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I already wanted to buy David Mitchell a beer.

If I’m honest, I wanted to buy him a beer and answer any questions he might have about women, since that’s essentially what I do for a living and the only thing of any value I can offer. Not true: I could also answer questions about sleep, stress, alcohol, nutrition, exercise, tobacco cessation, the health behaviors, attitudes, and experiences of American college students, and any number of other things, including the Sherlock Holmes canon and the Blandings Castle stories. But fewer people care about all that. I don’t have a blog about all that.

I digress.

Now I want to buy him two beers, as well as answer any questions etc.


His column this week. It has warmed my cockles and tickled the arches of my tiny wee feet.

Mr Mitchell has, in the past, indicated that he basically gets the challenges unique to being female, appreciates (in the British sense) the weight of cultural and commercial pressure on women, and recognizes enlightened sexism when he sees it on TV.

But this week? Oh this week. Oh, oh.

Surrounded as I am by young and brilliant third-wave feminists struggling to find the pivoting point between sexual agency and sexual objectification, Mr Mitchell’s column is like cannonballing into a friend’s backyard pool after a long run on a summer day, as the smell of roasted animal flesh rises siren-like from the grill. It’s like pizza and beer on the couch in front of the TV, in your socks and pajamas when it’s snowing out and you ought to be working but fuck it let’s order a pizza and drink beer instead, you know?

In short: bless his cotton socks.

(Many of you will disagree with me; I don’t care. Just go read it. Honestly. Why are you still reading my stupid boring sex blog? Go read it!)

So. Look. Mr Mitchell, I’ll be in London in the second week of May (assuming the volcano ash situation sorts itself out). If you want a free beer, drop me a line. Any and all questions about women are welcome but entirely optional. I am at your service.