Confession time

Our sex columnist explains why she hates Sex and the City – and sex columnists

I’ve got a confession to make. Sadly its not the kind of secretly sexual or worldly wise self satisfied trollop I’m probably supposed to write in a monthly relationship confessional. If you’re reading this now and have read this column before you’ll know I spend more time moaning about the state of my gym or the number of men getting manicures in Beijing than revealing jaw dropping details of my latest sexual escapades.

That’s because, and here comes the confession, I’m not the kind of girl who likes talking about my sexual escapades, and after being forced to sit through two torturous hours of Carrie Bradshaw and pals in the new Sex and The City film, I’ve decided I can’t stand women who do.

This might, admittedly be an odd topic to chose for a so-called sex columnist, but I feel now is the time to speak up in defense of all us women who do not wish to be represented by these Prada-clad pseudo feminists clattering across our screens.

Is the fact that these women have high-powered jobs AND have sex really so remarkable and worth celebrating that they have to make a film about it? Since when was women clubbing together and ganging up on men a sign of equality of the sexes? Emily Pankhurst would be turning in her grave.

What really bugs me and makes me feel un-liberated and repressed is the constant need to define myself as a women. It may come as a shock to both the men in my life and the women who worship Carrie Bradshaw, that there are plenty of defining characteristics I would say are just as important, if not more important than the fact I’m female. They come in no particular order but they include the fact I am British, living in China, working as a writer and that I’m in my mid-twenties.

This doesn’t mean I don’t want to have sex and it doesn’t mean I want to be treated like a man. I’m all for recognising and enjoying the differences between the sexes. I’d simply like to point out that just because I don’t talk loudly in cafes about the number of times I bought myself to climax with my rampant rabbit over a bar of break-up chocolate, I’m any less of woman. If you ask me, the fact I don’t feel the need to spout about it in actual fact demonstrates my state of liberation.