Sex is good. Discuss.

Let's talk about sex. I know, only a few posts into my blog and I've already gone populist. Or have I?

As I type this, I am listening to BBC Radio 4's "The Moral Maze" about whether a woman can ever be responsible for being raped. As usual, many of the arguments put by both panel and witness are spurious and I am left suppressing the urge to shout at the radio. The basic dichotomy appears to be this: feminism has achieved little if it fosters the notion that sex is something which women merely tolerate; however, feminism has achieved little if women's freedoms are not protected by the full force of the law. It seems mindnumbingly obvious that there is a difference between taking a risk and giving implicit consent. I take risks. I not infrequently walk home, alone, in the dark, through areas which many consider 'dodgy'. That does not mean that, if I'm attacked, it is I who am at fault. It isn't a civil wrong which can be mitigated by the concept of contributory negligence or volenti non fit injuria. (Can you tell I have degrees in law and Latin?) I suppose I'd better not dwell on this particular issue (for it is not one for winning friends, votes or favourable blog comments) but it is worth remembering that juries, however directed in law, will still be swayed by plausible narrative and "commonsense" sympathies.

Changing tack, I am also minded to be somewhat careful when commenting on the case of John Crawford, convicted under English law in 1959 of consensual acts which would now be lawful. He is, I understand, challenging the legal requirement to declare this conviction (required for the protection of children and vulnerable adults). It seems manifestly unjust that these anomalies persist after successive changes in the law. These laws should never have existed. However, Mr Crawford is not demanding financial compensation for an historic instance of social and moral injustice; he is merely asking for the punishment initiated 51 years ago to stop. I would need a lot of persuading to believe that it is in anybody's interests for that punishment to continue.

Finally, to LGBT history month. I would have been celebrating this with students at Glasgow University tonight; instead, I decided to rest my ageing bones, having done my bit to celebrate it by performing in Edinburgh last night. One of the poems I performed was about the process of "coming out". It's now twenty years since I came out to the world - on national television, to Eamonn Holmes. I had phoned up the BBC programme Open Air to comment on one of the previous night's television shows, Family Matters, which had been discussing "What do you do when your son tells you he's gay?". Upon learning that I was fifteen years old, Eamonn Holmes' memorable comment was "Aren't you a little young to decide?". The point of my poem, entitled "Shorthand", was to convey the awkwardness of it all. All that my being "gay" (or "bi", depending on what day of the week it is) means is that I have (on occasion) sexual attraction towards men. However, twenty years on, it is still difficult to convey this without connotations of (a) the graphic sexual acts in which I may or may not indulge and/or (b) the gender roleplay, mannerisms and aesthetics which I may or may not exhibit. I resent it. It is not empowering to have to label myself every time I meet someone new in case they get offended by finding out later and assume I had been keeping something from them. It happens. Someone I know through poetry circles has spoken of the time I was "pretending to be straight". For those of us who are single, without any "we" or "us" to drop into introductory conversation, it is very difficult to forestall misapprehension other than by contrived references to an ex or blatant rainbow-flag-waving. This blog post, I suppose, is me waving another virtual flag to say: I'm here, I'm queer, but please just let me get on with my life. (Sensible offers to make me non-single will be considered, but be warned that I have peculiarly fine filter when it comes to romance.)