Category Archives: I Couldn’t Help But Wonder…

I Couldn’t Help But Wonder… Were threesomes the new sexual frontier?

For those who don’t already know, I’m answering Carrie’s questions from every episode of Sex and the City (or at least most of them) to see how things have changed for a single thirty-something writer in New York City, ten years after the show ended. Ta-da!


Hmm. I think the answer to this question is pretty simple. No, they’re not. At least not any more. When this episode aired, I was seventeen and thanks to the internet and a teenage girl’s unwavering ability to remember everything that ever happened to her ever, I had just lost my virginity. So yeah, I imagine at the time, I would have been scandalised by the idea of a threesomes. Just as I have been (and continue to be, thanks to Channel Four and HBO) scandalised by the terrible film of the same name.

Just... awful.

Now, as a thirty-two year old woman, I don’t think it’s such a big deal. For the record and so that I don’t have to begin another column by apologising to my mother, I have never had a threesome. I think I’m too selfish, too insecure and too polite. I’d probably end up popping out to make a cup of tea and sobbing quietly while my boyfriend boinked someone else in the bedroom while calling out to ask whether or not she took sugar. I have been asked (don’t look so shocked) but was forced to reply ‘I’m a youngest child with daddy issues, I don’t share my toys.’ He laughed, shut up and asked again two months later. He’s been quiet about it for a few months but I’m sure now the sun is shining, it’ll come up again. Sadly for both of us, he’s not James Bond, a thousand ‘no’s won’t magically turn into a yes.

Anyway, in general, threesomes = not a big deal. Once upon a time, a boy’s birthday was often known as steak and a blowjob day. Now, he’s just as likely to ask you to get another girl involved, people just aren’t scared of them anymore. And while I haven’t had one, I do know lots of people that have, from the ‘girl most likely to’ to the ‘boy least likely to even touch it in case God is watching’ and for the most part, people report good experiences. Whether that’s sexual bravado or not, I don’t know. What I do know is that any horror story I ever heard came from someone in a relationship. Not because she didn’t want to do it but because after it was done, she felt betrayed, like her BF had cheated on her while she was still in the room. Maybe that wasn’t fair but I totally understand it, like I said, I hate sharing my toys.

This actually is one of my toys and I would consider sharing it but you get the idea...

This actually is one of my toys and I would consider sharing it but you get the idea…

A gay friend of mine once explained the reason he felt he had to diet and work out all the time as ‘imagine you were going to get naked with someone who had all the same parts as you and was constantly comparing. I can’t distract with boobs! He’s just checking to see if I’m fat and whether or not mine is bigger than his!’ It made me think. Women can be nasty pieces of work and I can’t imagine how hard it would be to get into it if I was too busy worrying that I was getting a cellulite check at the same time as a shag.

But if threesomes aren’t the new sexual frontier, what is? Ladies (and gents) I think we all know. And I’m trying to think of a fun word to rhyme it to but I can’t. ‘Canal’ and ‘banal’ are both pronounced totally differently. Apparently anal* is the orange of the sex world – orange-schmorange, anal-schmanal. Seriously, there’s nothing more certain to make a table full of experienced, sophisticated ladies squee** faster or more loudly than anal banter. No one wants to talk about it, few people will admit to it and everyone’s still convinced there’s that one girl going around telling everyone she loved it and making it harder for the rest of us. Don’t tell me you don’t know that girl, we both know you do. One of the girls tells you she had a threeway and it’s all wide eyes and ‘ooh, she’s so adventurous and cool’ but if one of your besties tells you she and her BF have begun to practice the love that dare not speak it’s name and it’s eyes down, pretend she didn’t say it or, at best, someone will eventually ask ‘didn’t’t it hurt?’ I don’t know, I’m not pretending I have acted any more differently when it has come up in conversation but ladies, when you think about it, you know those gay guys you love so much? The ones with the cute hair and a quick quips and fantastic taste in Sunday night TV programmes? They’re totally doing it up the ass, all the time. And we don’t hate on them for it.


Guys I’ve talked to about (not only my partners, my friends and friends of friends who decided they didn’t want to be my friend after this convo) have had varied thoughts on the matter. One was dead against it because he thought it was disrespectful, one wouldn’t even try because he thought his peen was ‘too big’ (bless), several who maintained every girl he’d done it with loved it and so, so many who thought ‘maybe if I just try this she won’t notice…’ As with any sexual activity that is consensual, I think it’s a case of each to his own but I can’t for the life of me work out why the stigma is still so intense. It can’t only be because Charlotte York once said ‘no one wanted to marry Mrs Up The Butt’. Is that the true legacy of Sex and the City? That girls are saving their anal virginity for marriage?

It'll take more than one martini to get Charl to give it up.

Since Fifty Shades brought BDSM out of the dungeon and into the daylight, maybe anal is all that’s left. Someone needs to call EL James and tell her society needs a sexy backdoor Hunger Games reimagining. There are so many sexual acts that are still divisive issues between women, whether it’s something perpetrated by the media, by society, religion or simply by the idea ‘good girls don’t’ and that’s really, really depressing. Now that most people engage in sex before marriage, is it just that we need to find another stick with which to beat each other? And of course, like all weapons we women use on each other, as soon as we’re done with it, we pass it over to the boys so they can knock us around with it as well. Oh, feminism, come back, we need you.

* I actually looked at the Babeland website for their advice on what to call it and they most often used the term ‘butt play’. I giggled. For about ten minutes. I am part of the problem.

** If you’ve got five minutes, I recommend a google image search for ‘women looking shocked’. It’s a hoot.


I Couldn’t Help But Wonder… Has monogamy become too much to expect?

For those who don’t already know, I’m answering Carrie’s questions from every episode of Sex and the City (or at least most of them) to see how things have changed for a single thirty-something writer in New York City, ten years after the show ended…


Carrie wasn’t joking when she said New York has infinite possibilities. I am a terrible double booker, I love to hang out with my friends and meet new people and far too often, I agree to too many things in a single day. For example, this coming Friday, I have a lunch meeting, after-work drinks, a sample sale and then a Grease singalong prom to attend. And oh yeah, I’m writing a book. If you can’t decide what to eat, what bar to go to, which neighbourhood to live in, it’s not hard to see how people might consider monogamy impossible as well. It can take me and my friends an hour just to decide where to go for dinner because there’s so much choice – how are men supposed to decide which girl they want to date exclusively?

Ohhhh, Berger.

Ohhhh, Berger.

I was at brunch this Sunday with five of my favourite friends and terrifyingly, between the six of us, we don’t have one solid, official boyfriend. It beggars belief, it really does. But then, I tried to think about it as though I was choosing  dinner from my beloved GrubHub app. Did I fancy the super cute, petite blonde with a mind as sharp as that knife that cuts through cans? Or should I try the obscenely beautiful Venezuelan lawyer? Hmm, but that’s leaving out the hot brunette copywriter with a figure to die for, the sexy brunette with the ridiculous sense of humour and the be-beehived stunner who is smarter and funnier than almost any other woman you’ve ever met. Not to mention the quirky redhead (cough, cough) who I have it on good authority is adorable. It would be a tough choice.

Ensemble hotness

Ensemble hotness

Just by joining a single online dating site (the tactic of choice for most of NYC’s chaps) you can easily rack up three dates a week. And that’s if you’re being picky and a girl. Imagine being a guy, on three or more sites and making all of your choices exclusively with your penis? You’d never make it home. Well, not alone at least. Sadly for me, I don’t have a penis. And without a penis, my ability to compartmentalise my romantic liaisons is limited. As far as I can tell, most of the men I know sort their lives out into assorted boxes – a work box, a buddy box, a date box, a shag box, a love box – and mostly, they don’t seem to interfere with each other at all. As far as I can tell, I only really seem to have one box – my uterus – and it is the source of all of my problems. Because emotions and unrealistic attachments leak directly from the ovaries, right? That’s what periods are, isn’t it? Everything I have goes in one box (bear with me, this isn’t as weird as it sounds), all my thoughts, my feelings, my relationships, they all live side by side, rubbing each other up the wrong way and occasionally causing meltdowns that involve tequila and seven consecutive episodes of Law & Order: SVU. That’s how I get through my days, don’t judge me.

Life in New York is tough, we’ve been over that. We work so hard and we’re all pushed to the limit so often that the idea of going out on date after date after date actually breaks my heart a little bit. Surely after a bitch of a week at work, it’s better to cuddle up on the sofa with your sweetheart than tell a complete stranger where you grew up, what you do for a living and what episode you’re up to on Breaking Bad? It would seem the men of NYC have all got together and decided that getting everything we need from one person is a naïve and outdated idea. Someone I was seeing (actually someone I was in love with but I’m still not quite ready to talk about that if that’s OK) told me in exactly so many words that while he had feelings for me and especially enjoyed certain aspects of our relationship (you know it, I know it, don’t make me say it), he thought it would be a good idea for me to go and find a boyfriend who could give me the ‘emotional support’ and ‘companionship’ I needed. But keep sleeping with him. No, really. A grown man actually said that. And I swear to god, it blew my mind. Who did he think he was? Who did he think I was? And who did he think I would be dating? I just couldn’t work out how my online dating ad would read. ‘Sort of single girl, in love with total tosspot, seeks handsome doormat for fun times, birthdays, Christmases and all the boring bits when the other guy is too busy/lazy to come over and put it in her’ with a picture of me giving a double thumbs up?

How about it fellas?

How about it fellas?

In all honesty, I think he is kind of a one off, I do have a talent for seeking the romantically detached and emotionally unstable after all. I’m pretty sure most men, while very excited to be sampling a selection from across the lady menu, would rather their girlfriends/hookups/dates/whatever weren’t doing the same. Or at least they’d rather not know if they are. But are we missing out by failing to compartmentalise? Would life be so much sweeter if we could date one guy for his amazing sense of humour, another for his fabulous taste in sweater vests and another for his dong? I love those little perspex boxes from Muji. Perhaps they’ve considered making metaphorical ones for my poor, distracted brain.

For me it’s a no. I don’t know if it’s biological or what but I don’t have the time, energy or inclination to date five different fellas and keep all their names straight. And it’s not because I’m dying to put a little Lindsey in my baby box, it’s just that I believe in someone who loves and respects me and wants to share their life with me just like I love and respect them and want to make them happy every single day.
I know, I know, I am so old fashioned…

I Couldn’t Help But Wonder… Where’s the line between professional girlfriend and just plain “professional”?

For those who don’t already know, I’m answering Carrie’s questions from every episode of Sex and the City (or at least most of them) to see how things have changed for a single thirty-something writer in New York City, ten years after the show ended…


I’ve noticed, just lately, my friends and I keep having the same conversation over and over and I can hardly believe that it’s an issue. Still. Apparently, in 2013, there remains an unspoken debate over who pays for what on dates. *Insert shocked gasp*

No. Really.

Now, I have always been a girl who believed in going dutch. I blame the 80s. I’m not going to knock a guy out if he insists on paying for dinner on a date, it’s a lovely gesture, but my comfort zone is he buys the cinema tickets, I buy the popcorn or vice versa. In the UK, I always felt like ‘you buy one, I buy one’ was the way to go and as far as I could tell it was readily accepted but here in New York, if you offer to pay for so much as a peanut, you might as well reach into their trousers, grab hold of their bits and pull them off. And not in the good way. General consensus amongst my American girlfriends, professional relationship experts and most importantly, gay best friends, is that you have to let the guy pay for everything or he will be offended and you are an emasculating psycho. Unfortunately, the best way to piss me off is to say ‘that’s the way it is and you can’t change it’. As soon as someone says I have to let someone buy my drinks, I immediately want to get a round in. I’m a bit of a twat that way. But it’s important for me that my dates know I’m not for sale, that I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and that I’m with them because I want to be with them, not because I need someone else to pony up for my pizza. If a man can’t cope with me wanting to buy the second round, I very much doubt he’s going to cope with me in general… In a world where we women are wearing the trousers with heels and making them look good, do the mens really need to pay for things just to feel good about themselves? And should we women really have to let them?

A Williamsburg hot date

A Williamsburg hot date

I’ve dated men who can afford to pay for dinner for me and all my friends five times over and I’ve dated men who couldn’t afford to buy me a hot dog off the street but in general, I’ve got to say, it’s the ones who would struggle to rustle up enough cash for a packet of Monster Munch who seem to be the most determined to do so and get wildly offended when you put your hand in your pocket. My Gentleman Caller says this is because I’ve dated insecure boys who weren’t happy with themselves and therefore, being with me who is (relatively) secure in herself, shook them up. But then my Gentleman Caller says a lot of things and let’s be honest, I think he was more complimenting to himself than insulting my previous suitors. There’s every chance he’s just hoping I’m going to pay for dinner. Not that we go out for dinner. But that’s another story.

I know it isn’t really true, but I still feel like, if I let a guy pay for everything on a date, he’s going to have certain expectations at the end of it. For all the dating I’ve done, as we’ve previously establishedm I don’t put out on the regular. It takes more than a hot meal and a cold drink for me to drop my knickers and until I’m certain I want to spend more than half an hour or so with you, I’d rather split the tab. But, so I’m told, this makes me seem (quote unquote) ‘masculine, aggressive and uncompromising’ – I’m a romance writer! I wear dresses! I am adorable! But men want to feel like they’re looking after you and here in NYC, that’s best expressed via a credit card. Maybe it’s the lack of game to hunt, kill and drag home for dinner. I’d rather get a hug and a helping hand when I need to change my light bulbs.

If I get three sevens, I'm buying steak for everyone! (I didn't)

If I get three sevens, I’m buying steak for everyone!
(I didn’t)

My fears of dinner + drink =shag is made manifest by the worrying number of women who are openly available for purchase. I’ve met so many who won’t date guys who can’t pay for a nice dinner or a big ring or pay their rent. My step-dad would refer to these women as ‘a house and a load of coal’. Because we are of the north. To me, that’s worse than a legit pro, at least hookers are entirely honest in their charging schemes. You can see it for yourself, they’re on full display on shows like The Millionaire Matchmaker a program that a) delights me beyond all reasoning and b) horri fies me completely. Ugly man with tons of money gets the hot girl. Always. Without question. You can actually see the dollar signs in some of these women’s eyes. I know this isn’t news but it’s 2013 and this is hardly a feminist manifesto.

Once upon a time, I had been on a date with a man and he was insistent that he be allowed to pay for my cab home after an evening together. I refused and made some ridiculous quip about not wanting to have to itemize the evening on my tax return. My name is Lindsey, I diffuse uncomfortable situations with humour. Anyway, when relaying the story to my friends, they were entirely split. Half said I should have taken the cash and ended the night twenty dollars up, half agreed with me, that if I wanted to take a cab home, I could pay for it myself. In retrospect, I realise he thought he was being a gentleman and just wanted to make sure I got home safely and didn’t take the subway out. Because I was the one who had traveled for the date, he thought it was his responsibility to get me home. But at the time, I was almost genuinely offended. I thought he was treating me like a whore. Probably because I’d just put out. Sometimes my feminist hat slips over my eyes and I can’t quite see clearly, it wasn’t a power move, it was a Nice Thing.

Of course I’m not saying every woman who lets a man buy her dinner is a whore. I have taken my fair share of cobb salads (and fried chicken and tacos and steak and McDonalds) when a guy has insisted he be allowed to pay. In most situations, it’s probably just a nice girl dating a nice man who was raised well and wants to look after his gal and make sure she’s getting a proper feed. A lot of girls in New York look like they need a proper feed. Most people aren’t overthinking this stuff as much as I am. The thing that gets my goat is that it’s a factor at all – I hate men for judging me because I want to pay for my own drinks but I hate myself for judging the girls who let the men buy the drinks and I’m not terribly keen on the girls who judge the guys who can’t afford to buy the fancy dinner they demand. Life is hard.

There’s no getting around the fact that we absolutely live in a world where money equals power but I dream of a day when we live in a world where neither of those things are major factors in our relationships. I feel like that’s going to stay a dream for a very long time.

I Couldn’t Help But Wonder… Can Women Have Sex Like Men?

Not a week goes by when one of my friends, my rather fantastic, very attractive and wildly successful single friends, won’t lament the lack of decent men in New York City. It has often been noted that it would be easier to go back to the days of Downton when all such things were dealt with years earlier. But sadly we live in the age of online dating and casual sex rather than arranged marriages and nary an exposed ankle out on the town on a Saturday night. So when there’s a dearth of potential partners to take to the farmer’s market every Saturday and pay over the odds for organic kale, what is a girl to do when it comes to certain needs that must be fulfilled?

Pic by the lovely Bridget Fleming...

Pic by the lovely Bridget Fleming… Carry On style wink by yours truly

We officially have a problem. The generations that went before didn’t do what we have done. They married younger, they had families in their twenties and if the marriage ended in divorce, they either remarried relatively quickly or stayed single and presumably, somewhat frustrated. And while it might not seem like it, my generation has suffered. We suffered the luxury of choice. We had the choice to get married or not get married, to have kids or wait a while. All well and good but what happens when you’re 32, not in a long-term relationship and you want to get laid? All of my friends have, at some point, had serious relationships and I can’t imagine this is news to anyone but there isn’t a single virgin amongst us (unless someone is a big fibber and I very much doubt it), it’s not as if we don’t know what we’re missing. And in case that’s not clear enough, what we’re missing is a convenient  and reliable penis.

So what do you do? The dating game in New York is full of rules and politics when it comes to dropping trou. If you like a guy, you’re supposed to wait until the third date at the very least. Professional matchmakers and relationship experts like my friend, Amy Laurent, say eight weeks. Patti Stanger from Bravo’s Millionaire Matchmaker, says no putting out until monogamy. It’s a grand plan and maybe it will help sort the shit hot wheat from the crappy chaff but dear god it’s hard sometimes. You’re on a date, you’re with a man, there is booze, there is kissing and is it so weird to want to get laid? Obviously it’s OK if you’re a man, actually it’s more than OK, it’s expected. You’re just sowing wild oats, being one of the boys. But when a woman wants to be one of the boys, for all our talk of sexual equality, it’s still frowned upon and not just by men, by other women too. That’s the heartbreaker for me. A grown woman with a successful career and $1000 handbag can still get called a slag by her girlfriends just because she wants to get some on a Friday night.

Between us, my friends and I have been through every scenario you can think of. Between us we’ve had friends with benefits, serial one night stands, sex with the ex and serial monogamy – because it’s not a one night stand if you convince yourself you’re in love every time right? I do know women who would be classified as a ‘Samantha’ and while they’re having sex on the regular, I can’t hand on heart say they’re any happier in their single status than anyone else. While having a warm body in your bed might be comforting for a moment, is it really anything more than a very elaborate wank? If Ann Summers could work out a way to combine an orgasmatron head massager with the Rabbit, would any of us bother with a one nighter? It’s hard to see why you’d risk any number of STDs (New York has a terrifying amount of herpes flying about and that shit’s for life) just to get a disappointing shag. Of course, for a lot of women there’s the hope or at least passing fancy that it could turn into something else. Stranger things have happened and it has happened to me so I can confirm it isn’t just an urban legend. It’s just rare. Personally, I’ve always been terrible at sex for sport. Call me an old romantic but I can’t separate the physical from the emotional, for better or for worse. And honestly, it mostly feels like it’s for the very, very worst. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I haven’t tried it. In the last couple of years, I’ve given one night stands the old college try, I really have. One resulted in a ridiculously messy and emotionally destructive transatlantic affair that still twists the knife when I think of what might have been. Another ended in me gently explaining to the chap that we probably weren’t going to get married while he threw up all over my bathroom floor. He asked me to brunch the next day, I politely declined.


Sadly, this was one of my better dates…

My most spectacular failure came almost almost year ago and dear god, it was a corker. I always thought my biggest problem with in and out hook ups was that, if I liked someone enough to let them put it in me, I liked them enough to oh, I don’t know, go for coffee? So, fresh off the back of an impressively horrible and protracted break up, I decided to change my tactics. I hadn’t had sex in nearly four months and spring having sprung, that had to change before my vagina sealed over. Enter stage left, the very handsome, very clever, older, wiser, complete cad. Who I hated on sight. It really was impressive, I literally loathed him, couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him. And then, half-way through a glass (cough, bottle) of wine with my girlfriends, I realised it was because I was stupidly, insanely, break the bed in two attracted to him. So, once I sobered up, I put a plan into action and before I knew it, I had a date. And not just any date, a sex date. I was going to get on a train, travel an hour out of the city on a Saturday night to meet him for ‘a drink’. It was so innocent, I had a change of underwear and a toothbrush in my bag. My friends were by turns, shocked, appalled and delighted. The smart money was on me being home in my Brooklyn bed, alone, by midnight. The smart money was wrong.

Glossing over the actual antics, the plan was successful. Too successful. The sex was amazing, I still couldn’t bear him and when I got the train back to New York the next morning, I met my friends for brunch, toasted with celebratory margaritas and swore I would never speak of it again. Of course, it’s ten months later and I’ve just got of a flight to LA to visit the self-same cad. As Jenny Lewis sort of once said, ‘talking leads to touching and touching leads to sex.’ What she didn’t bother to mention was that sex leads to more sex leads to more sex leads to more talking leads to actually starting to give a shit leads to sort of accidentally falling completely in love with someone you can’t have. As you can see, I’m not very good at one night stands.

Best way to lure a man into your bed - Thanksgiving dinner and several thousand bottles of wine.

Best way to lure a man into your bed – Thanksgiving dinner and several thousand bottles of wine.

Without wanting to overshare (despite the fact that is the main point of this column) my number remains very low. Single numbers low. Only just but still. I always thought it was an active choice but just late, it’s become wildly apparent the only reason I’ve failed to maintain more bedpost than notch is because I can’t have sex like a man. I totally envy the girls who can eye a man across the bar and see multiple orgasms rather than the father of her future children but the idea of sleeping with someone then giving them a slap on the arse the next morning as you shut the door leaves me cold. And that’s just it, I’m not cold, I’m still warm. I’m still hopeful, still optimistic. I still believe. Honestly, never ever take up romance writing for a living…

I Couldn’t Help But Wonder: New York, New York

Once upon a time, an English writer came to New York. Lindsey was 28, newly single for the first time in her life and excited about all the adventures that lay in store. Above everything else, she couldn’t wait to fall in love.
Lindsey had missed a memo.



OK, enough of the third person. Obviously, this is my story.

Four years ago I moved to Brooklyn and as a writer with an unhealthy interest in the shoes on my feet (and the feet of others), I was immediately and frequently labelled ‘the British Carrie Bradshaw’ – not terribly original but hardly an insult. I was, am and always will be a huge fan of Sex and the City. I loved the show and the friendship between the four women was always the thing that drew me to it. These were women who always had each other’s back. They didn’t screw each other over, they never deserted one another and no matter what, when the phone rang, someone answered. But we all know sometimes women aren’t always so nice to each other and, having suffered a few less than desirable female relationships, to me the bond between the girls looked as much like a fairytale as the romances on the show.

Once I was in New York, just like Ms Bradshaw before me, I couldn’t help but wonder. I wondered what had changed, what would be the same. Sex and the City was fiction but this was my actual life, this was my every day. It was all or nothing to me. I wasn’t guaranteed a happy ending and there was no meant-to-be Mr Big waiting in the wings, or at least if there was I didn’t know it. What did life as a real Carrie Bradshaw really look like?



The New York I moved to was ten years on from the New York Carrie and Co.  trotted around in their Manolos. No one drank cosmos anymore, we took the subway more often than cabs and the average price of a pair of designer shoes had doubled. So had the rents, which meant it wasn’t just Miranda who was banished to Brooklyn. But two things seemed to have stayed the same. Brunch and men. I quickly met an awful lot of spectacular, unmarried women and not a single spectacular, unmarried man. I was dating for the first time in my life and it was not going according to plan. Yes, I went on dates, yes I met plenty of fellas but dear god, it was difficult. The artistic types were depressed and penniless, the businessmen were cocky and unpleasant and the nice guys turned out to be the biggest tossposts of all. I admit I was naïve, I’d really only had one proper relationship with a perfectly normal, perfectly nice and perfectly unexciting man that lasted for seven years. Seven long, content but incredibly dull years. I was ready for some excitement. I just wasn’t quite ready for how much excitement was waiting for me… to go from a gentle turn on the teacup ride to a twenty-four-seven rollercoaster ride was altogether too much.

Lindsey Kelk Prince

Is he a prince yet?

The dates started thick and fast and I met some really great guys, made some friends, a couple of enemies and found the odd hilarious weirdo who I always knew would make good material one day. Thank goodness that day has finally come.

Carries, Charlottes, Mirandas and Samanthas Galore...

Carries, Charlottes, Mirandas and Samanthas Galore…

Happily, for every dodgy date, I met a wonderful woman. I’d always been a girl who had one or two close friends but when you’re working your arse off and stuck in a rut of a relationship, sometimes you lose touch with your BFFs. Not so in New York. While the city is undeniably a magnet for the emotionally unstable and undercover arseholes, it also attracts some of the world’s most generous, interesting and fun women you could ever hope to meet. It felt like I was making a new soulmate every single day – they were just missing one vital appendage. But I soon learned it was better to surround yourself with fantastic friends than disappointing dudes. Not that I didn’t keep some of those dudes around far too long. Not that I’m not still seeing someone I probably shouldn’t be… But I digress, each lady date was better than the last and before I knew it, I had found the most fantastic group of friends, women I know will be in my life forever, whether it’s for a week away at the beach, living it up, or an evening on the sofa, eating ourselves blind. We’re all in the same boat and we’re all pulling together, suddenly the Sex and the City women made sense. Never had the support of brilliant women been more important, New York is an impossible place to be if you’re alone. Luckily, I never was. Between living the city of my dreams and finding the world’s best girlfriends, I’m pretty bloody happy. So while I have my eyes and my heart open for a man who can measure up, I can rest easy knowing I’ve already met the love(s) of my life, and that’s something special.

Promises, promises...

Promises, promises…

Every week (or so) I’ll be answering one of Carrie’s questions because what’s the point in wondering, right?
Next week: Can Women Have Sex Like Men?