Wednesday, 30 April 2008

Dave: Mind the Gap

I wish more women made the first move. And despite what they say very few ever do. Of course that could easily be misconstrued as the ones I meet not actually fancying me, but I’m far too pretty for that to be the case. I also appreciate that part of the sexual excitement for many a woman is the ‘dominance’ (perhaps not the most accurate term) of the man – leaning in confidently, making her knees turn to jelly, oh, the film industry has a lot to answer for.

But it’s that vital gap between reading the signals, clearly having gone down a storm – making her laugh hysterically, lots of body contact, etc. – and ending up in bed together. Or the pub toilet. Or a poorly lit corner of the car park.

But it’s the potential misreading of said signals, which prevents the follow through. I mean, being the over-sensitive flower I can be at times, the idea of leaning in, following hours, days or weeks of transparent mutual flirting, and being rebuffed is totally mortifying (possibly another reason so many sensible women avoid doing it). The devastation is explosive. You start thinking whether she now sees you as a terrible person (or not terrible enough, in some cases). Then you start to feel like a terrible person, or even worse, a terrible failure. And once these feelings rear their ugly heads, your already faux confidence has gone off arm in arm with your masculinity for a yearlong trip around the world, leaving you even more sexually unappealing, or so it seems.

It’s just that space between doing everything right, little pressure, everyone enjoying themselves and ‘closing the deal’ where all semblance of charisma and charm you had at your disposal decides it’s time for a well earned nap. It always seems so crass to actually utter the words, “So, er, want to…?” (cue raised eyebrow). Or else you worry it’s a mood killer to openly question the other party’s interest. Hence the lunging in technique.

Perhaps it’s a combination of being unable to read the signals, low self-esteem, and that desire to be the one being pounced on?

Even if you do get further than a warm hug and a hefty handshake, the introspective concerns follow you to the bedroom. Having impressed all night through witty repartee, you worry about her perception of you altering somewhat when you oratory skills diminish into, “Oh yeah. Oooh yeah. Use your tongue. Oh God Yeah, baby. Bite that. That’s good. Do you want this? Do you? Huh?”

I have been known to come into some criticism for being too quiet. Understandably they’ve questioned their own abilities. The irony being that in response to their anxious query over whether I enjoyed it or not, internally the answer is at times, Well, actually No. But nothing whatsoever to do with them. It’s the fear of reprisal. Losing the sexual allure you portrayed by losing yourself honestly in the throws of passion. Incredibly self-destructive, really. But hey, what ya gonna do?

Tuesday, 29 April 2008

'Mr Sex': Don't Worry, It Doesn't Mean That I'm Gay

So it’s happened again. I’m at a club in town, tossing back Bulleit and Cokes like there’s no tomorrow, and passing the time by chatting to a lady. About ten minutes in, when we’ve got a bit of sand down between us, she leans in.

“Can I ask you something?”

Fucking yes, I think to myself. Yes, you can take me home, right now, and cut yourself a massive slice of my sex-cake. Yes, you may boing up and down upon me like the Bouncy Castle of Sex I indisputably am. I grant full permission. Oh yes. Let’s go. Hang on, let me get some johnnies first from the bog. I’ve already got one in my wallet, but I love going in there and dropping a couple of quid, so everyone else having a slash can see that I’m on the verge of getting some, and they’re not.

And then she says it;

“Are you Gay?”

Oh God, not again. Seriously, if I had a quid every time a woman asked me that, I’d have enough money to buy something that cost £27. Am I Gay? Me? I laugh, shake my head, and say no. Then they think I’m definitely Gay, because I haven’t kicked off at them for even implying it. I can’t win. I am a victim of the modern age.

Back in the day, of course, everyone know what proper homosexuals looked like, because you saw them on telly all the time. There was John Inman. And Larry Grayson. Nowadays, ask the average person what a Gay man looks like, and expect a welter of answers far removed from the limp-wristed, handbag-swinging stereotype of yore. In fact, let us count some of the reasons why women had thought I was Gay (because I always ask);

Because I shave my head

Because I was having a drink with a mate, who also shaves his head

Because I was dancing with my mates

Because I was wearing a pink shirt

Because I was drinking vodka and cranberry

Because I was ‘really nice’

Because I was smiling all the time

Because I said I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a fight with anyone

Because I’d spoken to a woman’s mate for ten whole minutes without asking if she was available

Because some game between two Premiership teams I don’t give a monkey’s wank about was on in the room next door, and I wasn’t watching it

Because I looked ‘really happy’

(my head-shaving mate, who is black, gets it even worse; when he gets asked by women if he's Gay, he asks "Is it because I'm not grinding up to you and saying "So what yuh saying, daahtah?" And they say; "well, yeah". What the fuck does that say?)

Strangely, I come away from these experiences feeling supremely good about myself. After all, if you run down the most common straight assumptions of what it is to be Gay these days, most of them are pretty damn positive. They look after themselves. They’ve seen the inside of a gym more often than not. They have a personal hygiene routine that extents somewhat from rubbing an after-shave sample out of FHM on their armpits. They dress well. They’re not knuckle-dragging bell-ends. Obviously, that’s as much of a stereotype as the “Ooh, where’s me handbag, ducky?” one, and it says far more about heterosexual mores than homosexual ones. But if some misguided madam thinks that my stylish, sensitive ways has turned me into some unattainable ideal, so be it.

But to be honest, a shag would have been nice as well. Next time, I'm gonna say, "Yes, I am. I'm as Gay as a trumpet, but I can't help myself. Just one look at you is making me question my sexuality. My Cher CDs, my leather chaps, my Council Cock DVDs - all that shit is going on the fire tomorrow. Convert me. Now"

Monday, 28 April 2008

Sam: why BO is your best friend

As a result of several rather traumatic childhood experiences, I’ve always had a bit of a thing about BO. Specifically being really over sensitive about me having BO and other people being able to smell it.

Now in retrospect, I really should have realised that it was not me, but my mother. Her inability to grasp to important concepts 1) teach your child to change his shirt each day and 2) if you leave all the washing on the line for so long that it gets rained on that it will stink worse than if it hadn’t been washed at all. Now I realise even if she had taught me concept no 1, it was still invalidated by issue no 2.

Fortunately once I left home I learnt the importance of both changing your shirt everyday, and not leaving your clothes out to rot in the rain. So really I think my school-yard behind-the-back sniggering nickname of stinky was really pretty unfair. Oh the times that I sat, worried that I ponged, which then made me sweat more, which then made me worry more, which made me sweat more. Nasty cycle that one.

Anyway, enough digging up the past. I dealt with it, though perhaps became a little overly obessive about making sure my shirts were washed and I had saturated myself with enough deoderant.

Now you can imagine my joy when just recently I discovered why body odour is actually my best friend.

Did you know that one of the main ways that women pick who they are attracted to is through smell? Sure you’ve heard about the whole pheremone thing, but actually they can smell the makeup of a man’s immune system. Claus Wedekind, a Swiss Biologist got women sniffing men’s shirts and discovered they were attracted to men who were immunilogically dissimilar to them. Why is this important? Makes the kids immune systems tougher and has loads of other knock on effects like reducing the likelihood of miscarriage etc.

Actually, ‘Chemistry’, that indefinable thing about someone that just makes them decliciously attractive and irresistable is actually you sniffing out a mate with a compatible immune system. Apparently we have over 100 difference immune system sequences and women also found that the smell of the men they like was similar to their past boyfriends. This goes a long way to explaining why some men are irresistably shaggable to some women and repulsive to others.

Smell is important to men as well – they do the same thing, but also can sniff out a fertile woman. I know I’ve certainly noticed that some women, who I wouldn’t normally notice, are sometime just devilishly attractive and I can’t rationally quite put my finger on why. This actually has financial implications – smells can make you money. Strippers who are ovulating actually make twice as much as when they are on their period. Men can smell a fertile woman, and without realising are more attracted to her.

Lady readers, one important word of warning – being on the pill impairs your sense of smell. You end up getting attracted to men with the wrong sort of immune system, leading some to label it ‘the divorce pill’. Come off it and suddenly your stud will probably suddenly start to smell as attractive as a dead fish.

So while the telly is banging on about how covering yourself from head to toe with Lynx, and giving yourself a good washdown with Lynx shower gel will make you irresistably attractive, actually it’s bloody rubbish. Actually, it should read spray more, get less. You are covering up your biggest attraction asset, your smell.

So lads love your BO. It really is your best friend.

Friday, 25 April 2008

Something For The Ladies #9

Well well well, it looks like Old Mrs Friday has rolled around again, bless her, but - bah and cha! - her wicker basket that was supposed to contain the next Manbits question is barren. So it's SFTL time again. The rules;

Ladies: If there's ever been anything about men you've wanted to know but were afraid to ask, or wanted a male viewpoint on a certain relationship niggle you're going through, drop an email to us at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com. Every week, we shall pick one out and answer it to the best of our capabilities.

Gentlemen: We would very much appreciate your input, so the comments section of each Something For The Ladies post will be yours and yours alone for 24 hours. In other words, all female comments will be deleted. Sorry ladies, but in this case we'd be very grateful if you'd hush those sweet keystrokes and let the chaps have their say. Just for today, though.

This week's question...

K from Estonia writes: I have a question for you. I met this guy – we did a project together at the uni - and we clicked really well and started talking about other things than homework. One day he asked me out. And then again. And when we were on our second date at a fancy restaurant, I was carried away by the moment and I told him that I feel like I can tell him anything. Surprisingly, he closed up immediately and could only manage a few grunts, so I suggested let’s get the bill. That was the end of the budding relationship. From then on, he distanced himself. Was it really that clingy of me to say that I feel like I can tell you anything? Was it me and do all men run for the hills, if something like that is said on the second date? Or was it just that this particular guy has issues? I’m at a loss. So please enlighten me.

Sam says: Oh dear. The first thing is that men really don’t want to hear ‘I feel like I can tell you anything’ on a date. What we really want to hear (though won’t readily admit it) is you to whisper in our ear ‘you are so hot, I can’t wait for dessert - let’s just go straight home now’.

Generally men are not really thinking about emotional connection on the second date. They are thinking about sex. To most men, your words translate as ‘I I feel like I can tell you anything, which means you are going to be a great friend - which means no sex, or I think you’re gay, or, even worse, you're going to spend lots of time listening to my stories about shagging other men and how heartbroken I am’.

If he was really smart, he might have realised that when women connect to someone emotionally, that’s what actually turns them on. I personally suspect that if he had just bitten his tongue you might have been pretty keen to go home with him that night.

For future reference, bear in mind men that connect emotionally through sex, so you telling him this after a session is going to go down a lot better. Advice for the future – shag a man first before you tell him you feel like you can tell him anything. The whole friend-trap issue is over and he’ll probably be thinking ‘ace, that means even more sex!’.

'Mr Sex' says: OK, first off, you've done nothing wrong; 'I feel I could tell you anything' is a lovely thing to say, and, to a man of the world such as I, is a complete green-light to move things to the next level. When you're as callow and unexperienced as this chap here, however, such a comment is absolutely loaded with badness; when you're as green as he, you're wondering what that 'anything' could be. You're in an al-Qaeda cell? You're a pre-op transexual? You've already been had by everyone else over the SU pool table and you're wondering who the father of your unborn child is?

Even worse, when a woman says 'I could tell you anything', it absolutely screams 'COMMITMENT!' in 50-foot lettering, and implies that he should be telling her anything as well. And when - like virtually all Uni lads - you've spent practically all your time reinventing yourself and building up an impenetrable front of coolness and sophistication in order to disguise the fact that your Mam was still doing your tea and picking your pants off the floor not so long ago, an invitation to drop the guard and be yourself again is a scary one.

Next time the situation arises, take the following advice; instead of saying 'I could tell you anything', why not, I dunno...tell him anything? That way, you subtly open him to new levels of mental intimacy without throwing down a massive gauntlet.

Gentlemen of TT: comment!

Thursday, 24 April 2008

'Mr Sex': Smell The Love

I saw a couple of my mates last night, who had been dating for a couple of years before they moved in together a few months ago. Consequently, we hadn’t seen them knocking around for ages, so when they turned up at the pub out of the blue, nervously flashing eye contact with each other like a bust pair of disco lights, it was obvious that An Announcement was afoot.

He went first. “Well, you know me and Kaz have been together for a while now…and…well, we want you know that…” and then he sputtered into nervous laughter as we all leaned in.

Kaz took his hand reassuringly. “Tony and I…we’ve been talking about it for a while, and we’ve decided not to put it off any longer. We want you to be the first to know. We’re farting in bed.

With that, a yelp of glee went up. Some of the females in the party squealed like cats in rut (although one of them had to be taken to the toilets in floods of tears later on in the night; she’s been with her bloke for four years, and he still refuses to even discuss the possibility, the poor cow), while us males thumped Tone on the back for doing the decent thing. When I got the chance, I put my arms round both of them and said “I knew there was summat going off between your two…”

Let’s face it; in times like these, what is the one act that truly binds a couple together? It’s not marriage any more; couples are getting divorced quicker than the pattern on the bequeathed dining set goes out of fashion. Sex? In a world where a frenzied rubbing-together of genitals in a club toilet is seen as an acceptable part of a Friday night? I think not. No, nothing says “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, O Soulmate, enjoying the rich bounty of our love and sheltering each other from whatever misfortunes Life has to throw at us” than ripping one off under the quilt without fear of reprisal.

According to medical surveys, human beings fart on an average of fourteen times a day. Until they start a new relationship, when it decreases to one. That lasts for about 5 minutes. In a bathroom. With the taps on at full pelt and the window open, with you wrenching your arse cheeks apart and jumping up and down, before pegging it back to the boudoir. Then, in the morning, when one has to leave and the other stays in bed, and words of love are softly exchanged, both of you think “Thank fuck for that” and let off a gargantuan chuff – one in an empty bed, the other just outside the front door. We’re happy to open the skeletons of our closet – all the wrong shags and abusive relationships we put ourself through, our credit situations, our drug histories – and yet we find it hard to confess that we need to expel a compound of carbon dioxide, methane, oxygen, nitrogen and hydrogen, just like every other animal in the world.

Obviously, this is no way to carry on. I blame the media, myself; their silence almost suggests a conspiracy. Why hasn’t Cosmo or Men’s Health commented on this subject? EastEnders has covered adultery, teenage pregnancy, same-sex marriage, mixed-race relationships, child abuse and almost every relationship ailment under the sun; where was the episode where Ricky accidentally took the bedsheets off with a trouser-trump, leaving Bianca to deal with the horrible truth about her partner? Why has Trisha remained silent on the matter? What has she got to hide?

If you’re in a long-term relationship and you still haven’t reached the FIB stage, I strongly advise you to have a word with yourself, because you’re storing up a gutful of misery that could spill out at any moment. I had a friend who managed to overcome this barrier, and could quite happily let it all out without guilt. In fact, it got to the point where, when the mood took him, he would lie in bed with his paramour and spit into the air, forcing her under the sheets, where he would let rip with gusto. My advice; don’t be like him. There’s such a thing as going too far.

In the meantime, I’m looking forward immensely to Tone and Kaz’s forthcoming party, where they will celebrate their commitment to each other with a buffet of mushy peas, beans, curry and cider. When Kaz places her hand on Tone’s when he holds that knife, and look into each other’s eyes as they ceremonially cut a wheel of cheese, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold back the tears.

Wednesday, 23 April 2008

Dave: Sexual Chemistry 101

I was at a mate’s birthday last weekend chatting away with a female friend for most of the night. We were laughing and joking and generally messing about (not like that) as friends do. Later on, outside the pub having a ciggy, my mate’s sister enquired if the girl I’d been talking with and I were together. When I asked what had led her to this curious consideration, she told me in complete earnest that the sexual chemistry exuded between us was that of a couple of lifers at Wormwood Scrubs.

With this notion evilly implanted in my none too sober brain, my ego decided to collaborate with the id - after all, my friend’s incredibly attractive and I’m a randy little bugger anyway - and I return to my friend with renewed vigour. Naturally, I would need to ease this theory into the fold lest my advisor prove less than astute with her revelations. So we pick up where we had left off, kidding around and after a while I throw the idea in there with an air of absurdity. She laughs, playing along with the idea. Ah, I think, allowing my rationale to be driven further back by pervy possibility. Then drop the smile and say ‘No, seriously.’ This she finds hilarious, obviously believing it to be part of the jocularity. I laugh along too. Then again losing the smile with improved sincerity and say, ‘No, properly seriously.’ Once the penny drops, out come the ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’ of discomfort, prior to the ‘good-friend speech’.

Why had I allowed myself to become susceptible to suggestion?

Simple. Signals are hard enough to read in the first place. Or more poignantly, easier to misread. So I tend to leave them alone, mistrustful of so-called telltale signs of interest. If she’d stripped down to her underwear and leapt on me tearing at my jeans, then and only then might I have thought, “Hang on, is she trying to tell me something?” Otherwise it’s the cowardly road of avoiding possible rejection. At least, usually it is.

It seems that bystanders (especially those of a female persuasion) can pick up on signals or ‘chemistry’ better than the participants. I agree that taking a step back, broadening the picture will normally provide you with a greater perspective. However, a fleeting glance at two people in a potentially compromising position is not enough information to go on and formulate valid judgments with. Or at the very least not ones to then pass on to one of the drunken idiots involved.

The problem is that reason is stretched to its limit in trying to contain and control desire. And it only takes the tiniest nudge of encouragement to free the moron within. You know when you fancy someone. And you usually have a fair idea if it’s reciprocated or not, especially coming from the aforementioned assumption that without physical proof it’s best considered that it’s not. But, the male psyche, in regards to sex, is disposed to outside female influence. This is what has us sneaking peeks at magazine agony aunt columns (that, and the mild titillation at the sexual queries). A casual observation coming from a male counterpart, and we indulge it for a few seconds before thinking what the fuck would he know. From a woman however, and that stupid part of the brain (probably the feminine part which would explain the psychological link) starts dishing out delusions of grandeur.

The moral is (though it’s more obvious advice than a moral) if you too struggle to read blatant sexual signals, do nothing. Never under any circumstances listen to the advice of a casual observer. Not unless, you get a thrill out of feeling stupid.

Tuesday, 22 April 2008

Sex Toy Review: Jenna Perfect Pair

Tits: skill, aren't they? And, to my mind, a very neglected part of the male sex toy world. It's all very well having three serviceable orifices, but what of that other exotic pleasure known to the connoisseur as the soapy tit-wank? Fear not, for Jenna Jameson - the recently-retired Queen of all places where men squirrel away grot - was kind enough to have her jubblies cast in the finest UR3 for this rather fetching, um, thing. So shall we have a bang on it, readers? Yes, I think we should...

Looks like: You'll note that there's no image at the top of the post, mainly because I don't want our office-bound readers to recoil in terror and throw their coats over their monitors, so the link is here. As you can see, it depends on your emotional outlook, really. Part of me thinks 'Ooh! Naughty cake from the new M&S stag do range', while my more timid side is thinking; ' Shitting hell fire - I have a dismembered torso under my bed'.

Feels like: When I got it out of the box, I spent the first ten minutes gingerly poking it, feeling like I was 15 again. By the time I finally copped a handful, they felt just a bit too firm and a tad unrealistic - like partially frozen Play-Doh. Just like a real tit job, then (soz Jenna). I spent the next half hour with them pressed against my chest, cupping myself whilst watching Jeremy Kyle, which was most relaxing. As an executive stress toy, they get very high marks indeed.

It was only when I repaired to the boudoir that things started to go awry. For starters, what's the use of giving Jenna Jameson a pearl necklace when she doesn't even have a neck? The second problem was, for want of several better words, getting a purchase on them. When laid flat on the bed, I found myself poking at thin air. Tried propping them on a cushion. Still too low. Three cushions. Still too low. By the fourth cushion, I felt like I was part of a particularly grotesque version of It's A Knockout, and there was lube all over the place, but I was finally in position.

Which was when Problem Three rose its ugly, big-titted head. Consider the dilemma; when you are getting a milkshake off your partner, what does she do with her hands? Exactly - she pushes her baps round your chap. My version of Jenna has no hands (or arms, or head). Therefore, unless you have the girth of an Arctic Roll, you might as well be having penetrative sex with a hula hoop.

Instruction sample: “Do not attempt to warm this product in a microwave or conventional oven”

You will also need: lube, and severe tunnel vision

Clean-up: If you can actually attain orgasm from this, it’s a simple rinse-down, as long as you get it on her tits. If not, you’re either going to ruin your wank mag or laptop, or will have to use a toffee hammer to get under your quilt at night.

Partner Compatibility: “Er, could you just put this on your chest and slap it round me cock, please?”

Pros: It’s breast-shaped. And nothing breast-shaped is ever completely useless.

Cons: It's another prime example of the male sex toy maxim that reads; 'the more real it looks, the more horrible it is'. Would have been nice to have had a built-in radio, so you could have got more use out of the nipples (left, on and volume, right, tuning). Still, it makes an absolutely brilliant letter rack.

Jenna Perfect Pair, £119.95, kindly provided by

Adapted from Boy's Toys, Scarlet magazine (March issue) –

Monday, 21 April 2008

Sam: Attack of the Killer . . .

Has anyone else started noticing a plague of small dangerous creatures that seems to be carving a swathe through your friends? Several of my friends have recently fallen victim. They have had their brains sucked out, spend all their time fervently nesting, and are incapable of having any of the interesting conversations that they used to be so good at. And fun, yes fun seems to be the prime victim of these nasty little creatures.

Baby Zombies, that’s what I call them. What is it that when your friends go and have kids suddenly they turn into baby zombies? I was having a coffee with a recently contamintated pair of baby zombies. At any point that the conversation turned away from babies for more than about 3 microseconds, immediately it went back to babies. There was a small glimmer of hope when one of them asked me how I was, but then, miraculously the topic turned back to babies.

And what I find most remarkable is that their attention is pretty completely and utterly focused on their new child. They jiggle, the goo, they coo at how beautiful the little grub is (let’s face it, all babies look like little grubs) and all you can do is really go along with it. You’d think that when it was just happily sitting there being contented and quite it might be possible to have a conversation. No certainly not.

I guess that’s why baby zombies flock together. When the rest of us are thinking about calling our GP to request a lobotomy while we listen to all the baby talk, they need someone who is just as excited as them.

But seriously, what really amazes me is how so few of the parents I have met have really managed to keep anything like a semblance of their social or intellectual life going after they have kids. I was on another visit to a pair of more mature baby zombies recently and it was actually possible to start to have a decent conversation with them, but not for long.

It seems to me, as an outsider, that they have their life pretty much sucked out of them by these little creatures. I only know a few exceptions to this rule, and they somehow seem to have immunised themselves against being zombotised.

Now you have to admit babies are quite clever. You’ve got to be clever to convince two grown adults to do everything for you except breathe, poo and cry, 24 hours a day 7 days a week. Feed you, dress you, transport you, clean up your poo, put you to bed, wake you up, feed you again, put up with your screams etc etc. They actually have a whole range of tricks to make themeselves more attractive (like dilating their pupils) and I read something about some sort of chemical they emit that bonds their parents to them.

People tell me parenthood is a wonderful thing. The best thing they have ever done. I really just struggle to see it.

Personally the prospect of turning into a baby zombie scares the living crap out of me - from the outside looking in, it really doesn’t look like they are having much fun at all.

Saturday, 19 April 2008

Something For The Ladies #8

It's, Saturday, so time for another poke of the lady-problem fireplace. The rules;

Ladies: If there's ever been anything about men you've wanted to know but were afraid to ask, or wanted a male viewpoint on a certain relationship niggle you're going through, drop an email to us at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com. Every week, we shall pick one out and answer it to the best of our capabilities.

Gentlemen: We would very much appreciate your input, so the comments section of each Something For The Ladies post will be yours and yours alone for 24 hours. In other words, all female comments will be deleted. Sorry ladies, but in this case we'd be very grateful if you'd hush those sweet keystrokes and let the chaps have their say. Just for today, though.

This week's question...

A Non-knee Mouse writes: What do you do with a man with a low sex drive? When we first got together my man and I were at it like rabbits in all kind of saucy ways. I have always had a very strong sex drive and I was delighted to find someone who could keep up with me. It made me feel sexy and beautiful, and boosted my (normally not that good) self-image. But within six months his sex drive had dropped to next to nothing, and now we have lived together for a year we are down to one halfhearted coupling every fortnight, if I'm lucky.

He says it's nothing to do with me, he still loves me and is attracted to me, and that this is just because of his depression, but I feel rejected, emotionally and physically frustrated, and ugly. I have begun to repress my own sexuality because I don't want to risk more rejection, or be a burden, which is just making me feel worse. In the meantime, he says he is working on it, though I don't see any evidence of this. He flatly refuses any proactive suggestions from me, such as scheduling sex or the 30-Day Sex Challenge as suggested by the Sex is Fun podcast. He won't work with me at all, and I am at my wits' end.

It's become a touchy subject, and it's getting so bad that I daren't even speak to him about it, and he no longer features in my fantasies, not because I don't fancy him but because I can no longer visualise him seeing me in a sexual light. I am terrified that if I get the opportunity, I might cheat on this man who I love more than anything, just to get some validation. What can I do to stop the rot and bring back the hot?

Sam says: Depression is a really tricky issue. I’m not sure if he is, but if he is on medication one of the very common side effects is a massive loss of sex drive. And people with depression also can have less energy and a lowered desire for sex.

I know that you are feeling rejected, but what if he had a car accident, and because of his broken bones couldn’t have sex? Would you feel so rejected? The trouble with depression is that you can’t see the injury, but it has an effect which is just as profound as a physical illness.

You can trying hitting the sex issue through an indirect approach – one way to help depression, and boost your sex drive is exercise. How much exercise does your man do? Regular aerobic exercise will give him a natural boost of endorphins and make him friskier. (Many studies have shown that exercise is as effective as anti-depressants in treating depression). What about going along to the gym together each day? There is nothing like just finishing a workout together and going home all hot and sweaty to make you feel like a roll in the hay.

Also is he getting any sort of professional support, has he talked to his GP about his depression? Cognitive Behavioural Therapy is now available on the NHS. You might like to also get in touch with Rethink, who have a great advice line.

'Mr Sex' says: I think the reasons for this might be a bit more prosaic. Fact is, the male sex drive almost always seems to take a dip when the honeymoon period is over, and even more so when you start living together. There's three main reasons for this; the first one is outright complacency. By finding someone to split the rent/mortgage, men may feel the battle is won and their partners are going nowhere (putting on weight and generally letting themselves go is another symptom).

The second reason is self-doubt; contrary to all the evidence, and despite all the 20 foot-high signs you're waving about, a lot of men still have a tiny node lodged in their brains that say 'women don't really like sex all that much'. More importantly, and contrary to everything you've read, heard, seen and felt, men are totally capable of being in love with someone without sex coming into play. Not only that, but if your partner is constantly after a portion, men don't always automatically think; "Cor, this woman really fancies me". In some cases, they think; "Christ, is this all she wants from me? If I don't give it to her, will she go elsewhere?"

The third reason - and probably the most likely one of all - is that after sacrificing six months of his life on you in a non-stop tup-fest, he's trying to re-balance his life. Compared to women, men who fall in love are absolutely rubbish at prioritising things - mates, hobbies, extracurricular work and everything get junked over the side when you fall for someone. And at some point, you have to take your life back, or else you cease to become the person who their partners were attracted to in the first place.

You'll note, hopefully, that none of these reasons have anything to do with the way you look, your attractiveness, or how sexy you are, because before you do anything else, you have to put this bullshit notion that sex = validation out of your mind, because that way lies danger. Trisha and Maury are full of people who believe that their lives can only be validated by rubbing their genitals against someone else's.

Secondly, you have to be a lot more subtle with your plans for more sex. No disrespect to this other podcast, but the words '30-Day Sex Challenge' had me covering my groin with terror, so God knows what he must be thinking in his current state. Although you have the best possible intentions, he's probably interpreting your ideas as "Oi - if you don't sort this out, I'm going elsewhere". If you're going to schedule sex, make sure you're giving each other the right impetus; go back to the scenes of previous sauciness would be a start. More importantly, give the pair of you time off from each other before meeting up again, because if you're living together, it's easy to fall into a rut, and giving each other a chance to miss their partner can be a huge stimulus.

Most importantly, please bear in mind that your malaise is far more common than you think, and almost always to do with factors that have nothing to do with sex. Practically every relationship takes a hit when it comes to the cohabitation stage, especially if you haven't been an item for that long, and the problems of the real world descend upon the dollhouse. And if you are going to have sex with someone else, make sure you split up with him first, for both your sakes.

Readers of Todger Talk - advice, please...

Friday, 18 April 2008

Manbits #1

Well, here we go; the first installment of Manbits, where we attempt to do for the chaps what we've been doing in our Something For The Ladies segment (which has now been moved to Saturdays). The only difference between this and that is that in this case, we're not preventing anyone from chipping in. If you're male, and you want a bit of advice on your sexy, sexy mither, drop us an e-mail at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com. And the first question pulled out of the Todger Talk lucky bag is...

C-Med writes: I wonder if you can help me; my partner and I have a very active sex life but occasionally mid-flow through the activities she has to stop in fear that she may wet herself. This results in us stopping while she nips to the loo and eventually returning to get back at it. There are times that she goes and nothing happens, but it’s the feeling which worries her and results in her stopping. Occasionally she has had to go two or three times which as you can imagine can affect the mood and sometime lose it altogether.

I’m in a bit of a corner now, I’m trying to reassure her but she does feel that it’s getting to me and feels guilty and that its resulting in our sessions coming to an abrupt end. Could you give any clue as to why this is or what is happening? I’m not sure if this important but it happens mostly when she is sitting on me - that’s our favourite position so we really don’t want to stop playing it that way if we can help it.

Sam says: OK, this is an interesting one.

First you need to check any medical issues. Dr Ayan would be better on this, but from my limited medical knowledge, if a woman needs to pee a lot she may have thrush or some sort of urinary tract infection. She should really book an appointment with her GP and get this checked out.

On the sex side, there are certain positions for certain people that put pressure on your bladder, and well, make you want to pee. There's a two-stage solution to this. Firstly, get her to go to the loo before you have sex. This way you know that her bladder is pretty much empty. That way if she does let go, you know there are only going to be a few squirts here and there rather than a full blown flood.

Secondly, you need to make it OK for her to let go. You can do some practical stuff like buy a waterproof cover for your bed – you can pick one up from Ikea for about £30. This provides the psychological re-assurance that if she does actually pee, then it doesn’t matter, it just goes on the cover, which you can chuck in the wash. You could even put a towel under your ass, so if there is any minor leakage it gets caught.

Finally, and most importantly, you need to make it clear that you frankly don’t care. If she’s been to the loo, you’ve got the cover on the bed, then really it doesn’t matter if she does pee herself, which let’s face it she probably won’t. It’s about her relaxing and letting go. (Actually, there are a bunch of people out there who get very highly turned on by ‘watersports’ or being peed on, but that’s a whole other post)

It’s about breaking the cycle that has been set up. The bottom line is that you both have to be relaxed enough to have sex and not worry about her peeing herself (which she probably won’t, and even if she does it doesn’t really matter). She needs to be comfortable enough to keep having sex even if she feels like she needs to pee and realize it’s ok, and probably nothing’s going to happen, and even if it does it doesn’t matter.

Mostly it’s about you making it clear to her that what really matters is that you both have great uninterrupted sex!

‘Mr Sex’ says: Sam’s absolutely nailed this, and I really don’t need to complicate things with more advice, but I’ll back it up with a brief comment; yes, his suggestions may sound like a lot of faffing around, but as couples get deeper and deeper into a relationship, the spontaneous element of sex goes right out the window – and it only takes a couple of bad or even mundane experiences for one partner to switch off and lose interest. You’ve actually won half the battle on this by not seeing it as her problem, but yours as a couple.`Stay patient and understanding with your girl, and you'll have it licked.

(UPDATE: we simply had to pull this anonymous comment out of the box and stick it up on the main site, as it covers another, equally important aspect. Well done, that masked man. Aren't our readers ace?)

Anonymous writes: On one hand, you guys might be right, but on the other hand this guy might just be hitting his girl's G-spot and instead of her actually having to pee, she might be about to "squirt". Basically, the "G-spot" (or the paraurethral gland) is the female version of a man's prostate, so stimulation in the G-spot area can result in a woman letting out a liquid pretty similar to male ejaculate (minus the sperm). Instead of it coming out of her vagina, it would come out of her urethra, as the paraurethral gland is a squishy tissue located between the vagina and the urethra.

A pretty easy way to tell whether it's a bladder problem or if she's about to squirt is by what happens inside her vagina right before she has to nip off to the loo. If everything is pretty much going as normal and her having to stop is very sudden, then it could be bladder issues. However, when you stimulate her G-spot to the point where she's about to ejaculate, while normally the muscles in the sides would contract with orgasm, when she's about to squirt you would feel tightening from the top. I would say the latter is probably more likely because the majority of times this happens with me and my girlfriend, it's while she's on top.

Next time she's on top of you while you're fucking, (and i know this next part is gonna be difficult), try to observe exactly what you feel happening inside her, and that'll give you a relatively good idea of whether it's bladder issues or G-spot. if it's bladder issues, by all means see a doctor. if it's G-spot, try and reassure her that it's nothing unusual and make her as comfortable as possible, because G-spot orgasms tend to be much stronger than clitoral orgasms.

People of Todger Talk: what advice would you give to this inquisitive chap?

Thursday, 17 April 2008

'Mr Sex': Dont mess about with your aerosol

You know, sometimes you know you're just doomed to spend the whole week writing about shoving things up arseholes. So let's get it over with.

Right then; you may already be aware of the news story about the Filipino hospital that has got into deep shit over filming the removal of an armpit spray from someone's bumhole and throwing it up on YouTube. If not, you are now. Don't bother looking for it, by the way - it's been removed from YouTube. You'll have to go here instead (warning: contains film of, er, an armpit spray being pulled out of someone's ringpiece, obviously).

After watching such a thing, it raises a barrage of questions; did there really have to be 30 people in there for such a procedure? Wasn't there some poor Filipino kid in the waiting room with a saucepan wedged over his head, wondering if he'd see daylight ever again? When taking a close-up photo on your mobile of a gaping arsehole, does one use Night Mode? Did that doctor really have to spray the damn thing so near his ringpiece as soon as he'd got it out? When the bloke in question - a transvestite - finally gets to sue the hospital for every penny its got, how massive are his new breast implants going to be? Was this viral marketing taken to its logical extreme? And why the fuck was I watching this while I was having my tea?

I can't answer any of those questions (apart from the last one - because it was either that or fucking Hollyoaks, which automatically makes me puke me ring), and I can't answer the most important question, either; why anyone would be stupid enough to shove random objects up their piping? I could spend all night trying to explaining why this isn't the done thing, but instead let's consult our resident expert, the always-helpful Dr Ayan. After the obligatory "Oh my God", he asked me to pass on the following;
Well, the anus is not designed primarily for sex. It does not have natural lubricant, it bleeds easily, and the rectal muscles tighten once something has been shoved through it - so if you are gonna do that kinda thing, the bigger the object , is the more risk of it getting stuck.

Above all else avoid things that are sharp as they can cause trauma, and of course aerosols or any other chemicals as these toxins can be released in the anus which can absorb them very quickly causing poisoning and somtimes death!
Are we all clear with that? Good.

Of course, it goes without saying that people are endlessly fascinated with what other people shove up themselves. In the early days of the Internet, this site here was probably one of the most famous in the world (my favourite is still the pepper pot with 'A Present from Margate' written on it). An ex of mine was a nurse; on our first date, the first question I asked was; "So, er, what have you, y'know...? (downward pulling motion)" Answers from her (and other A&E types I've met in pubs) include;
  • A six month-old condom with mould on it

  • A full salad cream bottle on someone's cock (it had formed a vacuum seal around his nob, keeping it erect and close to haemmoraging - she had to escort him into a quiet room, distract his attention and then smash it with a hammer)

  • Assorted bullet vibrators ("It's terrible when they come as a couple - you just know they're going to have nothing but Missionary for the next five years")

  • Ten plastic soldiers that had fused together in some poor woman's lady-bit (and I will always regret not asking if they were Allies or Nazis - no, it's important. Some of the Nazis lie on the floor with machine guns, while some of the Allies are running about with massive bayonets. It's a perfectly rational journalistic enquiry)
So, my advice to you - as if you're going to need it after watching that video - is if you're going to shove things inside yourself, especially up the arse, make sure its something that has been specifically designed for the purpose, and use enough lube to drown an elephant in. Butt plugs, anal beads and prostate stimulators have particularly wide endings to prevent them getting stuck; deodorants, vegetables and live shells do not.

Wednesday, 16 April 2008

Dave: Puppy Love

Of course there’s no sure fire way of pulling the girl you fancy. Or for that matter, her ugly friend. And it’s hardly the most original tip in the world but I would advise getting your hands on a dog (logic dictates she’d be overwhelmed by the attention and you won’t need the roofies stashed in your back pocket) Aghast! What a terrible thing to say. Thank god for readers with literacy skills and a sense of humour, eh?

Anyway. Clearly I’m referring to a pooch. One that’s cute, affectionate, with a bounce in its step and a good nose for a hot mama.

So often do we shy away from approaching an attractive stranger based on the worries of not knowing what to say. It’s difficult. Even when a guy is left alone with another guy they’ve only just met at some party or whatever, the initial stilted conversation covers the perfunctory topics of work, how he knows so-and-so, and the awful weather we’ve been having. And that’s when the brain’s not pre-occupied with visualising the other person prancing around in their scanties and wrapping multi-coloured ribbons around your cock like it’s a fucking Maypole. Or perhaps that’s just me? – different strokes an’ all.

An adorable pup provides a whole treasure-trove of chat, coupled with the immediate illusion that you must be a decent bloke for being with such a fun-loving mutt. (Naturally none of this works if the woman in question hates dogs. Then you’d have to aim for being seen as the gracious hero shielding her delicate self from the over-exuberant slobbering of the vile beast – hopefully you’ll be substituting yourself for that role later).

Either way, the right dog can open up a world of potential meetings. I sometimes walk a friend’s beagle puppy through the city. It permits time for contemplation, reflection and a great opportunity to perv. This pup is particularly endearing. And smart enough (or stupid enough, depending upon your take of things) to be easily trained. Together we roam the streets, Shrek and Donkey on another whirlwind adventure, enjoying the splendour of a cosmopolitan city laden with beautiful bodies.

Just the other day, in fact, a gorgeous American art student in her mid-twenties sauntered past in her knee-length boots and some other stuff she was wearing. Facially, she reminded me a little of my ex-girlfriend but I didn’t let that put me off. So, I extended the lead and told Scrabble (for is his name) that the nice lady in front had some doggy-treats in her bag. And off he scampers, dragging me in tow to either apologise profusely or preferably enjoy a friendly discussion about the handsome hound.

And off you go. We wandered around together for half an hour until she suggests coffee (Then of course I start worrying that the whole thing’s going to fall through because I can’t abide coffee, but thanks to the modern era in which we live, the place served tea as well. Close call). We sat and chatted, shared a few self-deprecating laughs and there you have it. A handy method of meeting people.

Admittedly this particular occasion didn’t pan out quite how I had hoped. The chatting and laughter’s all true but when I suggested going for a drink later on in the week, she regretfully raised her right hand to reveal this tacky diamond, following with the words, “I’m so sorry, I’m married.”

Bloody marvellous. Don’t women realise that in this day and age of judgement and paranoia it’s becoming increasingly difficult to simply meet somebody you fancy and go to bed? There’s no room for these nice, friendly people to go around suggesting ‘coffee’ to a veritable stranger unless they want ‘coffee’ too.

Nevertheless, Scrabble and I shall be hitting the town again, now I know the potential for success is out there. Ladies beware. Woof Woof.

Tuesday, 15 April 2008

Sex Toy Review: The Rude Boy

So what is it about blokes and their arseholes? Yes, so a lot of us may be more open to anal play these days, as long as it belongs to someone female. When it comes to our own ringpieces, we’re not so keen. Sadly, some of us still automatically assume that Bumhole Love = Gayness, while others muse over the possibilities, take into account the masses of nerve endings packed around the jacksie, but then consider the fact that, well, that’s where bobby comes out. Ugh.

Speaking as someone who has been starfish intacta since a doctor at the City Hospital put a gloved finger up there on the day of the 1975 Grand National (I was only in for a stomach ache which went away that day, but I faked it so I could stop overnight, because I fancied one of the nurses), I fell firmly in the latter category. But then I thought, hang on; I’m in possession of something – a prostate – that has a 10% chance of killing me at some point; maybe I should get as much fun out of the bastard while I can. So when the Rude Boy prostate vibrator dropped through the letterbox, I prepared myself to cast my arse-virginity to the wind. After I’d chain-smoked five fags, covered the bed and surrounding floor with towels, blocked out every bit of natural daylight and dragged the wardrobe against the door, obviously.

Like its rivals - the Nexus Vibro and the Aneros – the Rude Boy is designed to get at the prostate gland (otherwise known as the Male G-Spot or Love Walnut) and give it a proper milking. Not only does that help deliver fresh oxygen and nutrients to the prostate, it also – according to mates who have dabbled - has the potential to provide the kind of orgasms that produce home-made instant Artex ceilings, as it also stimulates the perineum (otherwise known as the Barse, the ‘Taint, the Smelly Bridge, etc). And, as it says on the packaging, it vibrates as well. Crikey.
Looks like: Nothing like a cock. If your mate came across it, and he didn’t know any better, there’s a very decent chance that you’d be able to pass it off as some kind of towing hook you bought from Halfords. It’s made of strong yet pliable silicone, with an alarmingly thick girth, if you ask a novice like me. Not too keen on the blueness of the one I got – shame they didn’t keep the 2-Tone theme going and make it chequered.

Instruction sample: “Note: the anal canal is usually very clean as faeces is not stored in this area, but up further in the rectum or bowel. It would help for comfort if your bowels are empty, and this should be done at least half an hour before using your prostate massager”

You will also need: lube (lots of it), a towel (unless you actually want your bedsheets to look as if Eazy-E has dried his hair on them), tissues, and – if it’s your first go – a considerable chunk of spare time and maybe even a book. It takes a lot of getting used to.

Feels like: Well. Getting it in first time takes ages – every millimetre feels like an inch, and for the first few minutes, you can’t do anything but fight to relax yourself – which isn’t too easy when, every time it slips out even slightly, you feel like you’re about to shit the bed. Then, as soon as you do relax, you instinctively clench your cheeks and Ooer – the nubby bits at the base push into your perineum and you finally realise there’s a lot more to your sexual organs than the gristly bits that hang out the front.

When you finally summon up the courage to press the button at the end, the vibrations are surprisingly relaxing and non-filling-loosening. From there, you’re free to do whatever you need to do to de-spunk yourself; some men can achieve orgasm by merely leaving it in and clenching, while others go about their business in the time-honoured manner. It may not work for you first time, but when it does, you probably won’t have had an orgasm that intense since you were 14 and you thought your genitals were going to explode.

Partner Compatibility: Surprisingly high, as long as your missus doesn’t launch herself onto you. Getting a blow job while it’s in would be pretty decent. I just wanted someone there to hold my hand and mop my brow, though.

Clean-up: Naturally, it’s not the kind of thing you want to leave under your pillow at night and forget about. Slipping a condom over it takes care of a lot of faff, but apart from the odd spot, cleaning it up is not as rank as you’d think. You always could chuck it in the dishwasher, but that’s pretty minging, isn’t it?

Pros: It’s a genuinely new experience for a lot of men, focusing attention on parts of your body you’d forgotten you had…

Cons: …as long as you can overcome a lifetime of ringpiece-phobia.

Rude Boy Double P Spot Stimulator, £39.95, kindly provided by

Monday, 14 April 2008

Sam: Why our manbits are so important

The other day I was out jogging with one my mates. We were chatting about the usual stuff when the conversation took an interesting turn.

‘It must be rubbish being a love doctor and getting people asking you for advice all the time’

‘Nah, it’s not too bad, it’s always pretty interesting. So how are things with the missus’

‘Well I was thinking of asking you about that. It’s all a bit funny at the moment. You know we’ve been going out for five years now. She’s suddenly starting thinking about committment and kids. I don’t really know quite what to do. Your damned if you do and damned if you don’t’

‘Oh so she brought it up first, but wanted you to bring it up first?’

‘Yeah, now she’s brought it up, I feel like I can’t do anything about it without looking like it was her idea in the first place’

‘What did your mates say?’

‘They are all rubbish, can’t even bring it up without them taking the piss. The weird thing is that I was just enjoying myself, thought it was all going well and now suddenly she’s all upset that I haven’t proposed.’

‘Same for me, I’d prefer just to keep just enjoying how well it’s going, why suddenly get all serious and put the pressure on?’

Anyway the conversation continued as we ran. What really struck me again about this conversation is how few men can actually have a decent conversation about relationships with other men.

Here we were, both pretty much having experienced the same thing, something that probably all men do – that point in a relationship were you are happy how things are going and your partners wants some serious visible signs of committment - yet I was the only one of his many mates that he could talk to it about. It’s a pretty rubbish state of affairs when the only bloke you can talk to about relationship stuff is one who talks about relationship stuff for a living.

It was this conversation that made me realise the importance of manbits. That on Todger Talk we really needed a place where men could ask questions, and then talk abou this sort of stuff and anything else that’s on their mind.

So blokes of Todger Talk, take the leap and send your thoughts and questions to todger dot talk at googlemail dot com. Let’s get talking about our manbits.

Saturday, 12 April 2008

Something For The Weekend: 12.04.08

Todger Talk is spending the weekend moving assorted crap about in the back garden whilst wearing an old-mans cap and a manky jumper. So here's some links to keep you going until Monday...

Quite easily the most amusing description of pornographic material ever (warning: er, it's porn, obviously). Sample: "Jenna Doll is cute plus bad and when her ass is in question she is able to do anything just to satisfy her unremitting contumacy. Her grandfather has been having that animus and she is really grateful for that heir-ship."

The ideal gift for your submissive Goth Nana

The lovely Mrs R on a neglected by-product of the Credit Crunch

Friday, 11 April 2008

'Mr Sex': You Don't Win Anything With Kids

One of the things that I pride myself on is my ability to be able to talk to anyone about sex and relationships. I’ve had detailed, informative discussions about premature ejaculation with strangers in the pub. I’ve pointed out the wheres and whyfores of anal masturbation in a queue at the chip shop without getting beaten up. I even gave a woman at a bus stop at 3am advice on how to get her kid out of care (she rang me up out of the blue two months later to tell me she had. Proudest moment of my life). Do I know everything there is to know about sex and relationships? Of course not. But if don’t know summat about summat, then I know someone who does. Nothing can faze me.

Except one thing.

Although I’ve not got any of my own, I love the kids that belong to my mates to distraction. Given the choice between going into town on Saturday night or messing about on a Wii with my seven year-old nephew, the latter wins hands down every time. Let’s not piss about, here - kids are ace. Alright, so maybe their parents might turn into hypocritical personality vacuums, but that’s another topic for another day.

Anyway, I’m at my mate’s house, and I’m in his six year-old daughter’s bedroom, helping her get dressed while he takes a conference call in his home office. This one, out of all the kids I know, has the ability to wrap me fifteen times around her little finger, for the fact that when I was at my lowest ebb in my entire life, she would always cheer me up. While I’m handing her some new clothes and letting her get on with it, she points out that she wants to show me something, and I have to look away. So I bury my head in a Mr Men book (which is a very hard thing to do, as they’re tiny).

When I look up, she is bollock naked, in the crab position, and singing “PUSH-ING MY NUNNY OUT! PUSH-ING MY NUNNY OUT!”

So what, as a responsible adult, do I do? Do I a) tell her to stop doing that right now, as it’s rude (no, because I don’t want to make her feel guilty about things like that, because it’s not my place to do so), b) laugh and tell her not to be so silly (no, because I don’t want to belittle her), or c) ignore it completely and tell her to get her kit on?

Sadly, I do neither. I choose d) – cram as much of myself into the corner of the room with a face like Hyacinth Bucket whilst watching a fisting video and bellow “STEEEEVE! MAKE HER STOP! NOWWWWWWW!” Afterwards, when I’m in the back garden having a fag, I think to myself; what the fuck was that all about?

Well, stupid question, really – for the past decade or so, we’ve all got into a right Paulsgrovey state about kids and sexuality. Never mind that there are products like this and this knocking about and this problem isn't going away anytime soon; we seem to spend most of our lives these days looking at the paper, watching the news, and inwardly screaming; “Won’t somebody think about the children?” I probably notice it more than most, due to my career path; Every time I rang me Mam up when I was working in Grot mags, she would say “Please promise me you’re not doing any magazines to do with kids”. (and when my sister was having a baby, I told her “I hope it’s a girl – little girls are ace” and she called me a dirty bastard. Can you believe that shit?)

So, after me fag, I calm down and go inside.

“Can you take her to the toilet, mate?”

Oh God no.

So, I’m standing there, in the bathroom, taking more interest in the ceiling tiles than I would if I was sharing a urinal with the Village People.

“Can you wipe my nunny?”

“Come on, now, you’re old enough to do it yourself”

“I want you to do it”

“Don’t be silly, I can’t do that”

“But I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret

On that word – secret – I immediately go into one. I point out to her, as firmly as possible without yelping hysterically – that there should be no secrets whatsoever between me and her, or her and anyone else, and if she did have any with someone else who wasn’t her Mam and Dad she had to tell me right now, and, and, I’ll nail the bastard to a fucking tree, so help me God.

And tears as big as her fist spring out of her eyes.

Just before she’s about to scream the house down, I cave in. “OK, OK. I’ll do it. Stop roaring. I’m sorry.” And I grab the bog roll and wind it around my hand until it’s roughly the same size as a beach ball. And I dab away from a distance for four feet. It takes me seven goes to flush it all away.

Then, we go back into her bedroom and plays with her dolls house for a bit. Then she says; “This is boring. I’m going to make you my prisoner. Put my pyjama bottoms over your face and burp through them”

“Er, no.”


I start to explain the absolute wrongness of this, and how it may be misconstrued, and what her Dad would say. While I’m doing it, it slowly dawns upon me; if I carry on, I’m going to raise ten new questions in her mind for every one I answer. And it’s not my place to. At all. Shit.

“Are they clean?”


“Alright then”

As I curl myself once more around her little finger, lying on the floor while she laughs and yells the lyrics to The Wheels On The Bus into my ear, I ruminate about kids and sexuality. I think about all the mad shit I used to sing when I was her age; about Wrigleys Spearmint Gum, and how you could stick it up your bum (and how, if it didn’t fit, you could always have a shit). I think about the stray dog on our estate whose bollocks hung so low that they skittered across the pavement, and how all the kids used to involuntarily cover their groins, even though they didn’t know why and the dog seemed to be happy enough, and the day when you could hear people on the other street pissing themselves laughing and you didn’t know why, until the dog came up your street and you realised that someone had put a pair of Y-fronts on him. I think about the school trip to the farm when one cow panicked and climbed on the back of another, and Michael Hall shouted “LOOK, SIR! Those cows are BUMMING!”

And it dawns on me that, when you’re that age, everything to do with willies and bums is at least interesting and normal, and at most funny as fuck, even though you don’t know why. And it’s one thing to protect kids when it comes to things like that, but another entirely to try to scare the shit out of them about it.

And for the first time in years, I laugh so hard that tears run down my face.

Thursday, 10 April 2008

Sam: Manbits

A change is as good as a holiday, and the sunshine is on the way, so we could probably all do with a holiday.

Thursdays on Todger Talk will now try a new section: Manbits.

Do you have something you want to ask? Something you can’t talk to your mates about in the pub, but wish you could? Want to ask a question or tell a story and get honest advice and discussion from other men, with some female perspective too?

Then Manbits is for you. a) you need to be a man b) you need to write into us at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com c) Mr Sex and I will write back d) our readers will have their two bits worth too.

So men, let’s get talking about your bits!

PS Mr Sex, hard drive willing, will be entertaining and informing us on Fridays, unless we get some cracking questions from the fairer sex, and we’ll do something for the ladies. Ahh perfect end to the week.
PPS questions will be posted anonymously unless people ask to be identified

Sam: break in transmission

Just a short note to apologise for the current break in transmission.

Mr Sex has a hard drive crash, and is currently trying to get his drive hard enough again to get a good performance.

Wednesday's post went down like a lead balloon, but hey if you hit the target everytime, then you are standing too close.

So please bear with us, and we'll be back soon!

Monday, 7 April 2008

Sam: Signals from Men

Last week I talked about flirting signals from women. But what about flirting signals from men?

Men are simple creatures. If they look at you once, then they are checking you out. If they look at you twice, then they fancy you. If they look at you more than this then they really fancy you.

This fits in perfectly with the idea of giving a green light. Because if you manage to catch their eye a second time you also know that they are giving you a green light back - in other words, if they catch your eye again they fancy you. And what about when you actually get talking to them?

According to the international body language expert Tracey Cox, the following are sure signs things are going well:

He’ll become an attention seeker – when a guy fancies you he will try and attract your attention. This might mean he suddenly seems to become louder and more boisterous or makes exaggerated movements and gestures. He might also stand slightly apart from his friends.

He’ll play with his hair – if a guy fancies you he will involuntarily ‘preen’ trying to make himself look good for you.

He’ll show off his body – when a guy fancies you he will stand taller and perhaps slightly puff out his chest.

He’ll show off the crown jewels – men don’t realise this, but when they are around women they fancy, they unconsciously spread their legs, showing you what’s on offer.

He’ll start undressing – when we fancy someone we unconsciously start undressing. If he starts undoing buttons, or taking off his jacket, then he is starting something he would probably like to finish in your bedroom

His hands will go on his hips – unconsciously he is making himself look bigger which suggests confidence. Also, we point towards what we want people to see, so you might notice his fingers pointing towards his groin.

He’ll start touching himself – when we are attracted to someone, our skin, particularly our mouth, becomes more sensitive to being touched. You might notice him touching his chin, lips or cheek more or drinking or smoking faster.

He’ll lend you something – this is a protective and sexy ownership gesture – he is offering something that is his to you. Plus, it means he has to hang around to get it back before the end of the night.

Friday, 4 April 2008

Something for the Ladies #7

Thank God it's Friday. Not because it's the end of the working week, oh no - but because our weekly opportunity to spray our sexperty musk has arrived once more. You know the deal, but in case you don't;

: If there's ever been anything about men you've wanted to know but were afraid to ask, or wanted a male viewpoint on a certain relationship niggle you're going through, drop an email to us at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com. Every week, we shall pick one out and answer it to the best of our capabilities.

Gentlemen: We would very much appreciate your input, so the comments section of each Something For The Ladies post will be yours and yours alone for 24 hours. In other words, all female comments will be deleted. Sorry ladies, but in this case we'd be very grateful if you'd hush those sweet keystrokes and let the chaps have their say. Just for today, though.

This week's question...

Autumn writes:
In a recent Something For The Ladies Mr. Sex said, "(it's one of the reasons why men love doggy-style, by the way - doesn't feel as tight, and we're in full control of our strokes). " I know that my partner absolutely loves to finish doggy-style (we do about 95% of the time) and I don't mind because it feels fantastic, but what IS it about doggy-style that men love so? You mentioned tightness (it's less tight? Isn't tighter generally more desirable?) and stroke control. What else makes it so much fun? Does the sense of anonymity make it more exciting or is that nothing to do with it?

Sam says:
OK, there are a couple of things that work for men in doggy style. The first is that deep down we are monkeys, and that's the way we used to do it. According to Desmond Morris, it was the biological requirement of pair bonding, which helped us to survive in non forest environments, that led us to swap over and shag face to face. In other words, doggy style does it for the monkey inside the man. It ignites his animal instinct because it's just so primitive.

Also, men love doggy style because it allows them to penetrate as deeply as they possibly can, and also because your bottom presses against his balls for extra stimulation. And it's also the visual thing; the sight of a bum really turns a man on, and to add the icing on the cake he gets to see his todger pumping in and out of you. To be honest, also since men can't see your face they can happily pretend they are shagging Christie Turlington without guilt, or the fear of getting caught. So really the question is, what's not to like about it?

'Mr Sex' says: Sam's pretty much nailed it, but I'll address the tightness question; yes, we do like it reasonably tight, but not all the time, and definitely not when we're finishing off. Like I said before, when we're in that position we feel in control, we can grab hold of your hips (which is a criminally underrated part of the female anatomy) or your shoulders (equally criminally underrated lady-bits), we can gurn away and make as many ridiculous sex-faces as we like, and the view is skill. And yes, we could be thinking about someone else, but I can't say I ever have. And you could be thinking about, I dunno, David Cassidy or Mr Motivator or whoever.