Finally! A selfie stick I can actually get behind. Or under. Or over, even, depending on my mood.
A couple of weeks ago, in a splendid scene of suburban domesticity, I’d made a batch of gnocchi and we were eating them at his table while watching a little porn.
Not the kind I’d normally pick – a squirting video where a creepy guy (wearing an already-damp t-shirt) deploys the “gold standard” G-spot stimulation technique – I gestured to the supine lady still pulsing on screen.
“This,” I said, jabbing my finger at her contractions, “is why I don’t understand how women get away with faking orgasms.”
The ultimate in faking an orgasm? That Scene in When Harry Met Sally.
Rhetoric of course. In fact, I understand it perfectly well.
Cinema, porn and more recently TV have offered up plenty of female orgasms. (Except in Fifty Shades of Grey where they’re curiously absent, but that’s a conversation for another time).
Such material has taught us the all-importance of ragged breathing, of passionate pleas to the almighty, about the need for hair-tossing and groaning as essential proof that we’re having a jolly time.