42. Woman B: Be a Princess

Like all little girls (and some little boys) growing up in the 80s, I imagined I would one day be a princess – or at the very least a lady. Small wonder then that my hero was Princess Diana, a woman who, by some supernaturally rare fortune, was both a Princess and a Lady – and as such definitely divested of magical powers. I fully expected to one day take over the role of Princess Diana (although of course I anticipated the job vacating in happier circumstances; there were more unicorns involved, fewer massive internal haemorrhages.) In the meantime, though, any princess would do. Because princesses are the epitome of ladylike, and little girls all want to be ladies. But what is it, really, to be a lady?

As a child I looked to the ladies I’d identified in fiction and the few teachers at my school who might be worthy of the title, and decided it had to do with taking the air, drinking the gin, putting on gloves to use the telephone and spontaneously fainting when the vehicle you’re traveling in goes above 15 mph. But how many of us nowadays remember to offer tea to household intruders, or put on our makeup before going to bed? Only Amy Winehouse.

Ladies just aren’t what they used to be – perhaps it’s our responsibility to try to revive them, or at least update them. Who can the five-year-olds of today look up to? We must set an example. My generation were lucky, growing up when we did – society reinforced our dreams of being a fairytale princess and one day marrying a William or a Harry. Now the young Royals have burst Hulk-like out of their velvet suits, apple cheeks giving way to those slack-jawed equine features as they reveal themselves to be the Sloanes that destiny had them down for all along. And in lieu of any credible princesses, today’s little girls must make do with Agyness Deyn and her parents, face transplant woman and Alistair Darling.

I feel for the kids of today, and for myself, because all those dreams are lost to me now, too. But on closer inspection, the warning was always there in the fables. Seems however beautiful or ladylike you are, it’s all about having tiny feet and not trying anything too adventurous. Snow White and Sleeping Beauty are extreme examples – it’s hard to imagine a relationship based on near-death passivity lasting the distance once the girl’s awake. Must be almost like dating a different person. Cinderella’s husband married her for her tiny shoes and Dorothy had ladylike footwear, too, but when she got to Oz she realised (as we all do sooner or later) that no amount of daintiness can save you. In fact Dorothy learned the hard way that it’s all a big fucking con trick – there’s no such thing as magic, or princesses, and in real life castles are incredibly boring. I think we’ve all been there… You wake up one day, your family are dead and before you know what’s going on you’re standing behind a curtain with a dirty old man who calls himself the ‘wizard’. Nothing can relieve the essential burdens of deficiency we carry with us through life, except perhaps life itself. Christ. No wonder Judy Garland hit the sauce.

I know all this, I do. But some part of me still wants to be a princess. Even if it means having sex with Prince William.

41. Man A: Have sex with a pornstar

I like pornstars. I couldn’t name my favourite, because that’s the point of them: they’re not people, they are objects. They are barbie-dolls come alive. They are tits and pussies and bums and hair. And mouths. I shouldn’t forget mouths.

Of course, I’m not saying that pornstars are actually inhuman, as though they’re made of polystyrene or rubber or something – only that within the context of the role they fill (appearing in porn) I don’t think of them as human beings. I’m not interested in whether they have happy childhoods or what they think of communism, only in how many cocks they can fit up their arse at the same time. Quite a few pornstars have blogs nowadays, but I always avoid them because I’m not interested into realising that they are real people who I might disagree with (“Dear pornstar, I read with dismay that you’re so vehemently against foxhunting. I will no longer be wanking to your films. Yours, a disgruntled former fan”).

And I’d like to have sex with a pornstar because it would be like stepping into their world. A simpler, brighter world than my own. A world of shaky digital videos, cheaply rented flats with leather sofas and handy swimming pools. A world in which there are no sexual diseases or pregnancies, in which there is only recreational sex, without shame, fear or failure. I would be Dorothy wandering into Oz and blinking as everything magically took on technicolour. There would be very little conversation beyond basic introductions (maybe I’d offer to fix her washing machine) and suddenly we’d be having pornstar sex. The sex would be simple and mechanical as though we were puppets with strings to be pulled by the director offscreen. And after it had finished I would disappear in a puff of smoke and find myself back at home, wondering if it was all a dream.

I suppose another reason to have sex with a pornstar is to get my performances properly evaluated. Everyone likes to think that they are good at sex, but unless we have particularly cruel partners, we’re unlikely to get an honest assessment. And most men probably think that they’ve got what it takes to be a pornstar themselves. I can imagine middle-aged blokes watching porn and idly reminiscing to their youth, thinking “I was good. Very good. I could have turned pro if it wasn’t for my dodgy knee”. What better a way to prove to yourself that you’re good in bed than by having sex with a porn star? To be able to take aside your friends and point to a grubby MPEG of a blonde woman being fucked by five black guys and proudly annouce: “I did her. She said I was the best. My technique was unparalleled.”

40. Woman B: Go under general anaesthetic

As of last weekend, I can describe myself as someone who has been under anaesthetic. I had all four wisdom teeth out, an operation I was assured was as routine and relatively painless as a haircut (with a superior excuse for avoiding conversation.) And although I’ve been plagued with pretty much every imaginable side-effect since the day of the operation – including, if you’re interested, being sick through my nose yesterday – the actual anaesthetic part was genuinely blissful and something I really think everyone should have a ‘go at’ before they cork it.

It was all very strange. I was ravenously hungry, having fasted for 18 hours before I went in, so everything was a bit hazy and out of focus already. I followed the nurses into a room, where I was asked to lie on a tiny trolley-bed. The anesthetist was jolly, trying to put me at my ease without realising I was already feeling quite relaxed about it all and that, in fact, her efforts to calm me were in danger of making me feel more anxious. There was a sudden, painful jab in the back of my hand as the drip went in, and someone held a plastic mask over my face. “We’re just giving you some oxygen”. OK… why? And “You might feel a cold liquid creeping up your arm” – I did. It was horrible. “You’ll probably be asleep within a minute”.

The next thing I knew, I was awake, laughing. I’d been dreaming amazing, vivid dreams. I felt wonderfully rested, but wonderfully sleepy – and no pain. I realised my mouth was full of swabs, but I was trying to talk, I’m not sure who to. I didn’t really know where I was. The nurses said I’d been ‘a wiggly worm’ in the operation, and when I was taken back to the ward I was shivering, violently. They brought me another blanket. “I want to go back under” I said. It was the best sleep I’d had in years. For the rest of the day I walked around, slightly unsteadily, living in a foggy happy land where nothing could phase me. I slept a lot, but nothing came close to that wonderful sleep of unconsciousness.

The next day I decided I needed to be able to think properly again, and against hospital advice, stopped taking the immensely powerful pain-killers. Within 12 hours I had the migraine of my life. I’ve stopped being sick now and my mouth has almost stopped bleeding, so hey, things are looking up. If you get the chance to experience this amazing responsibility-abdicating switching-off of consciousness, I strongly recommend it. Just know that regular sleep will never be quite good enough ever again.