How to increase the number of women you've slept with: A guide for men

23rd June 2023

THE number of women you’ve slept with is a source of pride and insecurity for men. Here’s how to bump up the number without even downloading Tinder.

Blowjobs count

If you’re not already doing so, count oral sex and handjobs in your total. They’re unquestionably sex, unless you’re one of those messed-up American Christian teens who thinks anal isn’t sex because they’re not technically losing their virginity. We’re sure their boyfriend was only too quick to agree.

Include women you could have slept with

Definitely count sex that could have happened but didn’t. You theoretically got your leg over, and you deserve credit for not pursuing these ‘Schrödinger’s shags’ that would just have resulted in an awkward situation for all concerned. If only more men had your high moral standards and the willpower not to sleep with someone you literally didn’t give a toss about having sex with.

Sex in dreams just about counts

Sex in dreams can be quite realistic, or your hippocampus makes you think so anyway, so you may as well include it. Obviously don’t mention your partner by name if it was, say, ‘Bryce Dallas Howard’, although you can be forgiven for not paying much attention to the rest of Jurassic World: Dominion. Christ that was boring.

Visit the worst clubs in existence

Nightclubs can be a quick fix for low shagging stats. Not good clubs, obviously, and definitely not pricey London bar-clubs full of unapproachable gazelle-like babes. No, you’ll be wanting depressing regional clubs called Acapulco’s where the DJ only appears to own Barbie Girl and you get groped just walking to the bar. If you’ve always fantasised about sleeping with Pauline Calf you’ll soon add a few notches to the metaphorical bedpost.

Use a very loose definition of ‘sex’

There’s a large grey area that isn’t sex in the picky dictionary sense but is definitely vaguely sexual. It includes: brief snogs while really, really drunk; snogs and a feel aborted after you sobered up a bit; odd situations like cuddling someone who’s decided to take their top off, but nothing else happening. It’s hardly the stuff of red-hot porn tapes, but what the hell, add it to the total.

Have pitifully low standards

Non-famous men who’ve slept with a vast number of women like to give the impression of nailing a procession of hotties, but in reality they just have the standards of an oversexed terrier who’s getting dangerously close to a trip to the vet’s. This not only means sleeping with people they don’t fancy, but also preying on the emotionally desperate, mates’ girlfriends and mad women with a shrine to an owl god in their bedroom. If you can live with being amoral scuzz with no self-respect, go for it.

Just lie

This is sad, pathetic and juvenile, but let’s face it, who can verify how many women you’ve slept with? Some guys do genuinely sleep with a lot of women, so you can get away with quite high numbers too. Just don’t get your sums horribly wrong and tell people you’ve shagged the equivalent of 120 women a day since birth. Even then you might get away with it if all your friends are shit at maths.

The time I tried contraception: Boris Johnson's next Daily Mail column

23rd June 2023

SEX! There, I’ve got your attention. Sex! We’ve all done it. Or had it done to you, if you’re a woman. Some of you have had it done to you by me. Quite a few, in fact.

I’ve had bags of sex. Oodles of top-notch rumpo. But contraception? Not my thing. Putting a rubber johnny on feels like I’m putting a balaclava on my little fellow, like one of those ghastly IRA chappies.

I did try it once, mind. I’ve put a fair few past the goalkeeper in my time, and all these sprogs popping out of fannies everywhere were costing me the earth. Plus it’s damnably hard to remember their names. I love my children, all eight (?) of them, but frankly I’ve got better things to do.

Anyway, back in the day, mindful of the population explosion and just having written a playful editorial for the Spectator saying the people of Liverpool should be sterilised, I thought I’d give contraception a go.

To my dismay, sheathing the old beef bayonet was a bloody disaster. I spent an age trying to unwrap the little package – they make it so blasted difficult to get any purchase on it – then I couldn’t work out which way to roll it on, and by the time I’d fathomed the whole thing my todger was as limp and pathetic as Rishi Sunak.

I learned a valuable lesson that day – contraception gets in the way of your own pleasure, so don’t use it. It’s that sort of ‘real world’ sex education they should be teaching in schools.

Of course, they say the best form of contraception is to be physically and morally repulsive so women avoid you. Well, I’ve tried – God knows, I’ve tried – but it still seems there are fillies out there willing to be mounted by my slobbering, grunting, obnoxious self.

But all the vagina in the world wouldn’t make me try a prophylactic again. Which will mean more mini-Borises and Borisettes. Maybe 15 or 20. Sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

There is one valuable piece of advice I’d like to share, which is – oh, I’ve reached my word count, so f**k that. What d’you want me to write about next week? Socks? Bananas? Socks and bananas? I can knock out 400 words of shit on that.