Chloe Thurlow's Blog, page 23

What is Love

What is love? Poets have been trying to answer the question since the snake slithered through Eden and it is far easier to work out what love isn’t than what it is. You may enjoy stuffed red peppers. But you don’t love them. You may adore your little black dress. But you are not going to go to bed with your dress – in your dress, maybe; and shoes could be the exception that proves the rule. You can admire many people and be infatuated by some without loving them. You may love your parents and siblings, but you are not in love with them.

Sex is the greatest of gifts, orgasm a glimpse of perfection. When you remove love from sex you find yourself in an ill-defined space shaded in nuance and excess, an invitation to peel away all conventions and programming. A chance to explore your hidden self. Be naughty. Be wicked. You shed something and clothe yourself in something else. When you add love to sex, your get a sense that your soul is being drawn from the chains of gravity into the heart of creation. New feelings come to life, emotions without definitions that we label with that perplexing little word we avoid using as if the word is sacred or sacrilegious. When you experience this weird, hormonal change, you ask what is love and, in that brief moment, you feel it without being able to put it into words.

Love is a mystery, a ghost, a distant light that glows in the shadow of death: Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. Mickey and Mallory from Natural Born Killers. Love is the twin of death, the conqueror of death. Love bends and curves like space and time. When you are in love you are less afraid of death because you would give your life for the object of your love. If love is blind and unconditional, it must be because we have no control over it. Like nature. Like the tectonic plates below the earth’s surface. Mothers feel that way about their children. But, to repeat: love and being in love are not the same. A woman takes the man she loves into her body and absorbs his oils and essence. A part of him enters her and becomes a part of her.

Love changes the chemical balance in the brain. When you are in love, food tastes better. When you dance, it feels as if your feet and the music are connected by an invisible thread. You smile for no reason. You like people you would not normally like. Love is like being on a small boat in the middle of the sea with no compass and no one to rely on except each other. Falling in love is completion. Falling out of love is a mini-death.

What is love? It is that rush and buzz you feel when you let yourself go, when you stop thinking, planning, doubting. When love comes, you can’t describe it, the poets can’t describe it, but you know it is there. Love releases pheromones and dopamine into the brain, the chemicals giving those who fall in love a feeling a being high. What is love? Is it indefinable?  I’d love to know what you think…

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Under My Mask

Under my mask I am me. Under my mask I am the me you don’t see. The me who is really me. I don’t hide under my mask. I reveal. Uncover. Expose. Under my mask I see the back of the mirror as well at the reflection. Through the eye-slits of a mask I focus with complete clarity. I am aware of the rush of my blood, the beat of my pulse, the prickle of my skin, the crackle of electricity in the air.

I found my mask in Soho, home to London’s gay and lesbian scene, the theatres and film studios, that heady cocktail of youth, talent, heartbreak and debauchery. It was a weekend in the spring. The sun low on a pale blue sky. I stopped to look in a shop window and felt drawn as if by gravity to enter and descend the spiral staircase to the glittery basement with its array of costumes, whips, ball-gags, velvet handcuffs, objects I had never seen before and had no idea to what services they might be put.

A mask on the wall peered at me as if we were two halves of something seeking the missing part. I reached for the black silk and satin covered facia and it fit exactly to my features, the line under the eye-slits matching the contours of my cheekbones, the angle above following my eyebrows. I turned to the mirror. The air rushed up through my chest and I sighed as a traveller sighs on reaching the end of a journey.

I was nineteen and in my first year at university. I was reading A Spy in the House of Love by Anaïs Nin, a gift from my tutor, while he was reading my first essay. He had proposed having dinner alone together to discuss our literary assignments, an invitation that had so panicked me, I hadn’t slept for a week. The moment I saw myself under the mask, I felt a surge of confidence, my fears flew back up the spiral staircase and I left with a white box tied in black ribbon and a new spring in my step.

When I arrived home and tried the mask on, a switch clicked in my brain and the light of the unknown glowed behind my eyes. I took off my clothes and studied myself naked. Under my mask, I felt dressed and understood with a flash of intuition that I had no reason to fear my tutor. On the contrary, I could see that his suggestion that we spend the evening at the cosy French bistro on the outskirts of Cambridge in the precise terms the invitation implied. And something else: there was in those mischievous years of the Noughties a dare among students to walk naked down the high street or across the floor of a night club. With a mixture of elation and shame, I realised, too, that under my mask, I would be able to take on the dare and couldn’t wait to do so.

Greeks, Egyptians, Mesopotamians, animists, witch doctors, surgeons, bank robbers, literary heroes Zorro and The Count of Monte Cristo, the countesses and fine ladies of Venice who open their legs for soldiers and stable boys at the masquerade, all are entranced by the mask and the furtive benefits it bestows. Masked, you take on the spirit and nature of the mask. In a cat mask you squirm and shiver like a cat. You scratch the air and slide over your lover’s knees. In a monkey mask you climb the walls and wiggle your red bottom. The she-wolf sinks her fangs into the nearest neck. The bunny girl twitches her nose and hops like a bunny. The man in the latex headdress flexes a whip to demonstrate that in pain we find the ultimate pleasure.

The face can lie. We find no difficulty disguising our feelings. We veil our thoughts. We learn to express the illusion of being contented among people we don’t want to be with, sad when a friend loses her boyfriend, pleased when someone wins a prize we were secretly hoping to win. The moment I stood naked before the mirror staring at my reflected image, I realised the immobile features of the mask contain honesty as well as mystery.

I had always been protected, cosseted, a conformist. Under my mask, I morphed into another person, someone more open, liberal, eccentric, sensitive, forgiving. Under my mask I find the best part of me. It’s like being in a trance, or drugged, and I came to see that night in the French bistro with my tutor that under my mask there is another mask, the mask that is really me, the me I was destined to be. Who are you under your mask? You can leave your secrets safely in the comments box below…

 

 

 

 

 

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Sex Strike

In the battle of the sexes, women don’t have a lot of weapons in their armoury, but one useful tool is the withdrawal of all services. In other words a sex strike. Invented by the Ancient Greeks (what wasn’t?) – in the play Lysistrata, by Aristophanes, the women of Athens were so sick of the twenty year war with the Laconians, they blackmailed their husbands into signing a peace deal by withdrawing their bodies from the marital bed.

The play popped into my head a couple of weeks ago when I got a surprise call from my old friend Stephanie. She told me that Richard, her husband of five years, had got into the habit of downing a bottle of wine with dinner, making love like he was running for a train, then falling asleep leaving her, poor girl, feeling used, abused and frustrated. I had first met Stephanie when I was writing about interiors for a magazine and spent my days fighting off photographers who had got it into their heads that as they spent their lives staring through apertures it gave them a divine right to stare into mine. Stephanie was still on the magazine. Richard had climbed the greasy pole as a set designer, and action between the sheets had come to a standstill except for his nightly bursts of self-satisfaction.

As we all know, giving advice to friends is a sure way to end the friendship. But sometimes, it’s hard to resist, and resist I didn’t. I advised Steph to go on a sex strike, wear big knickers and terrycloth pyjamas, complain of migraine, back ache, tooth ache, and I told her the story of Lysistrata, the eponymous heroine of Aristophanes’ play.

Set during the Peloponnesian War, and first performed in Athens in 411 BC, the Athenians have been battling with Laconia for two decades. The men are rarely present to indulge the needs of the women and many manage to get themselves killed before they are ripe and ready to be plucked. Women at the time were considered promiscuous hedonists devoted to cults, erotic sex and excessive drinking; so not a lot of change there.

Led by Lysistrata, the girls come up withy the idea of a sex strike and withdraw all conjugal services until a peace pact is signed with the Laconians. The women storm the Acropolis, which houses the gold needed to buy arms, and barricade themselves inside. The old men not at war try to set fire to the building to burn them out, but the old women in solidarity with their daughters arrive with buckets of water to douse the flames.

The Magistrate appears with his Scythian Archers  – cops, in other words – but the women are so wired on sexual tension, they overcome them by sheer weight of numbers. Lysistrata convinces the Magistrate that their sex strike will continue until they are all dead, or the men stop fighting what they consider costly, needless wars (proof, as the Greeks said 2000 years ago, that there’s nothing new under the sun). The play is a comedy, but makes the point that if governments were led by women, wars would be less likely and macho men could devote their energies to gladiatorial combat in the bedroom.

As for Stephanie, after nine days on sex strike, Richard decided to mend his ways, Steph and I are still friends, and we all lived happily – well, at least for the time being. 

 

 

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Giving Head is Good For Your Health

Oral sex. BJs. Fellatio. Call it what you will, the big news is giving head is good for your health. Girls have long been aware that sperm works as a face cream that draws out impurities when it dries and tastes delicious. What we now know – thanks to research at the State University of New York – is that that male semen contains a variety of chemicals that make you feel contented, younger and more affectionate.

Forget exercise, fad diets and How To Be Happy books. If you’re depressed, listless, can’t sleep, bored, fat or feeling suicidal, just go for your boyfriends’ zipper and give him a blowjob. Alchemists spent the Middle Ages trying to discover the elixir of life. They clearly never thought to open their britches and call for a serving wench to take part in an oral experiment. Then again, perhaps they did, but just couldn’t be bothered to examine the results.

Now, the results are in and what the researchers with 300 female students at the university’s Albany campus have confirmed after a study lasting several months is that girls who swallowed adequate amounts of seminal fluid were less likely to suffer depression or mental health problems, and those who had regular sex, particularly unprotected sex, were happier, healthier, thinner and performed better on cognitive tests.

The sticky stuff is as good as any sleeping pill and, when your open your eyes on a new day, there’s nothing better for body and soul than to nudge the one beside you awake and pump out another warm milky draught with its zingy flavour of lemon and vanilla. If you don’t have a boyfriend, or swing the other way, suggest it to the next guy who looks up for it (they usually are) and, while he thinks head is GOOD for him, in fact it is even BETTER for you.

For all those scientists, chemists and doubters out there, seminal fluid contains: ESTRONE and OXYTOCIN, which give you a mild high (like one puff on something illegal); THYROTROPIN, a hormone stimulant that acts as an anti-depressant; SEROTONIN, an antidepressant neurotransmitter; MELATONIN, a sleep aid; and CORTISOL, which combats stress by releasing adrenaline and, according to the research team, helps increase affection. Bottom line: sex is good for you, male jism is a health drink and, as it comes in relatively small quantities, the more head you give the better you feel.

While we are on the subject of health, scientists at the University of Reading in the UK have also made a startling discovery. Pinot noir and pinot meurier, the two red grapes used in the making of champagne, contain ‘phenolic’ compounds which assist in sending signals to that part of the brain used to control memory and learning. The benefits are best achieved with ‘one or two glasses of champagne a week’ (as the scientists didn’t mention what one or two bottles will do, you may wish to try that experiment for yourself). Just any old sparkling wine won’t do. It has to be wines containing the magical noir and meurier grapes.

There you have it. Giving head is good for your health and a glass of champagne will help you to learn how to do it better and remember just how amazing it was.  Do share your comments – and if you add your name to my mailing list you can download the story “Fight 69″ for free. Cheers!

 

 

 

 

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Female Orgasm

There are five types of female orgasm. That’s right FIVE. I have friends who know them all as intimately as the five fingers of their favourite hand and others who have never had a truly heart-thumping exploding climax. And that’s sad. Here are the five types: Clitoral; G-spot; Simultaneous; Multiple, Female Ejaculation, or Squirting.

First some anatomy. The clitoris is an almost invisible bell-shaped button inside the inner lips of the vagina that sleeps beneath a hood of soft silky flesh. The G-spot is about one inch, or two centimetres, inside the vagina at the top of the tunnel, a tangle of nerve endings easily missed. The penis is out there like the prow of a ship – bold, thrusting, obvious. The clitoris and G-spot are subtle, temperamental, easily offended. Serve them well and you begin the erotic journey to the female orgasm:

Clitoral. Best achieved with the tip of the tongue or the pad of a solicitous finger, gently nurse this tiny sense vector and the orgasm will appear like a gentle breeze, a spasm, a lurch of the stomach, and very nice indeed.
G-spot. Using a beckoning motion with one or two fingers, or a vaginal toy – they come in all shapes and sizes – stimulating the G-spot will take the lucky lady to the second level, an orgasm like an incoming tide of sensory pleasure and the dawning realization that there is more. Much more.
Simultaneous. The simultaneous orgasm takes you beyond the halfway stage. Like crossing the Rubicon, there is no way back. This more luxurious, more plentiful orgasm (a 3-star hotel with a view) requires a lover who can move rhythmically inside the vagina in such a way that the clitoris at the entrance is tenderly stroked while the G-spot is massaged until the vibrations connect like two terminals on a battery and the charge lights the whole body like a city at night. The simultaneous orgasm makes a girl’s toes curl, her back will arch and she will impress the neighbours with her cries for more.
Multiple. Much like the simultaneous orgasm, the multiple orgasm requires the same technique, the same patience, the same selflessness (read that word again, guys) – but with more stamina. A man on reaching orgasm is quick to turn soft and sigh with a feeling of a job well done. The man who can keep going, who holds back, who practises some tantric restraint, that is the man who can take the simultaneous orgasm from mountain peak to mountain peak in a flurry of multiple orgasms she will never forget.
Female Ejaculation, or Squirting. This, the supreme of female pleasure, again requires some anatomy. The walls of the vagina are lined with a sponge like tissue called ‘skeene’ glands. During the stimulation of the G-spot, the sponges absorb a milky fluid akin to semen and seep into the urethra. The more foreplay, the more care and patience, the more the sponges overflow and fill the urethra. When the contractions erupt, the pressure forces the ejaculation in a water-pistol squirt of warm jism just like the boys and, with practise, potentially even more impressive. Some people mistakenly believe this is urine. It’s not true. Taste it and see.

It wasn’t that long ago when there were those, well, men, who believed ejaculation was the male preserve, that the clitoris was fiction, like the Abominable Snowman, that women were passive receptors designed solely for male pleasure. In Victorian times, women who discovered the orgasm by themselves, or with their girlfriends, were in danger if they were caught of being labelled hysterics and locked in the loony bin. It’s not hard to understand why. A really good squirting sends shudders through the entire body and can leave you shaking with indescribable joy for absolutely ages. The female orgasm has always been a mystery and, as I advise friends as they sip soda water over lunch, it is our duty to probe its depths as often as we possibly can.

 - Share a comment with your experiences in the box below – xx Chloe

 

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Nudity Taboo

Once you know a taboo exists it is human nature to want to break it. As a little girl, you are constantly told to ‘cover up’ and it doesn’t take long before you are dying to violate the nudity taboo and jump out of your clothes.

One summer when I was playing with my little brother in the garden, I stripped off my swimsuit and Daddy chased me across the lawn spraying me with the hose. I was eight and loved the feel of the cold water on my bare skin, that sense of being naked and being watched while I was naked. Mother came out in a huff. ‘Stop that, for heaven’s sake, what do you think you’re doing?’

Lady Godiva by John Collier

Daddy went back to watering the garden. Mother wrapped me in a towel and I was aware subconsciously that I had an obscure power, that my mother’s love was coloured by complex emotions that did not exist with my brother. In a primal sense, we were rivals. Little girls seek from their father a love haunted by repressed dreams of incest. He is the first man we love and all other men remain in some ways in his shadow. It is not surprising that lots of girls are attracted to older men.

Taboos are a temptation. A challenge. A taboo is like standing on the cliff edge with the wind rising under your skirt. When you transgress you feel alive, wanton. Rules are usually made by men and women feel compelled to break them – to strip down to the fundamentals. Nudity for women has a different significance than it does for men. Our clothes are cut to reveal portions of our body, bare arms, bare legs, the tops of our breasts, our toes in sandals. Partial nudity is exciting, a glimpse of the infinite.

Way ahead of her times, Lady Godiva in the 11th century rode nude on a white horse through the streets of Coventry in a protest over the cruel taxes imposed by her husband on their own tenants. A voyeur named Tom was the only townsman who stole a glimpse, lending his name to the expression Peeping Tom.

In the Gay Nineties in Paris, Mata Hari, originally from Holland, performed erotic dances on stage in nothing but a bejewelled bra (being conscious of her small breasts). She was accused of spying for the Germans and shot by the French in 1915. Isadora Duncan, the American nude dancer, was throttled when her long silk scarf got tangled in the wheel of the sports car she was travelling in. Occurring just a dozen years after the death of Mata Hari, it doesn’t take a great stretch of the imagination to believe that women who break the nudity taboo are going to get punished, one way or another.

In Spain recently, three Femen activists protested against the proposed changes in the country’s abortion laws by charging topless into Congress shouting slogans while the Justice Minister was speaking. They clung on to the columns in the hall of deputies while security guards got  hot under the collar trying to grab hold of the girls without grabbing them in the places where they probably wanted to grab them. The semi-nude protestors got massive coverage in the press and on TV, achieving their aim by the flash of their perky pink nipples – as often as not the only weapon women have at their disposal.

Breaking the nudity taboo is considered uncouth, vulgar, uncivilized, the impulse of women and witches, which, not that long ago, were one and the same. European colonizers when they reached Africa, Australia and the Americas stripped the natives of their land, rights, religions, often their lives. Then the missionaries came, covered their nudity and introduced a new God who admired nice clean clothes. Take away the taboo and big girls are like little girls who just love to run around in the garden without anything on.

 

 

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What Women Want In Bed

There are four things women want in bed: Kissing. Stroking. Foreplay. Afterplay. They may enjoy some dirty chit chat. Some are into spanking (mentioning no names), and who can resist role play. Great, yes, all of it. But what women want in bed are those four basic things: Kissing. Stroking. Foreplay. Afterplay.

Kissing: A kiss is more than a kiss. Mums kiss their kids before they start school. The faithful kiss the Pope’s ring. Husbands kiss wifey’s cheek before he goes off to conquer the world. But a kiss between lovers is a declaration of intent, an exchange of fluids, a chance for her to dip into his body before he dips into hers. Men – some men – seem unaware that lips and labia are, like, the same thing, the kiss on the facial lips a taste of more exotic fruits to come. Men underestimate the power of the kiss – get the kiss right and she will be wet with desire before you run your hand over her shoulders and down her back. Promise.

Stroking: Women and cats have a lot in common. They want to be stroked – everywhere. Tummies, breasts, inner thighs, bottoms, spines, shoulders, the wrist with its racing pulse, knees, feet, toes, soles, that little hollow below the throat, the pressure point in the neck that sends some girls (mentioning no names) into raptures. After rushing about all day working, shopping, cooking (writing, for heaven’s sake), after a long dip in a bath full of bubbles, between warm sheets with the radiators on full (better still on summer days in sunny climates) the long thoughtful caress releases those knots of anxiety and stress and prepares a lover to be loved. If you jog for an hour, it adds an hour on to the end of your life. Time stands still. Stroking is like that. Time stretches and the hands on the clock rest in their relentless journey.

Foreplay: Men think foreplay is like football, the quicker they pop one in the goal the better. It’s not like that for women. We enjoy the subtle maneuvers up and down the field, the tapestry woven through each small motion. Concealed in a neat cloak of tissue at the entrance to the vagina is a precious diamond in a velvet box. Within this subtle carapace are a million nerve endings that contain a bottomless well of energy and desire. Open Pandora’s Box and all the evils of the world come out. Open the velvet box and all the pleasures of the universe spring to life. Kissing, fondling breasts, foot massage, they all have their place, but enter the kingdom of the clitoris and you approach the sublime.

Afterplay: Nothing leaves a girl more bereft than her lover scoring a goal and then rushing off the field. The swivel of his hips and the sound of his feet hitting the floor are like a door slamming in a jail, like a bucket of cold water on hot sweaty flesh. There is a natural cycle: Kissing, Stroking, Foreplay and the Afterplay takes you back to the beginning: the kiss, unhurried, tender, loving. That’s what women want in bed.

A very Happy New Year to you. Love the world but most of all, love your special other, the one you are with. If you have a New Year’s message for blog central we’d love to hear it xx Chloe

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Virgin Sacrifice

Joan of Arc was 19 when they burnt her at the stake in 1431 and I have a sneaking suspicion that one of the reasons why she had to be sacrificed was because she was still a virgin. Men crave virgins, dream of virgins, they will give ten years off the end of their lives to pop a virgin. And here was Joan in shiny armour, wielding a sword and shielding her proud little hymen like a secret weapon. If ever there was ever a girl wailing to be a virgin sacrifice, Jeanne d’Arc’s cries still echo though there ages.

The Maid of Orléans came from a peasant family. At an early age she heard the voice of God, who was French, and saw visions of herself leading the army in battle to liberate France from the English in the Hundred Years’ War. The war ended with Charles VII being crowned King of France and Joan a handful of ash scattered on the wind. Before the peace treaty was signed, Joan had been betrayed by a group of pagans. She was sold to the English, put on trial and committed to the flames after being found guilty of heresy – a witch as well as a virgin. Twenty-five years later, the Church proclaimed Joan innocent, she was declared a martyr and waited 500 years to be made a saint.

Why the long wait? She was a virgin. She had to pay. Men are obsessed. The first thing on men’s minds at the end of battle is to burn the library and rape the virgins. They want to be first, add a fresh notch to the gun, a memory like a tattoo that will last forever. Joan had to be chastised, castigated, disciplined – for five centuries – for failing to do that ladylike thing and hand over her maidenhead. And the fact that she remain intacta turned Jeanne d’Arc into a cultural icon. Books, plays, movies, poems, there’s even a video game featuring the vestal warrior with blue-eyes, blonde curls and breasts to die for.

In primitive times, when the crops failed, or a volcano erupted, our ancestors placated the Gods with a sacrifice. A virgin sacrifice, obviously, a girl just stepping from childhood to girlhood and, naturally, the prettiest in the tribe. As beautiful women learn early, beauty is a burden as well as a gift. Beauty puts less desirable women on edge and torments the life out of men. A cute girl suggests that unsullied part of her that men want most. The fact that only one man is going to seize the prize provides a logic to her slaughter and, paradoxically, while man is born adoring beauty, just below the surface he carries a predisposition, a gut feeling that beauty should be profaned, scarred, destroyed, and there is no more conclusive way to obliterate beauty than in human sacrifice, as Joan of Arc discovered at the hands of the heathen English.

What do you think about virgin sacrifice? We appreciate your comments at blog central and share them with the world.

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4 Secret Ways to Bed Girls

Men think about sex 4000 times a day. There are 4 secret ways to bed girls, but to most men those secrets remain a mystery. They learn how to build websites and tinker with cars, but when it comes to dating, and the tinkering they imagine is going to follow, they display about as much sensitivity as mating crocodiles – and that’s never a pretty sight.

There is book on getting girls between the sheets called The Game, which is rubbish, in my opinion, and when men apply the ‘paradigms’ set out by author Neil Strauss any girl with an IQ bigger than her bust size knows they are following a script. That’s the first lesson: don’t try to be a projection of who you would like to be, or who you imagine the girl you are with would like you to be – just be yourself.

I had a date once with a guy – red trousers, tweedy jacket – who told me three times in twenty minutes that his dad was a general; in fact his dad sounded so out there I’d rather have been having dinner with him. Another bloke said as we sat down in Colbert’s in Sloane Square that he was a ‘Jaguar Man’, and it was only when he drove me home that I realized he had been talking about his car, not some weird animist cult, which at least would have been dangerous.

Girls like men who can talk about things (not cars, soccer and new apps), but ideas, concepts, their favourite book, for heaven’s sake. That’s the second lesson, you have to be interesting, and there’s only one way to be interesting – and that’s to be interested in the person you are with, in her ideas, her philosophy, her doubts, her last visit to the movies to see the astonishingly good Nebraska.

When you meet a man on a first date, he always gives you a quick scan: hair, lips, tits, legs and up again, legs, tits, lips…where they pause, taunted by that primitive gene stimulated by the colour of blood, those cupid curves glowing between chin and nose the facial embodiment of the lips they subconsciously want to part and enter. That’s why we paint them red, our subconscious desire – and not always subconscious – to be entered. If they pause at your eyes, what they see is the reflection of their own desires, a fleeting digest of your beauty, or lack of it, not a curiosity about what goes on between your ears but between your legs.

That’s lesson three, more than merely being interested, be curious. Ask her why she thinks mothers are dressing their 12 year old daughters as adults. You’ll have an interesting debate, I promise. It will release some anger, some passion – some humour. Touch a girl’s funny bone with your wit and you have learned the fourth lesson.

Men seem to believe women can be lured by wealth or looks, flowers, the size of their car (and we all know what that means). This is superficially true, but within the bouquet of roses, women are drawn by the thorns as well as the scent. There are 4 secret ways to bed girls after a first date: Be Yourself. Be Interested. Be Curious. Be Funny. That’s another paradigm and it’s the only one that works.

Leave a comment with your ideas, I’m curious, and if you want to join my mailing list for (infrequent) updates, you can download Flight 69 for free.

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Big Girls Night Out

I was completely smashed. I had broken the heel off my favourite killer Choo’s and woke up with my head clear and feeling absolutely fabulous. It’s called a Big Girls Night Out, a BGNO, and this is how it all started.

Daphne called. ‘Guess what, Bella’s in town,’ she gasped in her breathless way, ‘we’re going to have a BGNO.’ I stifled a yawn. ‘A what?’ I said, and she sighed. ‘Chloe, you are so thick. A Big Girls Night Out.’ I wasn’t sure whether she meant a night out for big girls or a girl’s night out BIG TIME and was thrilled, as it turned out, that it was the latter.

BGNO has been trending for some time, but it was the news columns telling us this week that Kate Moss, Sienna Miller, Poppy Delevingne and tote la belle monde were up for it that has made BGNO the zeitgeist. Poppy and her coven were papped all over London on what was supposedly her hen night – not that she has actually set a date to mosey down the aisle with fiancé James Cook – but that’s not the point.

A Big Girls Night Out is an excuse to dress up and talk openly about breakups and boyfriends (like the guy who turns up on a date with velvet handcuffs, or the one who likes to dress up in your underwear). The ladies’ loo has always been a confessional, but on a BGNO, you don’t have to sneak off for a wee, you can just let all your frustrations about men and life and work – little failures, near successes – come spilling out. You drink too much and wake up next day feeling ready to take on the world.

On a BGNO there are two rules; if they are written down anywhere it’s in Dior red lipstick on a mirror somewhere in Notting Hill. Rule 1: no blokes. Rule 2: don’t forget rule 1. On a Big Girls Night Out you don’t want to pull or be pulled. You are not in competition, as women usually are, they can’t help themselves. A BGNO is a time to shed tears and share secrets, and you come away reminded that in the battle of the sexes, your mates will always be there for you if you are there for them.

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