Confessions of a London Femcel

Why are women no longer having sex?

You’ve already picked up this magazine, so it’s clear you fancy yourself as something of a non-conformist. Perhaps you think you know what it feels like to exist in the shadowy outskirts of society. But I am here to out myself as a member of a community so taboo it doesn’t even have a representational hashtag, let alone a Barclays Pride float. As I write, a pair of rectangular-framed non-prescription glasses slips cutely down my nose, I seductively push them back up. I’m calling on all my courage to share my truth today. The truth of how I – now gently biting my lip – a privileged woman in her early thirties (essentially twenties), became part of a fringe group of radicals.

No, I am not a convert to the Nina Power school of philosophy. Nor am I a late-stage libertarian, lured in by the ever underwhelming promise of The Opinionated Carhartt Male. Instead, my radicalisation is happening in the bedroom. Or rather, it’s not happening. And that – I sigh forlornly and adjust the delicate straps of my sheer silk slip (nothing underneath) – is the point. I glance away nonchalantly, now looking back, staring deeply into your eyes, my fingers brushing my mouth in anticipation. I – and I’m trembling as I deliver this line – am a femcel.

Yes, the female incel, a term in fact coined by a woman on Reddit (silenced yet again), before being hijacked by straight men with blowjob lips all over the world. And yet the first woman’s point stands stronger than ever. Sex with men is getting worse, and it was already phenomenally overrated when you consider the amount of gaslighting we have to pretend to fall for in order to access it. At this point they don’t even know how to manipulate us properly. I run my finger up my thigh, and gently snap the strap of perfumed lingerie. Women, it’s time to reclaim our rightful title.

Finding yourself aroused, reader? Uncomfortable? Be honest. Because what I just performed on you was a meticulous social experiment. And I believe it will have, once and for all, proven that I, as an alluring early thirties (essentially twenties) young woman (essentially teen), have been denied the right to experience and vent my sexual frustration without being objectified and ridiculed. You should be very, very disappointed in yourself. And Just Like That (no relation) your sad reaction explains my controversial decision to not have sex any more until I think it will actually be good again.

Life as one of my kind isn’t easy, by the way. Many of you will already be thinking ‘femcels aren’t real’, and ‘being a femcel is a choice’. The very concept of a femcel (especially one with my face) is far too regularly derided and invalidated.

Anyway, the secret is officially out, so now the onus is on you to educate yourself around the community and your own crass bigotry. My slip falls off, I am still wearing the glasses, I stand, now nude, and walk towards you. I reach up and slowly put my fingers in your mouth. Stop. Objectifying. Me.

Some of you may be curious as to whether I have actually earned my femcel stripes or am just whining about a few weeks without getting a leg over. Well, yes and no. About two years ago I stopped classifying the physical act of sex as actual sex, and began only considering fruitful and memorable instances as the real thing. In this case, it’s possible that I am Islington’s oldest, sluttiest virgin, though for the purposes of anyone reading this who I have previously engaged in some form of toxic relationship with (it won’t be many, most of them can’t read): you are definitely the last person I’ve had sex with – text me!

How each individual femcel chooses to determine her identity aside, the community is growing. Despite our soft touch in mainstream culture (and lack of touch, generally) I can assure you that a large majority of your female friends are experiencing their own femceldom. From the partnered-up and sex-toy dependent, to new mothers just learning that having a daddy around isn’t the thrill it once was (it was never really that thrilling in the first place). All you can do is reach out, listen and offer support. And finally, yes ok, I’m the first to admit that while I bear the weight of my title like a vintage Westwood crown, the possibility of going on an app and immediately matching, meeting up and having sex with a Sunspel-wearing man currently enjoying an IPA at Mikkeller on Exmouth Market is – admittedly – extremely high. However, can I again clarify that femcel sits between incel (involuntarily celibate) and volcel (voluntarily celibate), existing as it does in a class of its own. That class being made up of judgemental and indecisive, not to mention phenomenally dressed, lithe and soaking wet women.

For those of you wondering if my standards are simply too high, I’d say: probably yes, unfortunately I do have standards. And unfortunately so do the people I want to have sex with. And with my shocking confession, I will return back to the dark corner in society from whence I came, where only I, and virtually every other woman in the country, currently resides.