I haven’t seen the new Superman film, Man of Steel, because, for some reason, a man with a rippling chest, the gift of flight, and X-ray vision, has never entirely appealed to me.

For one thing, he flies off – a lot. He’s always dashing off to play the hero, making distressed women everywhere swoon.

Secondly, if he can see through walls, he can certainly see through clothes, and there are some horrors you don’t wish your man to see. It should be pointed out here that Lois Lane is an independent, focused, modern(ish) woman. But there’s still room for her Hero, Mr S.

I once heard it said that the best relationship is one where the man is allowed to be masculine, and the woman is – yes, you’ve guessed it – allowed to be feminine. This sounded too simplistic, so I’ve attempted to understand more fully. Women seem to think they need to be independent, able to complete jobs around the house, and possibly be an equal breadwinner – all while looking as feminine as possible, and (often) fulfilling the role of mother in addition to the rest.

In short, we’re trying to be Superwoman. What’s wrong with that? I hear some cry.

Nothing – except, if you’re in a relationship, what role can your partner fulfill, if you’re doing it all? I asked a few male friends whether, in relationships, they’ve ever felt redundant. Some felt their partners didn’t really need them, and the men therefore felt insecure. One even admitted that he found it more attractive in a female partner when she allowed him to do things for her – and then a few of the other guys agreed. This was mind-blowing stuff for me. I’d always presumed that a boyfriend would appreciate a female who could look after herself (thus freeing him from doing it). That’s true – to a point, said one guy. But – and there was a general consensus here – we kinda like to feel needed. “You mean you want to feel a bit like a….Hero?” I ventured. Yes, they nodded, solemnly. But it doesn’t have to be a great feat of strength, or massive show of support: just changing a fuse or lifting a cabinet would have the desired impact. Is this the Superman Effect? Are we wielding Kryptonite every time we struggle in with the shopping?

I may not want the Superman Hero – with a rippling chest, and X-ray vision. (For those who do, that’s fine, but be mindful they can see through toilet doors, too.)

But I certainly don’t want to be Superwoman, either. I guess I can make room for a 21st-century Superman who changes light bulbs, gives me advice (when I demand it) and understands intuitively exactly what I need, when I need it. Ok, that could be asking too much. But if it makes him feel like a Hero to carry the shopping, who am I to struggle?

MISLED TERRORS

The phone call usually comes before Sunday lunch: your best friend – post one-night stand – is suffering serious STD panic. Now, to be absolutely clear, I have never contracted – and do not intend to contract – a dreaded case of post-sex memorabilia.

However, the fear that I will, and the fear friends repeatedly experience, is no less damaging for our stress levels. The last Mourning After debriefing I chaired, a young friend had (safely) spent the night with a lovely chap. Despite the fact they had used protection, she couldn’t rid herself of the fear that perhaps he’d ‘given her something’.

She was so irrationally paranoid, that I felt compelled to accompany her to get the morning-after pill, and had to endure three months of terrorized phone calls, as she waited for the blood test results. (In case you’re not up on your Sexual Health Etiquette, the worst STDs have incubation periods of three months, so patients should wait that long before getting tested.

This is followed by a relaxing, two week results window). My friend’s ridiculous amount of terror followed one night of sex. One night of protected sex. And she isn’t the first.

Last year, I was relaxing with a morning coffee when another call came through. Help. I’m two minutes away. Can I come round? What followed, as an older – but apparently no wiser – friend spun her way into my house, was an account from five nights before.

Since then, a red mark had appeared on her leg. It must be Herpes. Or something worse. And if he’d given her that, what else might he have given her? It turned out to be nothing.

And, of course, I’ve counselled friends through very real fear – fear following nights of unprotected sex, either with boyfriends who have later admitted cheating, or sometimes after foolish liaisons with complete strangers.

Luckily, none of these have ended badly, though I imagine this is only a matter of time – especially after watching a programme like Unsafe Sex in the City. Whether fear is justified or not, the disproportionate stress levels are always the same. There’s something fundamentally shattering about the idea of contracting an STD, which probably has a lot to do with its self-inflicted nature.

Yes, it takes two to tango, and you may be ‘given’ something horrible, but ultimately you will always know, in your heart of hearts, that you could have prevented it.

If you’ve ever been to a GUM (Genitourinary Medicine) Clinic, you’ll know that the shame of sitting across from a stranger, recounting all your misdemeanors, is a real downer. But it feels a lot better to be able to say: ‘Yes, we used protection – I’m just being paranoid’, than it does to admit you were just plain reckless.