasy zone… with all the melodrama that comes with it. Even though it was a long distance thing…

ANYWAY… There was a party to celebrate a birthday. Parties, of course, being an excuse to get drunk, have a crisis and a windswept melodramatic argument, storm out, be chased and then have a huge make up scene.

Well, it all went very well, the drinking, the crisis (I saw him kissing someone else), the melodramatic argument (face slap, turn on heel, everyone staring), stormed out and was chased down the road (best friend followed me) to the local park, which would be walked through to home. Best friend was being all defensive and hateful to him, in that way that best friend’s are legally required to be. He was all manly and tall and sent her packing.

"She kissed me. It’s not my fault."

Now, we all know that I am a sucker for a good line … and that wasn’t a particularly good line. It took ten whole minutes of him begging forgiveness before I believed that he was an angel, and the much more attractive girl he had been kissing was an evil temptress trying to lure away my man.

I, to this day, can’t remember the thought process in my head that lead to me losing my underwear in that park, and thinking it was a good idea. I do remember it was up against a wall. I do remember it was over very quickly and I remember it feeling ‘jerky’ and terrible.

And I remember us breaking up not long after that.

I really wasn’t ready for it. I wasn’t emotionally prepared for the rollercoaster of crap that would go through my head, not being able to tell anyone as I was so ashamed, going through the horror of thinking I was pregnant and having to travel to a town 20 miles away from my own to guarantee no one would see me buying a test kit. And then, after we broke up being convinced I was ‘rubbish’ and going through all that with only my diary to tell.

So romantic it was not, good it was not, but at least I got some fresh air!

So, do any of you feel brave enough to tell your first time stories?

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Yes, that’s the word. The scary word. (And, yes, a STUNNINGLY original title) The word that makes me feel so very good and horrible and ashamed and alone and loved and hated. Passionate and passionless.

I mean, come on! I’m the size of a beached whale. And not one of those ‘cute’ sleek killer whales either. Fat people don’t have sex, do they?

Well, not recently anyway. Sigh. But that’s an issue between me and my rabbit.

Anyway, why, you may ask am I talking about that which makes the world go up and down and round and round?

April (in the US) is National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month (just so you know it’s National Pet Month in the UK) and that gorgeous cherry of a man Kevin Apgar is holding another of his Grassroots Blogging campaigns.

To take part in this campaign, one blogs about… hang on did I just use ‘one’ as a pronoun? What the holy hell is that about?… Oh well…

…one blogs about anything one likes, s long as it falls under the banner of ’sexuality’. It’s to promote a book and to raise money for a very very worthy cause - RAINN - Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network.

You can donate money by clicking here

You can read more about the Campaign here

You can buy the book here

And you can read Carly Milne’s (the author’s) blog here.

And you can read Kevin Apgar’s blog here.

For someone who, yes - writes about personal things - but not personal things this is just the challenge I need to step outside of myself and release the inner me and all that other stuff I have been reading about in the self help book I found on the bus.

So throughout the next month I will be talking about my sexual past, embarrassing stories abound, struggles and intrigue, drama and romance, fantasies and oh, sticky reality. I’ll also be talking about the serious stuff too - y’know, if I can pull my mind out of the gutter long enough.

So donate money to RAINN , show Kevin and Carly some lovin’ and go read the other participants blogs too!