I don’t know about love being all around me, but sex is slapping me right in the face. It seems to me it’s all about the ‘s’ word these days.
In the pages of magazines, on the big screen, the small screen, books, it’s everywhere.
It’s liberating to see that we have finally shaken off the dusty shackles of stuffiness but now it’s gone to the extreme: full on exposure.
Don’t get me wrong, there is absolutely nothing wrong with having a bit of fun. Wink. But to do it so openly in the public eye... Must they, really? Rude.
TV shows, mainly reality ones, are the guilty parties. They rely on bed-hopping and duvet-dancing. It’s like school children in the playground playing swapsies, passing each other around. “I’ve already been with her/him, do you fancy a go?”.
It’s a right old people pick and mix. The pillow talk and notches on bed posts are perfect fodder for filling up the column inches of gossip mags.
It’s rife. Youths on holiday, ‘getting it on’ with strangers. Celebrities in the jungle and the Big Brother house, meeting, greeting and, er, filmed getting a little too familiar with each other. Nothing like being discreet, eh?
And most of these people are adults with libidos off the scale.
They can’t use the excuse of being youngsters in their mid teens embarking on the first forays of ‘finding out’, with hormones whizzing around their bodies at a zillion miles an hour. They just want it.
Then there are the TV soaps which seem to insist on couples chopping and changing with each other... no one relationship seems to last more than six months before each character moves on to the next ‘body’.
At least that’s all just make believe, all in the name of viewing figures. But then again life it seems, in some circles, imitates art.
After all sex sells. So the best way to flog that new song/scent/story is a good old piece of self promotion.
It’s not just about sleeping with the stars either. There’s another risque and racy approach to getting yourself out there: flaunting body parts.
Instagramming selfies of over-inflated boobies, thong-clad bottoms, oiled-up abs and other bits and bobs, tweeting for them for all the world, quite literally to see.
Yes, your six pack/pert buttocks/ample cleavage/pneumatic lips are impressive. But, put it away. Please. It’s a bit degrading and shameful.
I dare say there are some folk eagerly watching, and that are cringingly, rubbing their thighs in glee at the gratuitous glimpses of naked flesh and the lip-locking of these Z-list stars in full view of all and sundry.
But this baring all is making me feel ever so slightly grubby. When will it end? When will dignity kick in? Will it ever? Until it does, I’ll be reading cheesy chick lit and watching fluffy rom-coms.
One last thing
J-Lo was so wrong when she said Love Don’t Cost a Thing. It does on February 14.
So imagine my delight when I got my little paws on a money-off voucher for a card shop (think former US president). I realise how tight this sounds for such a caring and sharing occasion, but who doesn’t enjoy saving cash? On paying for the cute card the sales assistant slipped another voucher in the bag.
Now I’m hardly going to buy two Valentine’s cards am I? (Sorry Channing Tatum, you’ll have to wait). So I did the next best thing. I shared the love and gave it to my boyfriend. Awww. Who said romance is dead?