Skirts

I haven't always been a girl. When I was little I insisted that I was a boy and only answered to the name of "Tom" (why I chose such a crap name I don't know. I mean, I could have been Jason or Ronaldo or anything). I had all my curls chopped off and would mousse my hair up into a mohican before climbing up a tree with my catapult.

I guess when I hit 25 I grew up a bit or something. I think I'm trying harder to resemble a vagina these days anyhow; I've taken to wearing lip gloss and pink clothes. Maybe I'm just making up for lost time, after all those years in black vest-tops and combats. I even have pointy boots now, and last night I wore a skirt.

Have you ever worn a short skirt? If you're a girl, you're probably going to say yes. If you're a boy, you're probably going to lie and say no. Either way, I'm going to tell you what it's like.

Firstly, don't expect to be able to sit back like you normally do, with your legs wide apart and one foot propped up casually on the chair in front of you. Or is that just me who sits like that? Well anyway, don't do it. Your vadge will be in full view.

Secondly, skirts have minds of their own. It doesn't matter how many times you check your reflection in the pub toilets, by the time you get back to the bar it will have lifted itself up and tucked itself into the back of your knickers, leaving you waddling along like a deformed baboon, with your lumpy, gussety ass poking out from behind you.

I don't really have the pins for skirts, anyway. I have rugby player's legs (except I can't play rugby). But there is something rather nice about having all that fresh air wafting about your bits, so I think I'm going to stick at it until I get back to nice, cool Iceland.