Thursday, 31 January 2008

Dave: Treat 'em Mean

Just as the ‘Tree of Knowledge’ pops up in the mythology of every practised religion, so does the ‘Treat ‘em Mean’ mantra from every successful pulling-merchant.

An old friend of mine, whose arrogance is unsurpassed even by the most heinous celebrity chef, regularly preaches this me. Usually over the phone as he’s sneaking out of his latest conquest’s apartment in the early hours of the morning after.

He’d say it’s not about charm, or even confidence (he’s one of those typically insecure arrogant guys. Arrogance and confidence are two very different things). He’d advise rudeness. Not as in hurling insults at the poor girl, commenting on her dreadful taste in shoes. For starters, that would just make you sound gay, wouldn’t it?

No, what he meant was to appear disinterested. He’d say to glance around the room while she’s talking to you. Never under any circumstances seem keen. In fact, goes as far as to convince yourself you don’t even like her before she’s spoken.

Now being the humanitarian I am, I always refused to believe women love being treated improperly. Still do, I suppose. Sort of. Perhaps it’s a blind faith in womankind? Or a fantastical hope for my own behalf? It’s just that I think all people should be treated with equal respect. As long as they recognise my rightful position as master of the human race.

Naturally I put it down to the specific type of dreadful girls he must be going for. The kind I wouldn’t share cyberspace with nevermind personal space. Alas, this proved not to be the case.

I’ve never approached a woman I fancied and whom I didn’t know. Apart from this one occasion. I just wanted to test the over-hyped theory. I expected either I’d do it wrong – not offensive or dismissive enough. Or I’d hit the bar perfectly and she’d be a charming young woman who now feels utterly offended and thinks I’m scum.

So I was in a pub, and this voluptuous brunette was flirting outrageously with these dopey students, getting free drinks out of them (student loans must be much larger than in my day) then giving each a very predictable brush off. This was enough to rile my senses and I must admit that using negativity as a source of ‘courage’ to approach her definitely worked. Otherwise I would never have spoken to her. Now I understand what women mean when they announce we should simply go up and talk. Quite literally that, it seems. There’s no need for humour, politeness, or, as my friend suggests, charm.

So I swan over, as if I’m looking for a fight, for christ’s sake. And lunge in with some accusation of her ‘playing’ the poor sods fawning over her. To this day I can’t recall my actual words, such was the self-disgust I felt. Priding myself on being a decent man, I’ve buried that part of the memory. What I do remember is that I was brutally offensive. There was absolutely no charm involved. No intrigue she could’ve possibly felt. Yet, she responded. A conversation was brewing. Either that or a potential fight.

Unfortunately, I had to keep reminding myself not to like her. And sustain my obnoxious manner. And the more this appeared to entice her, the more I truly began to lose any semblance of interest in her. And when she leaned in to kiss me I found myself rebuffing this attractive woman. So basically I’d finally talked my way into a stranger’s knickers and talked myself out of them before I’d even stretched the elastic. It transpires treating them mean simply makes me feel unclean.

Well, my friend’s advice definitely works, but it’s not for me. I’ll just have to continue my adopted method of hanging around suspiciously until the right girl takes pity on me and decides to engage me in conversation. And more importantly, finds my nervous stammering, as I marvel at the rarity of having been approached, particularly alluring.

Sam: Welcome to the Dark Side

I'd like to introduce Dave Early, our new guest writer on Todger Talk.

Al makes you laugh out loud and gets your brain moving, Ayan provides the medical advice and Dave is here to give a bit of a dark edge. He writes for Scarlet Magazine and I'm looking forward to the discussions his pieces spark . . .

Sam: Sorry for the break in transmission

Oops, sorry for the silence yesterday - crossed wires and schedules overtook us and poor old Wednesday got missed out.

We will be aiming to keep it up more consistantly in the future . . .

Tuesday, 29 January 2008

'Mr Sex': What every teenage boy (and a frightening amount of adult men) should know about their packet

(or, What I Would Say To Myself If I Could Climb Into A Time Machine And Set It Back 20 Years Or So, In Order To Save Myself A Lot Of Unnecessary Mither)

Comparing yours to your mates’ is pointless.
When bonked up, the vast majority of penises are much of a muchness – about five to six inches, depending on whose stats you're looking at. The flaccid penis, on the other hand, can vary in size from minute to minute, depending on temperature, fullness of bladder, alcohol, relaxation levels, and whether you’re having your trousers ripped off by the fifth years (or whatever you call them these days) outside the sports hall or not.

Comparing yours to porn actors, male strippers, and keck-models is even more pointless. The former are employed strictly for their nob-related freakishness, while the latter two more often than not tie off (i.e., they get an erection, tie bit of string/elastic/whatever around base of nob so the majority of the blood stays in, and then after 45 minutes they frantically pick at the knot, screaming “NOOOOOO! UNDO, YOU BASTARD! BEFORE IT GOES ALL BLACK AND DROPS OFF!” In other words, HIGHLY UNRECOMMENDED. IN BOLD CAPITALISED RED TEXT AND EVERYTHING).

Doing anything drastic to increase the size is even more pointless than those other two pointless things combined. Not to mention flat-out dangerous. Penis enlargement pills have contained such things as lead, yeast, pesticides, cow shit, mould, and even E Coli bacteria, and they’re about as effective as swallowing little rolled-up pellets of Blu-Tac. Weights, pulleys and other contraptions are just as bad – the penis is a frighteningly complicated structure, and does not take kindly to being yanked about in ways it doesn’t like. Yes, you could have a cosmetic operation to have the suspensory ligament in your groin cut, making it look longer, but then you run the risk of it not going stiff ever again until rigor mortis sets in.

(Incidentally, anyone who makes a living out of preying on male insecurities with nob-increasing scams ought to have their genitals cut off, watch them be placed into a liquidiser, and then be made to drink them. I hate those bastards.)

The only people who actually give a toss are other men.
Seriously. Virtually every man sneaks a look at what the other one has in the pub urinals (and the ones who don't are in the toilets, terrified that someone will see theirs) . What’s more, practically every penis-enlargement technique is designed to make it look bigger on the flop – i.e., for the benefit of other men, when you’re getting your kit off in the gym. So fuck that.

Yes, it is big enough to satisfy a woman, you soft get.
Look, the average vagina has a depth of between five and seven inches, and any more than a fanny-full is a waste. Even better, all the nerve-endings are concentrated near the entrance. And you don’t need a telescopic attachment to hit the G-spot; just the right technique and a lot of patience.

There is no, repeat, NO correlation between having a bigger cock and being a better lover.
What’s the most popular female sex toy in the world? The Rabbit. Why? Because unlike all those old-school rubber cocks that look like shell casings, it actually works. So does your cock have pliant, clitoris-stimulating forks shooting out of the side, and a rotating middle section? Funny that. Neither does mine. Nor anyone elses.

Furthermore, if you ask any woman whose been with someone who was hung like a blue whale, they’re quite likely to tell you that a) it was uncomfortable, b) it was a lot of faff, or c) he thought all he had to do was turn up with his big nob, the lazy bleeder. Depending on who you ask, a huge proportion of women – up to 70%, according to one survey – have never had an orgasm from vaginal intercourse. You’re better off worrying about the length of your tongue, or the flexibility of your fingers, because trust me, you're going to use them as much as your todger when the time comes.

If you want it to look bigger, trim your pubes and go easy on the
Turkey Twizzlers.
You might not be aware of this, but there’s more to your nob than meets the eye (particularly your eye, because you’re looking at it from a rubbish angle). More often than not, your poor todge is having to fight its way past a pad of fat over the groin, and a tuft of pubes before it can be seen. So if it looks like you’ve got one of the Jackson Five living in your kecks, or you’re a bit of a chubbo, sort it out.

Yes, even I wouldn’t mind a bigger cock
, just like practically every other bloke, and I’d be lying if I said otherwise. But I’d also like a 12” one made out of gold that spat out diamonds, and that’s not going to happen either.

Enjoy worrying about your dick while you can.
Because in about 20 or so years time, you’ll be starting to worry about hair loss, man-breasts, hairy earholes, beer guts, and other, less fun things. And by that time, you’ll realise that when it doesn’t hurt when you piss, it still gets bonked up when it needs to, it doesn't go off when a butterfly flaps its wings on another continent and it still lets you wear light-coloured trousers with confidence, your penis is absolutely, monumentally, utterly perfect.

Monday, 28 January 2008

Sam: Work vs Sex

One of the things that struck me while working on ‘How to have Sex after Marriage’ was that lots of the couples seemed to have a real problem with their work life balance. Or more accurately, they had a real problem with their work-sex balance.

Put simply they were working too hard and sex got squeezed out of their lives. They were working, looking after the kids, doing the washing, watching the telly and just generally too busy to have sex.

Now this seems really crazy to me. Really, in your life shouldn’t you be prioritising the best stuff first? I don’t know about you, but sex certainly ranks up their pretty much at the top of my fun list. And it’s the same for everyone else. Professor Richard Layard, in his groundbreaking book Happiness, found that sex was the thing that made people most happy.

So why aren’t we doing it more? I reckon that sex ends up getting shoved to the bottom of the pile for two main reasons.

First is the myth that sex is always supposed to be spontaneous. A wave of lust overcomes us, we rip off each other’s clothes, have a lusty shag and lie in the afterglow. One of the biggest complaints of couples on the show was that sex wasn’t ‘spontaneous’ any more.

For something to be spontaneous, you have to actually have the time to do it. If your life is filled with other priorities, like work, like watching telly, like doing the washing, then there is no time for you to be spontaneous! Put another way, ‘spontaneous sex’ means sex that gets stuck last on the priority list and shoved in as an afterthought in between everything else.

Which neatly fits into the second main reason – we are all working harder, longer and more. We suffer time sickness, we seem to have less and less time.

So it’s a vicious cycle – you’ve got no time, but you need time to have ‘spontaneous sex’, so in the end, unsurprisingly everyone gets less sex. I think the myth of ‘spontaneity’ is killing people’s sex lives.

The solution? Prioritise sex. Treat it how it should be treated. Make it a top priority. Regularly put time in your diaries for sex, block out Sunday afternoon in red. Make Tuesday nights sacrosanct. Give yourselves space to actually have sex. Otherwise sex will end up where it is now, last in line and at the bottom of the pile.

How’s your work v sex balance? Where is sex as a priority in your life?

Saturday, 26 January 2008

Something for the weekend, Sir? (26.1.08)

Todger Talk is now spending the weekend lolling about in a smoking jacket and cataloging its collection of 'Adult Art Interest' magazines. Until Monday, here's some linkage;

We were going to break down the absolute basics of sex for virgins, but someone's already done it for us

An Australian couple appear to be having a competition to see who can have the most orgasms in 2008. His blog is here. Hers is here

Kermit the Frog reacts to the monumentally dodgy '2 girls one cup' video

Americans! Beware the Porn-Communists!

Friday, 25 January 2008

'Mr Sex': Couples who watch porn together

Right, I know some of you are going to violently disagree with the following - and I know that a lot of what I'm about to say is to do my fucked-up rubbish-man mindset - but please hear me out before mashing me down. Now, I've heard that there are some women who actually enjoy this, but I've never met them. And to be honest, if I ever were with women like that, I wouldn't want to be watching porn with them; I'd want to make it with them.

In my defence, I have only tried to watch porn with a woman once; it was a girl I knew when I was young and cretinous, who came round when my mates were out and discovered a flatmate's wank-stash behind the telly. When she said we should watch one, my bollocks were somersaulting with excitement. Alas, what followed was a morbid carousel of snippy comments, delivered by a woman with a face like a smacked arse;
"Eeh, look at that slag, rubbing her arse as if she thinks she's summat"

"Oh, shurrup, you cunt - she's only shagging you because she's been paid to"

"This is shit. Is it yours, then?"

"Is it yours, then?"

"It is yours, isn't it?"
By the time a graphic penetration shot on a beach was spoiled somewhat by a meat fly the size of of a Cadburys Mini-Egg hovering over the male lead's arsehole, I realised that I was not going to have sex that night, or possibly that year.

Here's the rub; when it comes to what is construed as acceptable erotic material, the majority of men and women seem to differ. To put it another way; women like plot, while men like grot. The porn industry's first attempts to appeal to both genders in the early 90s involved them spending a fortune on elaborate scripts, scenery, locations and costume, fully convinced that pornography was finally going to cross over. What they didn't realise was that most women were still not up for buying it, and 99.9% of all sales were to men who wore out the fast forward buttons on their videos, muttering to themselves. I can guarantee to that no man has ever shuffled over to the VCR with his kecks round his ankles to eject a porn tape, and thought "Ooh, hang on, this is an interesting plot development. I must watch the rest of this to see how that the character of that girl who got spitroasted in the last scene develops."

Nowadays, of course, there are a swathe of more enlightened film-makers who are developing a female audience, but there's a problem with that, too; the men are too damned good-looking, which - to my hypocritically fragile male ego - would intimidate the living shit out of me. I'd be sat there thinking; "Shitting hell, he's a big lad. You could grate cheese on that fucker's stomach. And he's been in that position for ages, and he's not even knackered
yet", and then worrying that my own sexual performance afterwards would be the equivalent of inviting a lady over for dinner, making her watch two hours of Masterchef, and then giving her some Iceland crispy pancakes and oven chips.

So, my question to any females (and more enlightened men out there) is, er, "Help?"

Thursday, 24 January 2008

'Mr Sex': Ten things about porn videos that get right on my tits

The ludicrous pretense that the women involved have been conned, coerced or picked up off the street

I really don’t see the point of Gonzo Porn, mainly because the idea of people having it off in front of a video camera with other people there is weird enough enough for me. But, putting aside all the inherently dodgy implications that women don't really like sex and you have to dupe them into it, please don’t try to fool me into thinking this woman you’ve brought home is some married woman who wants revenge on her husband who she’s just had a row with, or a strangely mature-looking student who reckons that giving a teacher a nosh will bump her grades up. There’s one particular porn actress who I’ve seen;

* Working in a diner, before sucking some bloke off in an alleyway
* Happily married, and being talked by her husband with a threesome with the babysitter
* Actually being a babysitter somewhere else
* Having her anal virginity taken on three separate occasions
* Sucking off some other bloke in order to pass a modelling audition

Either this woman has serious memory-loss, or has extreme difficulty holding down a job, or Porn is lying to us.


Ooh, women sounding like my Dad coughing over the sink in the morning after his first Embassy No.1, how erotic.

Gormless men who won’t shut the fuck up

Most of the male porn actors I’ve ever dealt with are absolute danglings of clag from the arsehole of humanity (The only ones I ever liked were Sean Michaels, Ben Dover and Randy Shagnasty), but you have to feel sorry for them. Once upon a time, the women of porn were seen as mere sperm receptacles. Nowadays, you have to be a serious Grot aficionado to be able to name a genuinely new male porn actor, their names on the DVD box are approximately 20 times smaller than their female counterparts (if at all), and their career falls off the minute they can’t get bonked up. Having said that, why can’t they just stop fucking showing off and thinking they’re summat? The only person who watches this shit to see you preening about and talking bollocks is you, late at night, when paranoia sets in and you’re worried that the angle of your erection is starting to decrease with age.

(And please stop saying “Yeah, just like that. Just like that”. It automatically makes me think of Tommy Cooper, which is not good)

Spitting on genitals

Ugh. What next? People blowing their noses on someone’s scrotum?

Too many close-ups of man-arse and swinging clockweights

I don’t wish to come off as uncosmopolitan or conservative, and I’m fully aware that views of male arsage and knackery can‘t be helped at times, but for fuck’s sake: I’m trying to have a wank, and your hairy, sweaty arse is not helping. At all.

The same old routines time after time after time

Woman gets tits out, pulls knickers up arse. Bloke takes knickers down. Woman sucks bloke off for ages. Bloke flickers tongue at woman for five seconds. Bloke shags woman in missionary position. Woman shags bloke in cowboy position. Man shags woman in doggy-style position. Bloke gets off so he can jizz in her face. Yawn.

The absolute lies spouted in the promotional blurb


Kandeeeee thought she was auditioning for a movie part, and was so keen to get it that she’d do anything! Even though she was a virgin, we talked her into taking on me and my buddy all ways, and then we bust our loads all over her innocent face before kicking her to the curb!


We were contractually obligated to make another porn film, so we went through our address book and called up Sharon, because she looks young. We asked her if she was free on the 17th. But she said no, because her shaving rash had flared up again, but she could do the 19th as long as she got an extra $50 for anal and her travel expenses thrown in. She turned up with her drivers licence and copy of her last STD test, went through some unconvincing role-play that made the cast of Hollyoaks look like the Royal Shakespeare Company, and then we had sex in all the usual, predictable ways. Then she had a shower, got paid cash in hand and went home.

The treatment of interracial sex as if it’s still a monumentally controversial act

Oh God. We now have the benefit of living in a world where the sane majority couldn’t give a shit about people of different races having relationships, so why hasn’t anyone told the porn industry this? Am I supposed to be simultaneously outraged yet strangely aroused over the fact that a pretty blonde girl (because they’re almost always blonde) is being ravished by that…that…non-white person? Mandingo was released over 30 years ago, for Christ’s sake. Come into our century.

Gape shots

Hand on heart, I have never clocked a woman in a bar and thought to myself “Oh God, I’d love to have a good look up the lower end of her digestive system”

Jizzing on faces all the fucking time

Always the same, isn’t it? And seeing as sexual education is still as poor as it ever was, and there’s about ten million times more opportunity to watch porn these days, I worry that today’s teenage boys will simply forget how to procreate properly, and the human species will have fully died out by the 22nd Century.

Wednesday, 23 January 2008


Sorry I've been away for a while. I've been shagging plastic fannies and shoving things up my arse for Scarlet, and I've just about recovered (and will tell you more about it in a bit). But my interest was piqued by this very interesting news story about a Goth couple in Dewsbury who have been banned from riding the bus, due to him leading her about on a dog lead. They're now claiming that the bus operator is being discriminatory, and complaining that he now has to walk ages before being able to let her have a run in the park and a shit in some bushes, before taking her to a pub beer garden and giving her a packet of crisps to open with her teeth. Doesn't he have a hearse, then? She could hang out the side window with her tongue lolling out and all sorts.

OK, my thoughts; I have to admit that first and foremost, I'm thinking "Tee hee! Aren't Goths funny!". Secondly, I'm mulling over the bus company's claim that having a Goth on a dog lead is dangerous. Well, I dunno about that, but I must admit that it would piss me off if I was a passenger. There's nothing worse than coming home after a shit day at work and having to deal with some Goth sticking its nose in me Tesco bag and slobbering around what was going to be my tea that evening, or pretending not to notice a rivulet of Goth piss trickling down the middle aisle of the top deck.

I suppose, now that S&M has ceased to become a dark little secret performed by guilty middle-aged Tory MPs and is now practically a saucy leisure option, we're going to see more news stories like this, and it opens an catering-sized can of worms about open displays of sexuality. Would it have been more acceptible if she had him on the lead? What would I tell my nephew if they came on the bus? How would I feel if I was a woman?

I can't wait to hear what this lady has to say about it, but I must admit, right about now, my overriding opinion on the matter is "Tee hee! Aren't Goths funny?"

Tuesday, 22 January 2008

Sam: Your dirty mind

One thing that men never seem to honestly talk about what really turns them on – or if they do it’s all ‘yeah I’d love to have a foursome with porn star X, Y and TV hottie Z’. Actually at least 50% of men (and probably a lot more) fantasise while they are having sex, why? Well it's like salt and pepper, it adds spice!

Here are some corker male fantasies from the fantastic Scarlet Magazine. Certainly made me lift my eyebrows!

“I’d like to watch my girlfriend giving oral sex to another woman, but I can’t exactly suggest it over dinner”

“I’d like to spank my girlfriend while she begs me to stop. I think she’d feel awkward about it so I’m scared to ask. I want to pull down her knickers and push her over a table and really smack her arse hard. Is that odd?”

“I’ve always wanted my girlfriend to pretend she was a virgin, but I worry that she’d think I was a pervert. I like the idea of being her first shag and making her do naughty things. I know it’s extreme, but it is a favourite fantasy of mine”

“I have a fetish for women in uniform, particularly policewomen. In my fantasy we indulge in some S&M, with the policewoman handcuffing me and then slapping me around a bit. I like the idea of having to do what she tells me to do or she’ll put her truncheon somewhere it shouldn’t be”

“My big fantasy is giving a woman oral sex after she’s just had sex with another man. It’s the thought of her being dirty and messy that gets me hard.”

What are your fantasies? Have you managed to put any of them into action?

Monday, 21 January 2008

Dr Ayan: Jock Itch

Here's a quick medical signpost based on the fact that I've seen three guys in the last month with the same "Oh yeah, and while I'm here, Doc..." issue. They all find it hard to keep their hands out of their trousers because of an itch that won't go away, coupled with a mild red rash. It's something the Americans call 'jock itch' which always amuses me for some reason... All three had checked themselves for crabs...

Most commonly, the itching is because of a fungal infection affecting the skin of the groin, testicles and penis - a little bit like athlete's foot but in the groin. Any area of the body which sweats or is not well aerated can be a good breeding ground for fungal infection.The good news is that is not serious. My advice would be to wash the area as usual, dry thoroughly and avoid towel sharing. To get rid of it, use an antifungal cream from the chemist for a week - something like Canesten, Daktarin or Lamisil twice as day, generously over and just around the surrounding area. If it does not clear up see your GP...

Friday, 18 January 2008

‘Mr Sex’: Sexperts Do The Rubbishest Things

So, I’m working for one of the major Porn Barons in the UK, in the ebbing moments of the Golden Age of Pornography, before the internet ruined it for us, and life is good. I have a secretary. I have a decent (but not massive) salary. And I have perks. I can piss off to the pub all afternoon when I want to. I can take clients to restaurants and take diabolical liberties with the expense account. I can take home bagfuls of wank mags to barter with friends, dealers and bar staff.

But the perk that makes my civilian mates most jealous is that we have access to the local lapdancing club.

Whenever we feel like it, we can make a phone call, get a VIP table with ropes around it, and drink free bottles of beer that would normally cost the same as a decent shirt. The owner assumes that, because we all work in porn, we’re obviously sex-crazed mingehounds who will be throwing money about like bastards. What he doesn’t know is that we get so titted out at work, we all peg it out the office on our dinner hour to stare at fruit machines, electric guitars in music shop windows, and, in my case, calendars of kittens in wine glasses.

So instead, we just get pissed up, talk shop, clock minor celebrities, (and bitch about their general rubbishness for being famous and still having to pay to see someone get their knickers off), and go out of our way to demonstrate to women in various states of undress that we’re not interested in paying for them to do anything for us. Not that we expect it for nothing, oh no – we’re genuinely not interested. We’ve spent all day looking at tits, Photoshopping zits off the arses of Readers Wives, squinting at transparent fannies on light-boxes, making up readers letters, putting words into the mouths of splayed-out models, and looking at more tits. And arses. And fannies. And then some more tits.

One night, after we’d all been out for a slap-up meal followed by a go on the London Eye with some representatives of Big Massive Newsagent Chain, a group of us take the very rational decision to stop out and get even more hammered. Our Accounts Manager makes a phone call, and the next thing I know, we’re off to a club. My heart sinks when I realise it’s the same fucking lapdancing club. Half an hour later, I get so bored with tits again that I turn my chair around, face the wall, and submerge my head into a pint. I think about how much work I’ve got on tomorrow. I think about my overdraft. I think about my ex, and what she’s doing now, and how much I miss her.

And then I get a tap on the shoulder.

I look up, and one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life is standing in front of me. Massive brown eyes that you’d want to swim around in like a baby seal. Beautiful long brown hair, that frames her doll-like face. Perfect, petite body, encased in a dark, filmy negligee. Seriously, you would have given her £20 just to watch her open a tin of cat food, or read an Argos catalogue.

“Would you like a dance?”

She’s got a French accent. Oh. My. God.

I sober up immediately. I get up. I take her hand. I walk across the club, feeling the eyes of every one of my workmates on me. I look back, fighting down a gormless smile.

And then I stop, in the middle of the club. Right on the uncarpeted, 50p piece-shaped bit. And I turn round. And I look into her eyes. And I smile.

And then I dance.

It takes me 10 seconds to realise that she isn’t dancing. She’s staring at me with perfect hands on perfect hips, with her perfect mouth screwed up into a perfect pout, and her perfect eyes staring perfect little daggers. And then I remember where I am. And I say; “Oh, hang on…you mean a dance, don’t you?”

I pull out my wallet, desperate to give her some cash so I can get rid. Nothing there. I look for my debit card. Left it at home. Shit. Shit. Before I can get a pen and paper so I can write an IOU for any future earnings I make, she snarls something incomprehensible at me as if I’d tried to slap her face with me cock, and storms off. In the corner, I can see my boss, all my workmates, and random strangers pissing themselves with laughter.

And I start to wonder to myself if I'm really suited to the life of a Smut Pedlar after all.

Thursday, 17 January 2008

'Mr Sex': Frienditis, Part 2

I want to go back, if that’s cool with you, to a statement Sam made on Monday;

I find that men are afraid of making the first move with women, they are scared of even thinking about having sex with the women they fancy - because they are worried about coming across as a sleazy bastard.
When I read this, I went far beyond the ear-burning stage. My entire face caught fire. I’d like our male readers to check the following situation and tell me if I’m talking bollocks or not…

There’s this girl who, at various points throughout your life, absolutely beguiles you. You could be 14, or 19, or 27, or 39 – it doesn’t matter. And it’s not the same girl, either; it’s someone in your English class at school, or someone behind the till at Tesco. That girl at college or uni who just grew on you, and think no-one else has clocked her. The mate of a mate. The girl who you see at the bus stop every morning. The woman you always see with her mates in the same pub on the same night. And she’s attainable as well; as far as you know, she’s not attached to anyone.

And she doesn’t even know it, but she absolutely runs your life.

You wake up in the morning, and your first thought is; Yessss. I’m going to see her today. You get ready for work in total preparation for the moment you see her, from what you’re going to wear, what facet of your life you’re going to talk up in order to impress her, down to what tune you want to be listening to on your iPod when you see her. Every song you hear on the radio seems to be about you and her, even when your hand slips and the Bangladeshi station comes on. Every time you see her, your stomach lurches, you sit bolt upright, and you have a sucky grin on your face like Maggie Simpson whenever The Happy Elves come on the telly.

After you’ve made some kind of contact – whether verbally, visually or even (if you’re dead lucky) physically, you think about nothing else for the rest of the day. Then you think about what she’s doing at that moment. You think about conversations yet to be had. You wonder about where she lives, and what her parents are like. You think about what her hand would feel like in yours.

And then, when you’re lying in bed, when there's no-one about and and the lights are out, you wank yourself bandy over some woman who used to work at your old place, who you didn’t particularly like much, let alone fancy.

Now, I’m guessing that any woman reading this will snort with disbelief at that statement (and I really don’t know how many men will agree with me either, to be honest), but trust me; in my case, it’s true. Depressingly, horribly, morbidly true. If I fancy a woman, I cannot bring myself to wonder what she would be like in the sack, no matter how sexy she is, how flirtatious she's been, or even if we’ve already done something mildly intimate (In fact, it’s even worse now; all female friends are out of the equation too). But when it comes to rubbish exes who didn’t give it up and then pissed off to give it to someone else, or women from my past who I hardly said two words to, fucking hell – we’re at it hammer and tong all the bastard time.

So what’s that all about? Well, you tell me. Is it the Madonna/Whore complex? There’s an element of that, I’m sure; that hoary old attitude still exists. Is it because certain men enjoy the anticipation and open-endedness of a potential relationship that hasn’t happened yet (and might never will) and want to avoid the thought of bringing it to a conclusion with a sexual liaison that she might be disappointed by? Could be.

I think it comes down to this; for years and years and years and years and years, we’ve been bombarded with the bullshit notion that women don’t really like sex, and – despite all the evidence to the contrary, which practically grows by the day - it’s still seen as something you have to cajole, flatter, and con a woman into. And that attitude takes a long time to get over, no matter now many Ann Summers there are on the high street.

And the upshot of this is that whenever certain men come across a woman who they know they’re falling for, they automatically feel like they have an LCD screen on their head that is spelling out their every thought. They want her to read; ‘HEY! I’M ACE, ME, AND DEAD INTERESTING, I'M NOT LIKE THOSE OTHER TOSSERS, HONEST, AND WE SHOULD KNOCK ABOUT WITH EACH OTHER, YOU KNOW’. And the last thing they want her to read is ‘NARRRGH! I WANT FUCK, WOMAN’. They’re so geared towards convincing a woman that they’re not trying to get into her pants that they almost always succeed.

Cruellest of all, some of us even con ourselves out of getting into an imaginary pair.

Tuesday, 15 January 2008

'Mr Sex': Time for another porn letter

As all writers will tell you, there's nothing better than getting positive feedback for your hard work and creative struggle (apart from money, of course). Unless you work on wank mags, of course. Because when the readers get in touch to congratulate you, it's not because you've given them something to think about or have captivated them with your skill. It's because you've put the idea into their head that mashing their genitals for five minutes or so is the thing to do.

The following is an example of the kind of thank-you letter we used to receive on a disturbingly regular basis. All spelling mistakes are his...

I’ve just brought the latest issue, great as usual. I didn’t even get pass page 4. I saw your "Talk dirty to us" spot, then 5 lovely horny babes. I studied there nylon clad bodies and instantly decided to give you a running commentary while I wrote this letter. Well like most blokes I love stockings suspenders ect. Talk dirty! No I’m going to be "dirty".

So just before I started this letter, I’ve put on a black pair of stockings and a black and red suspender belt. Now as my cock is already excited and weeping, I thought I’d wear a pair of black silky knickers, cos I thought what with my cock weeping, I must be letting off a sex odour down there. So when I’m ready to cum over those sexy bitches, I could whip off the knickers, slip them over my head (as I would if there was a woman with me) and sniff away at the sweet smell of sex. All undies are the wife’s, I haven’t yet got my own set, but soon will have I assure you.

Right now I’m lusting after those horny girls in the mag, my cock is throbbing and like a bar of steel, I’m right handed, so I’m playing with it with my left hand, I must look absolutely stupid, but I’ll tell you, I feel so fucking sexed up with what I’m doing.

This is great. I’ve had a closer look at the stockings she’s wearing, while feeling my ones I’ve got on, it’s as if she was hear. If that lady was, I’d fuck each and every hole in her body, filling all with my hot sticky spunk, which is now, wanting to spurt out my cock. I’ve now took off my knickers, and put them on my head, as I sniff the crotch looking at these horny babes. I can’t believe how similar the odour is. I know nothing on earth can replace the wondrous smell of wet pussy, but for wanking purposes it will do.

I think I’m going to have to stop writing as I’m nearly about to cum, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, O fuck its out of control, I’ve got to stop now.

What a fucking blissful wank that was, and just to make it that little bit dirtier for you, as I started to cum, I bent forward and lowered my head, you’ve got it, the times I’ve cum on a woman’s face, there’s a first time for everything, now I know how it feels I came all over my own face, spunk everywhere, and yes I did lick what I could off and swallowed. Well if your going to copy something you might as well go the whole hog.

It’s probably the best wank and orgasm I’ve had in ages, and I certainly felt dirty, kinky and some what perverted. I throughley recomend it to any guy who’s not frightened to experiment. Thanks girls, you really done it for me.

NB: In case you were interested, the gentleman was performing what is described in Roger's Profanisaurus as a 'Spiderman Wank'.

Monday, 14 January 2008

'Mr Sex': Frienditis

Well, I think Sam’s last post has provided me with a week’s worth of stuff to get off my chest, and we may as well start from Ground Zero. The fact is that when Sam broke down the basics of Frienditis, my ears started burning, and I type this with lumps of molten tab-hole dripping down my face. So let us go back, back, back to the early 90s. Margaret Thatcher was out of power. Saddam Hussein was still managing to cling on to his. People were having a dalliance with flared jeans. More importantly, I was 22, at Uni, and still a virgin. Which was the main reason I went to Uni, really.

There was a particular girl there who I became very fast friends with. We were always knocking on each other’s door in halls, spinning a £1.15 pint out in the SU, talking about where we came from and what we wanted to do with our lives. About a month into our friendship, at about 3am, I was awoken by a hammering on my door. It was her. She’d been out on the mash. “Let us in, then”, she said. Before I knew it, or had time to put on anything more substantial than a very ratty pair of boxers, she was fully-clothed, in my very tiny university-regulation single bed, beckoning me in. Crikey.

“You should have been out with us, it was ace. Come here. Cuddle up to me. Don’t want to sleep alone” she said, before turning over, thrusting her arse into my groin, and falling asleep. I spent the rest of the night lying awake, with my arm going number and number, in a catatonic state of shock, concentrating every erg of brain-power into avoiding any semblance of an erection (the fact that she was still wearing sequinned hot-pants long before Kylie did helped, though. It was like having a hedgehog in me lap)

And that, my friends, was my first contact with Frenditis. But definitely not the last.

Here’s the thing; I truly believe when it comes down to it, there are not that many psychological differences between men and women, but when it comes to ideal partners, we differ strongly. Women tend to prefer a man who comes in from nowhere and can show her a different perspective on life (notice how I’m fighting to avoid the term ‘sweep her off her feet’ here, in case I instantly transform into Barbara Cartland). Men, on the other hand, tend to want a friend they can fuck. To the male mind, it makes perfect sense, mainly because we're less inclined to compromise and change our behaviour. If you’re already friends with someone, they already know what you’re like and what you get up to, and they already tolerate it, we assume. And no-one ever becomes friends with someone they’re not attracted to in some way, no matter what sex they are. But when the friend happens to possess the set of genitals you want to get involved with, that’s when the trouble starts.

Over the next few months, we slept together on numerous occasions. After I told her of my aversion to sequins, she started stripping down to her underwear, and I developed the erection-avoiding skills of a Zen Master. Was she being a prick-teaser? No - she had already categorised me as a friend, the window of possibility had been shut a long time ago, and if what she did with other friends was sleep with them when she didn’t want to be on her own, then she was gonna sleep with me.

So was I being an idiot for assuming that she was doing this because she wanted to grind me into the bed at some point? Maybe, but how was I to know? All I could see was that a) she liked me, b) if she was sleeping with me, she must really like me, c) the only thing that’s stopping her from declaring her lust for me was that it was my job to do that, but d) I’m scared to, in case she falls out with me.

And this went on for ages, to the point where I might as well have glued fur to my entire body, put on a bowtie, and propped myself up on a pillow. And not just with her, either – I was a serial teddy-bear. I don’t like to brag, but I relentlessly Teddied it about on campus with a chain of female friends, even managing a threesome with two girls who took it in turns to say how nice it was to sleep with a bloke who wasn’t trying to fuck them, as I lay on the bed with my plastic nose, stitched-up mouth and mentally-shrivelled todger, as I inwardly screamed; “BUT I DOOOOO WANT TO FUCK YOUUUUUUUU! AARRRRRGHHHHH! PLEASE TAKE MY VIRGINITY AWWAAAAAAAYYYYY!”

Eventually, matters came to a head. We went out, got drunk, I confessed I was mad about her, and we went back to mine and had a 3-second snog. Then I lunged at her tits (yes, I was that classy in those days) and it was Game Over. Next day, brief chat, sorry about last night, yeah, I really like you too but I don’t feel that way about you, might be best not to see each other for a bit. Thanks to me, that ‘bit’ became 17 years, because to most men, the only cure for Frienditis is not to be friends anymore.

I learned a very important lesson that night. But it took me years to actually understand it. Nowadays, I have far more female friends than male ones, and I like living in a world where men can actually do that. Obviously, I still find them attractive, but when I do, I let them know as early as possible, so as to get all the baggage and the rubbish out of the way. And if they ever do end up in my bed, I tiptoe off to the sofa.

'Sam': A Modern Man Plague

There is a silent plague affecting modern man - frienditis, or put another way, a lack of masculinity. Did you know that if you are under 30 you are four times more likely to be 'just friends' with a woman than men of the past?

One of my past clients is a typical sufferer. He is attractive, he is successful, he has loads of friends, particularly loads of female friends. And get this, there was one of his friends that had the hots for. She even slept in the same bed with him. For over and year. And nothing happened. Here is a great bloke, on the surface he has everything a woman could want, but just couldn't get the women he wanted.

This is incredibly common. I find that men are afraid of making the first move with women, they are scared of even thinking about having sex with the women they fancy - because they are worried about coming across as a sleazy bastard.

He, and many many other men, are a casualty of the war that Feminism quite rightly waged against male chauvinist pigs and for equality. Women are quite right to demand equal pay, equal rights, equal opportunities, and they still don't get it - 96% of company directors are still men, and women still on average get paid less than man. Often a lot less.

The problem is that the baby got thrown out with the bathwater. The reason - in most people's minds masculine man = male chauvinist pig.

These are two completely different things, you can be a masculine man and still respect women. You can still take the lead, love sex and be able to kick the shit out of a mugger and treat your woman as an equal. In fact, you might find women love you for it.

So what is a masculine man? In my books:
  • He is able to physically handle himself
  • He is willing to take the lead and make strong decisions
  • And most of all he is comfortable with sex and being sexual

As opposed to the Male Chauvinist Pig who:
  • thinks women should stick to their traditional roles
  • treats women as sex objects to be used and thrown away
  • is just one of the old-fashioned bastards who treats women badly

Now they key issue here is that women love masculine men. They love having a man who can make decisions, who can make the first move, and who as well as making love, can give them a good hard shagging!

And why is it that the bad boys continue to get the girls? That's because pretty much all male chauvinist pigs are masculine. But unfortunately too many modern men have chucked their masculinity out the door.

Quick guide to becoming more masculine:

  • Take up Krav Maga - in one afternoon you'll learn how to take out a mugger in seconds flat

  • Realise it's OK to take the lead and be the hunter

  • When you are with a woman you fancy think sex. Think what you want to do with her. Imagine it in detail. Enjoy yourself.

  • And most importantly, realise that you can be masculine without being a male chauvinist pig
Phew, that was all a bit serious. If you fancy a fun take on this topic, check out this video on frienditis. What do you think? Are you a sufferer? Do you have any funny stories? Do you have mates who suffer frienditis?

Saturday, 12 January 2008

Sam: Weekday Service Only

Well guys, I hope you have enjoyed the first full week of Todger Talk, I sure have.

Just to let you know, currently Todger Talk is Monday to Friday, so, for the time being there won't be any weekend posts after this one.

There has to be some rest for the wicked!

Friday, 11 January 2008

'Mr Sex': NO, Mate

The following e-mail, which is probably blazing through the Blogosphere like those reconstructions of what a nuclear attack would look like in the 1980s, is a - no, the - textbook example of what not to do when you've split up with your girlfriend. I post it without comment, but loads of censorship...

Dear all,
Some of you may or may not know me. My name is [CENSORED] - I work for the Digital wing of [CENSORED].

What some of you may or may knot know is that since 17th October 2007, myself and [CENSORED] have been having a relationship. Although a fledgling but simultaneously serious relationship, we found out we were pregnant on the 28th December 2007. Unfortunately [CENSORED]'s initial reaction was to consider abortion. After deliberation and apparently telling her parents she told me she was 50/50 and began veering more to having the child - it was going to be a girl, [CENSORED].

Last Wednesday we went for our first scan - the baby was now 7weeks and 3 days. Following from that we went for counseling on the Friday at the well woman clinic in [CENSORED]. [CENSORED] seemed more in the persuasion of having the baby now claiming the wonderful life we would have etc. She assured me whatever happened she would tell me as we were going to "stick together" Ultimately I wanted the child as I know we could have provided for it.

It came as a real distress to me to find out that yesterday without my knowledge that [CENSORED] travelled to [CENSORED] and terminated my first child. I'm sorry for being so very public about such an issue, but I feel she has left me no choice. She duped me into believing her parents knew - when I asked her father last night he was completely unaware, as was her mother.

It is of enormous distress for me and incredible pain - even if she had not wanted the child she could have had it adopted, or my family would have raised it solely.

[CENSORED] for your action I hope you burn in hell. I'm sure after this e-mail I will be portrayed by certain quarters as a psycho boyfriend - she was right not to have my child, however I can assure you I have been a model boyfriend, so much so that even despite her horrible betrayal and action she STILL asked if we could be together - no chance. I'm sure [CENSORED] will use the line - that I was only a short term boyfriend
rebound after [CENSORED] (whom she cheated on by the way for a month with me - really nice girl.) Well if you check my desk after I'm gone (resigining as of immediate effect) you can see for yourself the love notes cards etc - professing her "undying love."

The truth is my friends that [CENSORED] is cold and ruthless - you may feel the same of me after this, but I can assure you this is the action of someone who has been broken because of all of this - I know I will be finished because of this - don't really care I have taken what I believe to be a fatal OD of pills at this stage so nothing else matters.

If you have any doubt as to [CENSORED] character then let me fill you in some other facts (can all be verified by her work e-mails she sent to me....) Silly girl!!!

1.)[CENSORED] - she calims you're a sh*t MD and because of you the agency is going down the tubes. She moans about the fact that you do no work in terms of new business rather you sit all day reading the paper. She moans about her salary claiming you don't have a clue about advertising and therefore pay [CENSORED] and [CENSORED] more than her.

She has been "hiding" stuff on her accounts from you for quite some time claiming that you will never notice as you don't pay her enough attention. She feels you're niaive and has of late began "to play you" e.g. the incident with [CENSORED] was greatly exagerated by her. Also FYI [CENSORED] was the only person who really could have admitted what happened at [CENSORED] but refused to do so - my Ex girlfriend
ladies and gentlemen - a very special girl.

This is almost as sickening as the abortion: the day [CENSORED] sent you an e-mail saying her aunt had died (29th Nov) - complete fabrication, [CENSORED] wanted to go to my father's surprise 60th (in case I looked at another woman or God forbid... took another date.) My mother recently had a turn (as you may or may not know.) This was an incredibly stressful time for me and to make things worse [CENSORED] was not being very understanding. She then claimed to have fainted to get some attention - later to admit this was completely untrue - remember the day she took of work - everyone was so worried.

2.) Creative:
[CENSORED] - she makes a big deal about the texts you send her claiming they are inappropriate and make her feel uncomfortable especially as you married with kids. (msgs include the one with all the kisses and the day you said you were in the pub and missed her 'wit.')

[CENSORED] - before I came on the scene she fancied you and even admitted to flirting with you, just to keep things 'interesting at work' still must carry a torch for you as she had some horrible things to say about your wife at the ICADS

[CENSORED] - she says some really personal things about you which I am not going to go into - there should be some e-mails on it though if you want to know (under the data protection act you are entitled to see these.) [CENSORED] Seems to know a lot about you e.g. how you didn't receive 2006 Xmas bonus because of ur 'incompetence' and 'attitude towards suits'

[CENSORED] and [CENSORED] - doesn't rate you, claims you are "sh*t", "lazy", "not hungry any more" [CENSORED] slagged of your attempt at the Sony Xmas press ad so much that she got me to do the eventual one that went to print. (In fact [CENSORED] has been getting me to do a lot of her creative work - again check the e-mails, the Sony Radio ad debacle arose because the client loved my ads that [CENSORED] briefed me on!.) Also - she claims that you only hire sh*t creatives in order to not undermine your own creative work and threatened to go to [CENSORED] because you put the radio ads for the F**kin' books on her jobs

[CENSORED] - really thinks you're sh*t, so much so that she briefs me on all of your work claiming I'm a better copywriter than you. She always says "God love her she doesn't have it" - Again, ask to see e-mails for verification.

3.) Client Service.

[CENSORED] - thinks ur a complete 2 faced snake, says you're so repressed that you will have a mental breakdown at some stage. Claims you add no value to the agency, have no interest in any of your accounts and that she is much better at her job than you. (Hates it when you talk down to her like a teacher, because she ultimately knows more about advertising than you.)

[CENSORED] - claims to "play you", telling you things only when she wants [CENSORED] to know them e.g. her salary problems etc. Claims ur incredibly lazy and could be an asset to the agency if you do some work.

[CENSORED] -[CENSORED] I'm so sorry for you, she really hates you despite you thinking otherways. There are some incredibly horrible e-mails about you in terms of how you look, your medical problem how you're sh*t at your job (that you only were hired because you're blonde and well endowed), she tells everyone about the fact that you don't know how huge [CENSORED] are as an agency. Constantly complains about how loud you are, the fact you undress in front of people in the office, what you were wearing at the Xmas party etc. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye but seriously the girl hates you with a passion. She can't reconcile it in her head how you are on a larger salary than her (and yes, she told me what you're on.) She also hates being patronised when you say in her review she should ask for "Senior Account Executive" - says she'll be an Account Director before either you or [CENSORED].

[CENSORED] - Probably hates you as much as Rachel. She tried to sabotage you over the NCA receipt holders, making small problems seem much larger than they actually were. Her hope is for us to lose the NCA so that you lose your job - her words. [CENSORED] is very disrespectful of the fact that you're a single mother claiming you "play that card to get more money" Again claims you know nothing about advertising and the only reason you were hired was because you are easily manipulated by superiors.

[CENSORED] - Really doesn't like you, claims you know nothing about planning and merely use the same strategy repeatedly. Calls you "The Pig" because of your skin pigment etc. Her ambition is to get you out of the agency, hence she has been f**king you over to [CENSORED] behind your back on everything. The discussion urself [CENSORED] and I had yesterday, that was all a result of her, I covered for her as she told me she was off thinking hard about wether she was going tohave my baby or not - apparently not as she was off having an abortion.

4.) Media

[CENSORED] - Said some pretty awful things about your relationship with [CENSORED] - I won't repeat as they go into very personal matters that frankly I'm not sure how she knows.

[CENSORED] - Again personal stuff that I'm not going to divulge - too hurtful. (There are e-mails.)

[CENSORED] - Called you a freak (dunno why as she doesn't even know you.)

[CENSORED] -Claims you're the Media her in that you get walked over and aren't paid enough.

[CENSORED] - again bitchy comments.

[CENSORED] - Began liking you recently when she found out you didn't like [CENSORED] - prior to that she had a very nasty nickname for you.

I'm really sorry to go into all of this so publicly however I feel she has left me no choice in terms of highlighting the nature of this girl. There's a line in American Psycho where the Protagonist claims he is "simply not there "- this is the same with [CENSORED] she's cold, manipulative and evil. For all the relevant people. Please investigate my e-mails when gone just to see how deep the shirade goes.

[CENSORED] - Everytime you look in the mirror I want to think of the lives you have destroyed. Remember what you named our unborn child - [CENSORED]. I want that name to stay with you for the rest of your un-natural life, as it will with me. I despise you for what you have done and I really hope this haunts you for the rest of your life. You make me sick.

For anyone who thinks I'm lying about any of this - speak to [CENSORED] - he knows the majority of it, combined with the fact that there are many e-mails relating to this that the silly girl sent to me.

FYI - I'm apparently the only one that knows this, however [CENSORED] has already booked her flghts to go travelling next year - well Bon Voyage [CENSORED] - hope the time away gives you a lot of time to reflect what you've done.


P.S. For all my friends and family, I love you very much and I am deeply sorry for all of this

P.P.S For verification of all my refutable points please go to my e-mail (password is [CENSORED])

I've highlighted said e-mails in RED under folder [CENSORED] and just in the mail box.


'We were pregnant'?

'Mr Sex': Our first gratuitous tit shot

Soz, but seeing as my tea was ruined last night by this story on my local news channel (video clip here, athough I'm not sure anyone outside the UK can see it), it's only fair that I disrupt your lunch. Long and the short of it; that bloke up there with the massive jubblies has had a request for a breast reduction turned down, and he's not happy. To put it another way, like most people on a Friday afternoon, he's desperate to get off his tits.

Although he's a bit of a chubbo (and that Clockwork Orange-like pic is not the most flattering in the world - and if you stare at it long enough, you can actually see Freddo the Frog, so don't), I think it's fair to say that he is pretty well stacked, regardless of beer gut. If I were in the changing room at the swimming baths and he lobbed those out, for example, I know I would look upon my own perky little sausage-tits and feel a bit intimidated and underdeveloped.

(Then I'd start worrying that he'd come over, pick my flimsy training bra up with his thumb and forefinger and sneer; "What do you need this for? You've got nothing. You'll never get a boyfriend with fried eggs like that", and I'd start crying. But that's just me. Ignore it)

The NHS have knocked him back for a second time because they claim that the operation would be cosmetic surgery, and that he has to a 'social, psychological and physical benefit' to justify it. Dunno about you, but I say that there must be huge psychological benefit to being male and not having massive knockers if you don't particularly want them, and you have to wear five layers of clothing and have to wrap bandages round your tits like Judy Garland in the Wizard of Oz. There was one kid at school who had the same problem, and his life was a morbid carousel of sex-crazed piss-taking youths trying to cop a feel through his jumper, leering at him in the changing room, and asking him if he's given anyone a soapy tit-wank yet.

Come on, NHS - stop being such mingebags and get the tits off for the lad.

Thursday, 10 January 2008

'Mr Sex': My sole encounter with a prostitute

3am on a Saturday morning, and I - Nottingham's 'Mr Sex' - am taking a lonely walk through the outskirts of my beloved hometown, my heart laden with bitterness as the chip papers and discarded flyers blow about my feet. Because I haven’t pulled. Because half of me mates hadn’t bothered to come out. But mainly because I’ve just missed the night bus, I live miles away, and all I've got left is £6.50. Little do I know it, but my luck is about to change...

I'm about to walk past a group of people shambling along in a post-club haze, when someone comes round the back and jumps out at me. I, having watched too many documentaries about binge-drinking, cringe backwards, expecting to be glassed or shot or God knows what. But hang on. It's a woman. Denim jacket, denim, mini-skirt, blonde shoulder-length hair. Actually, she's a sort. Next thing I know, she's linked her arm into mine, and we're walking up the street like we've known each other for ages. And bleddy hell, I do believe she's chatting me up. "Where yo' bin, duck?" she says. "Did you 'ave a good night? What's someone like yo' doing on 'is own, you're nice, you are"

As she unlinks her arm from mine and steers me up the street with her hand on my arse, my mind is going in two directions at once. On one hand, I'm fully aware that Nottingham on a Friday night magically transforms itself into RandomWorld, a mystical place where the slightest incident can either land you in someone else's bed or in A&E. And if this young lady wants to end her evening by cutting herself a slice of my Sex-Cake, I was totally happy to give her a plastic spoon and paper plate to go with it.

On the other hand...I’ve had five pints and the best part of two jugs of vodka and cranberry over the course of the evening. Not only that, but I’ve just caned a large tray of fishcake, chips and mushy peas, half of which is down me shirt. There aren't any mirrors about, but there's a very good chance that, right about now, I look as attractive as a carrier bag full of slugs.

And then she pulls me towards an alleyway.

And then she says "Have you got twenty quid, then?"

And then I realise that I am on a street that has the most CCTV cameras in the city. And I'm just around the corner from Forest Road, which, in Nottingham, has the acronym "For Oral Relief, Everyone Staggers Towards Radford - Obviously, After Dark". Oh. My. God. A penny the size of the Millennium Wheel drops.

Before this moment, I have only said two things to a prostitute; "No thank you, duck", and "No thank you, duck - and I wouldn't bother hanging outside here, it's the launch party for a Gay magazine". Yes, I've gawked through the windows in Amsterdam, and I've browsed the magazines with the endless adverts for Personal Services that mates who've been to Vegas bring back. And I'd be a lying bastard if I pretended I haven't asked myself if I could actually do it on more than, ooh, a thousand occasions.

But I'm picky. I'm a sucker for the idea that a woman is having sex with me because she likes me, or fancies me, instead of doing it to feed her kids, or herself, or a habit. Instead of feeling incredibly aroused at the chance of a filthy encounter for the cost of a ticket to see Nottingham Forest, I start to panic. And I feel gullible as fuck, and get defensive. I honestly didn't know, Officer. Yes, she’s dressed like a prostitute, but its Friday night. Everyone in Nottingham dresses like a prostitute on Friday night. Even me.

I start to back-pedal. I tell her that, however attractive she is, I’m not interested. Not being judgmental or looking down me nose at you, love, but…I just can’t. Please don't try to have sex with me. Please.

She sighs a bit, understands, and I walk her back to the entrance of Forest Road. She tells me it’s nice to talk to a bloke on a level playing field and not through a car window, and I try to tell her to look after herself. She gives me a hug and wishes me goodnight. I walk off, feeling extremely right-on about myself.

And then I pat the back of my trousers, and realise my wallet has gone.

“Alright, give us it back,” I huff, after legging it back over to her.

“Dunno what you’re going on about, love.”

I take a deep breath.

“Look, there’s only a fiver in there. All I’ve got is a cashpoint card which I’m going to cancel right now, and a gym card that I never use. You can even keep the wallet - it was free out of a magazine. But there’s a photo of my God-daughter in there, who is my favourite person in the world, and I’m not leaving until I’ve got it back.”

She looks away, as if I'm not there. So I reach over, take hold of her wrist, and squeeze it firmly but gently until she looks me in the eye. And I say the following;

“I’m single, I’m self-employed, I’ve done nothing wrong, and you know it. If you don’t give me that picture back, I’m calling the Police right now.”

And amazingly, she does. Along with the wallet. Fully intact.

I don't want to leave on bad terms, so I rummage in my pocket and give her the £1.50. Then I walk home, wondering what £1.50 would usually get you from a prostitute. Maybe they'd agree to point at your crotch from across the road, or something. And I walk home, laughing with relief.

Moral of the story; although I know quite a bit about sex, that doesn't stop me from being a naive bell-end every now and then.

Wednesday, 9 January 2008

'Mr Sex': The Best Letter To A Porn Magazine EVER

Long ago, in another time and another place, I worked in wank mags. I wasn't a Smut King; more a Porn Peon. I started as the picture librarian for 30 grot periodicals, including Readers Wives, Real Wives, Asian Babes, 40+ (age and bra size), 50 & Over (just age), Electric Blue, Black & Blue, Asian Babes and Big And Fat, and went on to do pretty much everything but take part (I was offered £75 to be in a porn video. I told them that if anyone wanted to see my beautiful white arse going up and down on the telly, they'd better up the ante to £90 at least).

Whenever I was in the pub with my mates, and they told their mates what I did, their eyes would instantly light up and they would chew my ear off all night. It was quite bizarre, having people on ten times my salary grabbing me by the arm and shouting "Oh my God, you lucky bastard! I wish I had your job!"

Whenever it got too much, I had an instant response to calm them down. I would calmly point out that at 9.30am tomorrow, while they were reclining in their luxury offices and asking a secretary to fetch them another coffee, I would be nursing a hangover the size of God's face, preparing to do my first task of the day; opening the readers' letters.

I suppose, in a way, I was very lucky indeed; I was given, on a daily basis, the opportunity to gaze into the open wound of male sexuality. On the other hand, I was given, on a daily basis, the opportunity to open the most grotesque Lucky Bag in history. Jagged scrawls by borderline psychotics. Photos of Holger from Rotterdam, bollock-naked save for a pair of diving boots, attempting to give himself a nosh, with "LADIES! The DEVIL has taken HOLD of ME!" desperately written across the top. Nasty willies held up against even nastier duvet covers. Someone's Nana in a manky living room with her legs thrown around both arms of the recliner, with her dressing gown wide open and a fag dangling from her fingers. Tissue Samples.

Naturally, I used to whip handfuls of them to read on the tube home. And even now, ten years later, they still pop up amongst the boxes of rubbish I've horded over the years. I intend to throw these up whenever I find them, and I'm starting with the absolute cream of the crop. This, my friends, is the best letter ever sent to a porn magazine, ever.
Never mind the fact that it graphically describes the probably illegal usage of meat products, domestic animals, and Manchester United. Never mind the fact that this story never happened, and was probably sent as a piss-take, and I've posted this all over the internet whenever I got the chance, and after reading it, you might feel all manner of emotions (and most of them negative). Just read it.
I was home alone the other night watching football on Sky. Liverpool were one-all with Man U with ten minutes to go. I had just taken a Viagra pill four hours earlier and shagged my girlfriend four times until she went to work at a local hospital.

I had cooked myself some sausages and was laying there in front of the TV quite relaxed, chomping on my sausages. I looked down and my old fellow was staring back at me with its one eye closed, almost as if it were winking at me to play with it. I was impressed – I had never seen it so big before. It was laying on my belly stiff as a board staring at me, the head was laying just below my chest as I lay on my back.

‘I wonder…’ I thought as I removed my jeans and rolled my legs up, over and behind my head. My penis slid straight into my mouth. It was a curious feeling giving myself a headjob, the head made it in just over my front teeth. I was used to deeper penetration when my girlfriend was giving it to me but I wasn’t complaining. I sucked myself off for five minutes, thoroughly enjoying myself.

I don’t know how it happened but I think the Viagra was making me really horny, but I decided to shove one of the cooked sausages up my arse while I sucked myself off. It felt great. I was dizzy from being upside down but the sausage up the arse really did it. I was going to come any minute now and started moaning out loud. This was definitely the best sex I had ever received and it was all from myself.

Before I knew it the dog trotted up over to me after being woken by my moans of pleasure and started eating the sausage out of my arse. Initially I was shocked and attempted to hit the dog with my belt that was laying beside me, but I missed the dog and hit myself on the arse. Oh God it felt great, so I kept on hitting myself on the arse, not too hard mind you to scare the dog away which had finished the part of the sausage that was sticking out of my arse and was attempting to removed (sic) the other half inside with broad sweeping movements of his long wet rough tongue.

It was great, laying there on my back giving myself a headjob, being growled out by my dog and whacking my arse with my belt. I began to moan louder with pleasure while the dog began to growl in frustration at not being able to remove the stuck sausage. The dog gave up using his tongue and propped itself up on my arse with its two front feet and began nibbling at my anus with its front incisors, gnashing them down quickly, searching for the elusive bit of sausage, growling and chomping.

I thought it couldn’t get any better until all at the same time the dog removed the remaining bit of sausage I came in my mouth at the same time that Michael Owen scored for Liverpool.

It was the best night of my life.