An evening spent discussing smear tests with a gaggle of girls and one guy recently showed me how open sexuality has crept up on us slowly.
The tabloids are presently mourning the death of the ladette, that 90s, pint-swilling pin-up, who went out to drink and shag more than the men. Stupid bitch. Blindly copycatting the boys, she tried her best, but has now settled down with a nice husband and started a wine cellar.
But she did leave us ladies with the wonderful legacy of being brash, independent creatures who actually get horny, and the freedom to talk without qualm about the human body and the carnal pleasures that can be derived from it.
Openness about what we like, when we like it, where we like it, how we like it and, well, why we like it so much, has us talking as dirty as a binman’s bits. And we love it. You didn’t, you did, you didn’t, oh my Lord! is a regular feature of pub conversations nowadays.
Girls aren’t just telling girls, they’re telling guys too, who are beginning to explain themselves in return. This is all fantastic. Or is it? It’s another facet of open speech I’m beginning to have a problem with.
Sitting there the other night waxing lyrical about our own personal experiences of the internal examination, including the unforeseen and inexplicable post-visit diahorrea, was deemed safe enough as the male in question was rather interested in the whole topic. But it was just the tip of the ice cube.
When I am trying to enjoy Sunday brunch and a personal story about fanny farts is forced upon me I begin to lose my appetite. No beans, thanks. And the guys happily reciprocate with tales of embarrassing ejaculations and inappropriate appearances by members of the ‘Holy Triad of the Underpants’. Cancel the sausage. Nothing is sacred anymore, thank God, but not when I’m eating, please.
The strange thing about this trend of talking truth is the remaining silence on female masturbation. From the echoing stillness around the topic and the willingness to talk shop in all other departments you could assume that it doesn’t exist.
I know two ladies who openly own dildos: one girl got hers as a birthday present, and the other bought hers drunk for a giggle at an Ann Summers party. I’ve never heard either speak of them. I’ve never had any woman admit to me that she masturbates. It seems we’ve found the last taboo…
How come we can laugh about the wet patch, but are at a loss about hand action? While the guys can yank off with pride, it seems that, if women are pleasing themselves, they are either fibbing or being very quiet about it.
A call to arms for all the ladies: do you own a dildo? Then stand tall, be proud, vibrate at will. All you others, think about how far we’ve come, literally, metaphorically and physically.
The ladette wouldn’t have taken this one lying down. Well, actually, she damn well would have…

• The Soundtrack to Sex
This fortnight the super sexed will be mostly listening to Missy Elliott.