By Matt Hayden

Sexual attraction is not just physical. It's also emotional, and sometimes intellectual. To my horror I discovered it can be very political as well.

See, recently I started seeing a politically correct feminist. Margaret was your classic stern, Stalinist sister. She certainly didn't wear her heart on her sleeve, but she had a lot of badges on her jumper. But there was something about her forthright manner that was very attractive.

"What are your politics?" she asked curtly on our first date.

"What do you mean?" I said.   

"What are you against, and what are you for?"

"Er, well I’m against celibacy. And I'm for having wild sex with you as often as possible!"

She didn't like the phrase "wild sex". So I replaced it with "making love". She didn't like that either, since for her love was merely "a Eurocentric construction designed to rationalize marriage and enable white males to harvest women's wombs and perpetuate the patriarchy". After much thought I suggested "mutually empowering friction". Thankfully that passed the test.

She had finally found my position acceptable. But the same could not be said of the missionary position. She insisted on staying on top at all times. This was fine by me, 'cause I got to lie back and let her do all the work! When I told her this was why I liked it she decided the "mish" was politically correct after all.

Since I was legally bound to say nothing remotely offensive in her presence dirty talk was another big problem. Don't believe me? You try and replace the phrase "skanky 'ho" with: "feisty, independent woman with a very strong libido who doesn't need a man but wants one occasionally and has every right to guiltlessly satisfy her sexual urges" without getting tongue-tied! It's a bastard to pull off at the best of times. But when you're on the verge of orgasm? Nearly gave me a bloody aneurism, it did.

Bamboozled by her harsh demands, I eventually asked if we could quit screwing and "just be friends". She was livid. It was then that I realized that there's only one thing that annoys a radical feminist more than being treated like a sex object. And that’s not being treated like a sex object when she wants to be.

We worked out a compromise: Mondays, Thursdays and Sundays I agreed to treat her as a sex object. On all the other days I had to see her as "a person". Fearful of forgetting these details I wrote them in a diary. One day I left it on the train and got the schedule terribly mixed up.

The court case continues…

So I've had it with sexual politics. No more women with attitude! That’s why I've just begun a relationship with Chantelle. She's lovely: rosy cheeks; sweet pouting mouth; very quiet. She's a real doll, actually – and I mean that literally.

Yep, bought her at the sex shop. I haven't taken her out yet. In fact I haven't even taken her out of the box. Why? Because I'm afraid that with my luck she'll turn out to be a Palestinian terrorist. Then she might "blow up" in a rather more spectacular way than I’d hoped.

Oh well, looks like it’s back to Mrs Palmer and her five daughters. They’re all very reliable and traditional. Those gals never let me down!