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Lots of it and with multiple partners apparently.
I think the psychological difference between genders is far, far slighter than we generally assume.
not even a half-century today
nah, think i'll pass.
However, I can't be doing with this "If you get any three women in conversation about the comprehensive spending review, they will, inevitably, arrive at the topic of whether or not they would do her husband, Ed Balls. "
No, I can honestly say that is not a conversation I have ever had, nor am ever likely to have.
best a tonne of people are gonna be googling 'bonobos having sex' after reading this book/article just to test it out. Gonna be the new 2 girls 1 cup.
and all the while these monkey's privacy is being invaded.
or raping each other and all that
though i suppose you can prove *anything* with science...
as a hairy simian-looking fella this is the best news I've had all year.
or my Scent of Bonobo marketing line is completely fucking redundant.
WHO’S DANGEROUSLY INSANE NOW, EH SOCIETY?
"i felt my body was a room that I didn't want to mess up. Unlike that openness at the beginning, when my body was a room and I didn't mind if he came in with his shoes on."
It's ok, I gave them a pear drop.
Women can, quite often, have entirely natural rampant carnal desires?
HOLD THE PHONE BERTRAND! SOMETHING TRULY ASTONISHING HAS HAPPENED!
This `kind of thing` makes me want to emigrate.
and the article is purely a device for her to witter on yet again about the fact that she gets married at the weekend.
The fact that that book has actually been written; or the fact that a Guardian journalist has been paid a ridiculous amount of money to write an article explaining the significance of said book.
Whichever way you look at it - we're fucked.
this is a pretty witty take on the book.
I'm assuming that you don't like Zoe Williams. Fair enough.
but that said if it stops people trotting out the old "all women ever want is a relationship an all men ever want is sex" line not to mention slut-shaming, I'm all for it.
apply moistening, insert knob A into slot B, get jiggy, make mess, start crying/apologise profusely/light up fag and say "what time is your husband home" (delete as applicable)
Mel Gibson already found out in that documentary he made in 2000.
the answer was yelling