'Mr Sex': Wankety Wank, Round Two

Oh yes. Simply fill in the blank letters of the following wankline adverts, dear readers of TT. And blinkin' flip, doesn't the first one look a bit like Ronaldo?

Sex Toy Review: the Tenga Flip Hole

Right then; if you've been reading this blog over the past few months, you'll be aware of TodgerTalk's crusade to sweep rubbishy fanny-shaped male sex toys off the shelf of your local blacked-out grot shop and replace them with something that doesn't automatically make you feel like the loneliest pervert in the world while you're using it .

Some of the best items we've come across - stop laughing at the back - were made by Tenga, a Japanese company that hit upon the idea of disguising silicone fannies as 1980s roll-on deodorants. In the review, I pointed out that they were this close to getting it right, and the only drawback was that you could only use them once and they cost over ten pounds a chuck. If only they could sort out a reusable one...

And here it is. And I don't mean to put a downer on anyone out there currently bragging about their iPhone on Facebook or in pubs, but fuck your iPhone. The Tenga Flip Hole is the true gadgety breakthrough of 2008. I've been standing at the traffic lights at the bottom of the street, ramming my groin against it in a pantomime of one-upmanship, and saying "What, this? Yes it is, actually. I'm one of the first people in the world to have one. Jealous? Yeah. Thought so".

Instruction Sample: Er, mine was so hot from the factory that all the instructions were in Japanese. Luckily, being male, I looked at it and heard a deep primal voice inside, grunting "Hole...cock..good". Although English instructions are here, it's a piece of piss to use; the actual flippy bit is held in place with a slidable base which covers the hole when not in use, and holds everything together.

You will also need: Enough lube to push a beached whale through an airport security gate, because unlike the disposable Tengas, there's no built-in lube reservoir. Naturally, Tenga have made their own - available in Mild, Real or Wild - and a small stopper of each comes attached. But you'll need more.

Looks like: When free-standing, a new Apple range of room deodorizers. I've had it sat on my shelf for the past week, and no-one has been any the wiser. When opened, a clam-shell phone of the type used by the cast of Space:1999. It's impossible to describe the inside of this without sounding like Stuart Hall on It's A Knockout; you go through the Lip Flap, past the Side Rib, across the Quattro Wave, through the - Ha HA! - Wing Gate, and into the End Orb. I mean, just look at it. It's a veritable nobstacle course;

Feels like: Well. It goes without saying that it's heavier than your regular Tenga and a bit of a handful, but you quickly get used to it. And those buttons on the side are not for show; they actually allow you to regulate the pressure of the suction. After you've sorted that out, the ripply sensation up and down your shaft is pretty damn spectacular. I've not lasted more than three minutes on it yet, and am very worried that it might run off with someone else if I don't pace myself.

Clean-up: Could have been a huge problem, what with all the crevices and whatnot - but thanks to the clam-shell design, it's piss easy; open it up, give it a proper rinse, mount it on the base, and that's it.

Partner compatibility: Partner? What is this...partner you speak of?

Pros: Easily the best male sex toy on the market at the moment, as it ticks all the boxes; doesn't look like a sex toy, does things that a human hole can't, actually works, easy to clean up and even looks a bit stylish, in a geeky way. If you're planning to pull your iPud, this is what you need to be doing it with.

Cons: Only good for 50 goes - but having said that, over a pound a go is far better value than over a tenner for a one-shot deal.

The Tenga Flip Hole, £54.99, kindly provided by lovehoney.co.uk

Sam: Plan B

Now this is something that most of us would never admit, but we know it’s true in our heart of hearts.

Pretty much everyone has a plan B. That secret love insurance policy. That person who you keep in mind in case your current squeeze just doesn’t work out. Now this is not fling material, this is person who is a real serious potential long term partner.

There is a real temptation to feel bad about this, presume that you just have a roving eye, that there is something wrong with your existing relationship, or that maybe we just aren’t biologically programmed to be in a monogamous relationship. But apparently keeping ‘love insurance’ is a natural and widely used strategy.

That’s what Joshua Duntly, Assistant professor of psychology at Stockton College New Jersey says - he calls them “backup mates”. It makes evolutionary sense – since we invest so much in our partners, if we lose them is make sense to have a plan B. He argues that since women bear a particularly heavy evolutionary burden with childrearing, a backup mate is particularly useful to them. And apparently people in relationships who don’t have backup mates, particularly women, are more prone to depression.

I once even set up an official plan B. We both got on well, had a fling in the past, and were really good friends. ‘Tell you what, if you get to 35 and we both haven’t found the love of our lives, how about we get married?’. ‘Great, it’s a deal’ she replied.

Now I have to say there was something very re-assuring about having what I called at the time my ‘Love life Superannuation’. And indeed I was actually quite upset when she did find a man, settle down and have kids. Quite disproportionately so I thought – but according to Duntley this is entirely normal – in his research men reported getting more upset when a backup mate found partner than if one of their casual flings did.

Do you have a plan B, or perhaps are you someone’s Plan B and are patiently waiting in the wings?

Something For The Ladies, #19

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...

Any Sumo On asks: I know this is going to sound really bad, but my new boyfriend is very keen on giving me oral, and I’m not enjoying it. The really bad thing about this is that I used to love oral in previous relationships, but he’s just not hitting the spot for me, and to be honest I’d rather tell him that I’m not really into it then tell him he’s not working it right. Is there any way I can put him right without bruising his ego?

Sam says: This is a really interesting question – oral sex is tricky, literally. I think most guys have found that actually giving good oral sex is a real art and something that has to be mastered. The converse side of that is that if we feel we haven't mastered it, it is very unlikely that we will try, and then if we do it means something special. I think there are two broad types of oral sex that men give:

Party Trick Oral Sex – this is the type that certain guys have mastered and will wheel out at any opportunity. Basically we have mastered some sort of technique that is a pretty sure fire way to give a woman an orgasm. We basically do it to show how good we are in bed and to impress you up front, and also to ensure an excellent reputation amongst your attractive friends. More about gold stars than intimacy.

Intimate Oral Sex – for men oral sex is actually intimate because it means exposing ourselves to failure. It is where we are putting our performance on the line – it's easy to have a good hard shag and feel you are getting somewhere, but if you bugger up oral sex it is painfully obvious and heavily ego bruising. So for a man to give you oral sex it is very intimate because he is showing he is willing to mess up.

‘Mr Sex’ says: Yes, there is a way to put him right, and it’s a frighteningly simple one; tell him what you actually want him to do down there. People’s orifices are not Lego pieces, that fit together perfectly in every combination – some people like one thing, some people like another, and so on. For example, I've been with women who were convinced that deep-throating was a sure-fire technique to get any man off, but it actually doesn't do much for me - I prefer more attention at the tip. A lot of people discover what makes them tick sexually very early, because they're far more up for experimentation. As time goes on, they find out what they feel works best, and they stick to it. In other words, the nosh he's giving you is the one that worked for his ex. Or the one before that. As far as he knows, he's going a grand job, becuse you've not told him otherwise.

So what do you do? Well, as you've already surmised, pointing out that his current technique is about as sensuous as being licked a bulldog with Bells Palsy is an ego-bruiser. And some women are scarily shy to point out what they like, because they feel that it implies they've been round the track (which is bollocks, but anyway). What you have to do is telegraph your requirements subly. Don't say "I used to love it when my ex did this" (because it'll imply that he was better, and cause major grief) - say "I'd love it if you did that to me". And if you're really shy about coming out with it, put on your coyest Lady-Di-peeping-through-her-fringe look and say "You know, I've always wanted someone to do this to me".

Because, at the end of the day, he actually wants to make you come. He's not down there because you've got a miniature telly built into your groin, after all. And if you reciprocate by getting him to talk about what he really likes or would like to try, everyone's a winner. Even me, because my Mr Sex-senses will be tingling away on the other side of the world when you get it right, and I shall stroke my cat and spin in my revolving chair with glee at another job well done.

Gentlemen of TT: Comment!

'Mr Sex': a load of balls

If you’re British, I don’t need to tell you that we have the worst teenage pregnancy record in Europe. You only have to turn on the telly in the morning and watch a couple of teeny window-lickers having a row with each other and screaming "Ah want DNA TEST, TRISHARR!" to know that something has gone incredibly wrong somewhere.

(Incidentally, I can’t wait for the day when Trisha opens an envelope and says ‘the results of the DNA test have come in, Darren – and they say that you’re actually an orangutan’. But anyway)

So, what’s to be done? Well, we could nick a fairly new-ish idea from America, like we always do: Purity Balls. No, it’s not a new kind of chastity belt for teenage daughters – although after you’ve read this, you’d might rather wish it was.

Randy Wilson, co-inventor of the Father-Daughter Purity Ball, offers a blessing: he calls on the men to be good and loving listeners, tender, gracious and truthful. And he prays that the girls might "step into the world with strength and passion, to lead this generation.”

That’s nice.

When Kylie was 13, her parents took her on a hike in Lake Tahoe, Calif. "We discussed what it means to be a teenager in today's world," she says. They gave her a charm for her bracelet--a lock in the shape of a heart. Her father has the key. "On my wedding day, he'll give it to my husband," she explains. "It's a symbol of my father giving up the covering of my heart, protecting me, since it means my husband is now the protector. He becomes like the shield to my heart, to love me as I'm supposed to be loved."

Ooer. The alarm bells are starting to ring.

After dinner comes the ballet performance, when seven tiny ballerinas in white tulle float in; then seven older dancers carry in a large, heavy wooden cross, which they drape in white, with a crown of thorns. Four of the five Wilson daughters are among the dancers, and they offer a special dance to their father, to the music of Natalie Grant: Your faith, your love And all that you believe Have come to be the strongest part of me And I will always be your baby ...

The alarm bells have melted into a molten lump of metal.

Now, I fully admit that I’m not a Dad, but if I was lucky enough to have a daughter as young as four in my life, I wouldn’t be spending vast amounts of time and money worrying about her losing her virginity. And is it just me, or are the fathers who are the most overtly protective of their daughters usually the biggest shitbags on the planet?

Not so long ago, Oliver North posted this load of wank on his website. That'll be the same Oliver North who trafficked coke and weed into America and sold arms to Iran in order to fund a bunch of right-wing nutters in Central America, and is therefore extremely well placed to give people a lecture on morality. Soz, mate, but I could spit-roast your daughter in an Osama bin Laden costume while she’s giving the corpse of Ronald Reagan that I’ve dug up and propped on your front garden a nosh, and I could never come anywhere near the badness you inflicted on the world, you twat.

Because here’s the thing; most women lose their virginity when they decide to, whether if it’s because they’ve met the right bloke or because they just want to get it over with. The problems only occur when they decide to lose it too early, and when they’re not fully armed with the basics of protecting themselves. And laying a mammoth guilt trip on your daughters just because you acted the cunt back in the day and you expect every other male to be as big a shag-rat as you is a recipe for disaster.

(another take here)

Sam: It’s official, it really is OK to be a bit Kinky

Now when the latest edition of Psychology Today landed on my desk it immediately demanded to be read. It’s not often you see a magazine like that with a hot blonde on the front cover with knee high PVC boots, rubber gloves, leather corset and a whip that would put Indiana Jones to shame.

“7 Taboos that are perfectly natural” was the tagline. Hot diggity dog I thought and turned straight to page 66.

Now amongst various other interesting taboos, ‘I have no ambition’, ‘I love one of my children more than the other’ and ‘I love to be alone’ was ‘Quirky, Kinky or Creepy’.

Apparently human sexuality experts have a rule: If you have a range of things that turn you on, if a couple of them are Kinky then it's OK. And according to Durex’s huge international sex survey, more than 1 in 10 people regularly engage in kinky stuff like role play and BDSM.

Trouble starts to happen if only one thing turns you on and nothing else can. Like only when you are wearing diapers, or men who can only aroused if they imitate porn.

Well I guess this is just another case of experts telling us what we already know – but it’s always nice to know that though your mother might not approve, those Sexperty Academics would nod their head in approval.

Some Manbits For The Ladies, #18 & #7

*** If you're male, female, or just unsure, 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 ***

A Sunny Moo writes: My boyfriend and I use condoms for protection, but they tear sometimes while we're having sex. He's on the bigger side, 7-8 inches long and 4 inches in circumference (this is a guess), but I always heard that regular condoms should work for most guys unless they're King Kong. He puts them on correctly, so that's not the issue. We've been using Durex extra sensitive, which are 20 percent thinner than regular condoms, and I suspect that may be the problem, that they're too thin. I'd hate for him to feel less sensation, but clearly we need to switch brands. I'd like some specific brands and suggestions - there are too many types of condoms to choose from. If it makes a difference, I'm in the U.S.

Sam Says: Ahh, that we should all have the same problem. Dear Sexpert, my willie is too big. Help!

But seriously, I would suggest that you try a larger size of condom, the average condom is made for the average guy, who is about six inches long, so at 8 inches your boyfriend is 33% bigger. Try something like the Durex XL or XXL – you can get them in the US here.

I suspect size is the issue here, not brand. I know that South African men had a special range of extra large condoms launched for them as they were using the excuse that normal condoms were too small to skip safe sex. You could also try the Trojan Thintensity which is 8 inches long, or the Magnum XL.

'Mr Sex' says: Putting aside the big nob issue, condom splittage is a bastard of a problem, and not just for those of us hung like blue whales. You can split a condom in many ways - while you're opening the packet, through a lack of proper lubrication, or by slapping 'em on without due care and attention. Apparently, girth is also an issue - you're more likely to split a Johnny if you've got a thick'un as opposed to a long'un.

The latter seems to be the problem.in this case. Unfortunately, me telling your bloke which brand of jizzy-bag to go for would be about as useful as Telly Savalas recommending a particular hairspray. Choosing the right Johnny is a very personal thing indeed, so I'm afraid that you and him are going to have to shop around, buy a selection of condoms, and have loads and loads of sex. You poor thing.

(Oh, and if you want information from the hung-like-a-horse's mouth, you could always hit up the Large Penis Support Group. Actually, this thread here is pretty decent)

'Mr Sex' Asks You, the Reader, a Personal Question

So while we're all waiting to see how Max Mosely's libel case pans out, here's a question I've been dying to ask; What's your father-career-related BDSM roleplaying fantasy? Mine would probably involve being bent over and tied a pallet of processed peas up in the back of a Co-Op lorry while four prostitutes in blue aprons paraded around with their jubblies out, taking it in turns to thrash my bare arse with own-brand spaghetti, and then lick and slap Green Shield Stamps on my naked body. And then cry "Spillage in the cat food aisle!" as I shuddered to climax.

(PS: As I was writing this, and apropos of nothing, my own Mam rang up and pointed out an advert in the job section of the local free paper for cast members in adult movies, suggesting I have a go. What the fuck?)

'Mr Sex': Fiends Reunited

So, Friends Reunited has finally bowed to pressure from Facebook and axed its fiver-a-year membership fee. It had a pretty good run, was one of the most popular sites on the internet for ages, and it made a shitload of cash for someone.

And we all know the reason for that, don’t we, readers? (hint: you’re reading a sex blog)

When it started up, the premise of Friends Reunited was innocent enough. For no charge, it gave you the opportunity to lie like a bastard about your amazingly brilliant career, check on how everyone who bullied you at your school was doing, and have a fucking monumental gloat if they were still on the estate, working in Tesco, and having a crappier life than you. An absolutely splendid way to spend an afternoon, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But ponying up a fiver so you could e-mail them? Fuck that.

Until you chanced upon someone you used to fancy the arse off back in the day. The first girl who made your thing go ‘Ding!’ Then you nearly severed the tendons in your fingers getting your credit card out your wallet in a frenzy to shove it into the disc drive, in a frantic attempt to make an almighty withdrawal from the Wank Bank.

If you’re female, and you’re a member of FR, I really hope you’re aren’t gullible enough to believe that, when some bloke you vaguely knew from school comes a-tippety-tapping on your inbox, he’s doing it just to say hello and have a good old reminisce about mad Geography teachers and Thundercats. The hidden context of virtually every e-mail sent by men to women on FR went something like this;

Dear girl I used to stare at in Biology lessons every time you stretched your arms until your knockers strained against your nylon jumper,

You don’t know me, but half a lifetime ago I used to deliberately forget to bring my kit to Games lessons so I could jog around the hockey field and have a good leer at you in a flippy skirt, and I used to cut out photos of topless models in The Sun who looked a bit like you and grind against them in bed.

Since then, every relationship I’ve ever been in has been a morbid carousel of failure, and I still live under the whopping delusion that you haven’t changed a bit (even though I have, for the worse), you’re still available (even though I’m not, and I’m typing this with the chair up against the handle of the box room in case my missus comes in with a cup of tea), and you want some.

Let’s have sex,

Some bloke you haven’t thought about since

Seriously, whoever devised this site was an evil genius. They made a fortune by capitalising on male masturbatory fantasies without having to put up one single pornographic image. How clever was that?

Sam: The Truth, the Whole Truth . . .

I just recently did an interesting radio interview about a tricky dilemma. What do you do if you’ve snogged your best friend’s boyfriend? Which you could easily turn around to - what do you do when you’ve snogged your best friend’s girlfriend?

Now I have to say I took a pragmatic approach. You’ve grazed the rocks, but you haven’t sunk the ship. You’ve crossed the line, but it’s not red card material. Let’s face it, too much booze and we can all do something we will seriously regret in the morning.

My advice was that if this was the first time, that if it was a drunken fumble, that it should be embarrassingly left under the carpet. Let sleeping dogs lie.

Now it’s a completely different matter if you are in love with, or slept with their other half. Then the ship has truly sailed and you need to admit guilt as soon as possible (I bet someone is going to moan about all my clichés and nautical metaphors, but hey, I’ll take that on the chin) – hiding something like that is just going to make it infinitely worse.

All the callers violently disagreed. They called for the person to fess up. Immediately. That they had made their bed so they had to sleep in it. That is was the thin edge of the wedge which would inevitably lead to more. But that’s all very well standing from the sidelines.

For a moment step into your best friend’s shoes – finding out that you have been betrayed by the two people you perhaps trust most in the world. That is a big punch in the guts over a drunken snog. Would you really be fessing up just to assuage your own guilt? Or really would you have your best friend’s interests at heart?

Once trust is broken it is almost impossible to fix. Every time you are alone with his girl your best friend is going to wondering if you are at it again. They will never look at you, or her in the same way again.

So what do you reckon? The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? Or perhaps a tactical omission?

'Mr Sex': Another Day at the Wank Factory

The one thing about working in pornography is that, every now and then, you get to say the unsayable, think the unthinkable, and do the undoable. Here’s one moment that springs to mind.

I had been a couple of months into my first Grot job, and was busy toiling away at the Porn Lathe, when I got a phone call. It was a mate. Well, when I say ‘mate’, it was someone I used to live with who only got in touch when he wanted summat.

Thankfully, he got straight to the point. “I’m a bit skint at the moment”.

Oh, shitting hell. He’s tapping me up for a loan. I bit deeply into my sausage and cheese cob, freshly purloined from the van outside, and wondered what would be the nicest way to tell him to fuck off.

“No, don’t worry, I’m not tapping you up for a loan. The thing is, me and my girlfriend have been talking…”

I rolled my eyes at the thought of his new girlfriend, and remembered how the first time I’d met her she’d ruined our regular SNES night by demanding that we watch Soldier fucking Soldier instead, and spent the entire night on the settee like Jabba the Hutt, ordering him to get the kettle on every half an hour. At the end of the night when she said “I’m going to bed now”, he actually got up and spent 20 minutes trying to carry her to the bedroom. And they were living in a fucking bungalow.

“And we’ve decided that she really wants to be in Penthouse. So can you sort it, and how much money will we get?”

After I’d removed the fragments of vegetarian sausage which had become lodged in my nostrils, I took a deep breath and attempted to explain to him that it wasn’t that simple. I pointed out to him that I didn’t spend my time at work in a Jacuzzi with a white fur coat on, pointing a be-ringed finger at one of the many dolly birds that were draped around the room and shouting “Oi! Janice! After you’ve filled this goblet with my name picked out in diamonds on it with Tizer, get your kit off - you’re Pet of the Month!” I explained to him the machinations of putting a wank mag together; how, every month, editors would sift through a stack of folders the size of the Empire State Building sent in by freelance photographers, pick out the best, and send back the rest. I spelled out that we had only slightly more contact with the models as the readers did – i.e., virtually fuck all. Summing it up, although I worked in stroke mags, I had very little stroke.

He digested all this information, paused, and said; “So can you get her in Penthouse, then?”

“Well…the thing is, mate…”

I really didn’t know how to say it.

“…and I really don’t know how to say this…

Told you so.

“…she’s not really Penthouse material”

Pause.

“So can you get her in another mag, then?”

Hm. Well, he happened to be in luck there, because I was working for Richard Desmond, who had a stable of over 30 magazines and an dictum that was almost Feminist in its all-encompassing inclusiveness: every woman, regardless of age, creed, nationality, status, or dress size, has the birthright to be put into a Grot mag, have words put into her mouth by a stressed-out sub-editor, and wanked over in a shed.

But here came the awkward bit. Being the decent chap that I am, I’ve never been down with judging people by their personal appearance. You won't see me spending hours on Am I A Show-Off Twat Or Not, oh no. Firstly, because it’s shallow as fuck. Secondly, because I’d hate people to do likewise to me. But when you work in porn, it’s part of the job. You clock any new photos that come in and automatically know which magazine they should go into, from Penthouse and Mayfair (i.e., “The absolute top rank”) down to Real Wives (i.e., “Well, they’ve got a fanny, at least”).

“Oh yeah, I could probably sort that. We have a magazine called Real Wives”

“How much do they pay? We’d be looking for a grand”

“Well, it’s actually £20 a photo. After that, if they like her, she can do other stuff. So you never know”

After another pause (presumably to work out how many photos he’d have to take of his girlfriend bent over a stove with her knickers round her ankles to score the Big G), he said “Well, we’ll have a talk about it. I’ll call you back when we’ve decided.”

After a long period of reflection, his girlfriend eventually decided to shag one of his mates over the counter of the shop he was working at after closing time and dump him instead.

Dr Ayan: A potentially deadly droop . . .

Hi folks, just a quick todgertalk health tip. . . I was at a media medics seminar last week on erectile dysfunction. The shocking thing is that it is treatable in over 90% of cases but men often find it hard to talk about it.

Causes include smoking, diabetes, high blood pressure, stress, psychological reasons but most importantly heart disease. A recent study has shown that 3-5 years after men develop erectile dysfunction, particulalry over 40, they are very liekly to suffer a heart attack. For this reason alone, please please please make sure you let your doctor know if you're having trouble down below, as it may be an early warning sign for heart disease. For some free information and a self-test, visit www.40over40.com

Sam: Move over Sugar Daddy!

Do you know what I love? When some researcher does a great study that backs up something I’ve secretly been wishing was true for ages.

Study upon study tells us that women tend to be attracted to men with resources, it’s a primal thing. Basically money is an aphrodisiac. Personally I have often observed this is true, but wished it wasn’t. What has shocked me is that women whom I considered smart and clearly earning well were still looking for a man with a fat wad of cash.

But according to Christine Stanik, a University of Michigan researcher, smart women arn’t looking for Sugar Daddies. In fact the higher a woman’s verbal IQ, the less likely she is to be looking for a male breadwinner.

Apparently since smart women can make the cash themselves, they are more likely to seek out men who are happy with the housework and looking after the kids. No rocket science there, but a relief to have something official to back it up.

So guys, if you are poor, take heart, and take aim for chicks with brains.

Something For The Ladies #17

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...

Anonymous writes:

You've said a lot of useful things about green lights. But how best to give red ones? Are there any polite, non-hostile ways of dealing with, ahem, men who appear to be colour blind when it comes to signals? Is there ever a good way to say 'but I REALLY just want to be friends'?

Sam`says: The most important rule here is about eye contact. If you don’t fancy a guy in a bar or at a party NEVER, EVER, EVER give him any eye contact whatsoever. Preferably chuck in some really negative body language like turning your back to him, and making sure your feet are facing the complete opposite direction.

You have to remember that men over-interpret signals. There are various studies that show that men consistently over-estimate the sexual interest of the women they are talking to. Essentially, they push it one level up. If you are just being friendly, they probably think they’ve pulled. If your thinking that you're being cold, they probably think you are happy chatting with them. This means you have to be blunt with your signals.

The other issue here is about men who run red lights. If you have been giving off red lights and a guy still comes and talks to you, he is probably either a rule-breaker or just doesn’t actually get body language signals. With these sort of guys there is no real subtle way of dealing with them. You can be polite, but you have to be firm. Just remember he is being rude by ignoring your red lights!

Tactic 1: Finish the conversation – if he has just approached you, make an excuse: you have to go to the bathroom, or check on friends, etc. You need to do this as soon as possible; the longer you wait the more interested he'll think you are.

Tactic 2: The boyfriend – mention your boyfriend (even if he's an imaginary one). Several times. Keep talking about your boyfriend until he understands there is no chance.

Tactic 3: Have a safety parachute – either with your male or female friends, have some sort of non-verbal emergency signal e.g. playing with your ear that says ‘Help!’. Let them get you out, and it won’t seem hostile.

On the friendship issue, I personally think there is very little point trying to be friends with a guy who obviously fancies you. He will pretty much always hold out some hope that somehow he is going to win you over and get you in the sack. Even if you say ‘I just really want to be friends’ he will try being a friend in the hope you might realize what a good caring boyfriend he might make. Call me cynical, but there you have it.

'Mr Sex' says: And don't forget Homer Simpson's most priceless bit of advice; 'I'm not Gay, but I can learn'.

The only other thing I can add to this is if you really have no interest in the chap in question, don't string him along just because you can, or you could do with any kind of attention. It's boring.

Sam: Junk Sex Addiction

According to the latest issue of Psychology Today increasingly men are having trouble getting aroused unless they imitate or look at porn. Apparently it’s so strong that it’s like giving up smoking, they have to get used to their new non-porn related sex with tolerating unpleasant psychological withdrawl symptoms. Doesn’t sound like any fun at all.

It’s just a natural process, your brain attaches pleasure and the sense of arousal to a particular thing e.g. porn, and then if you repeat the process enough the response becomes automatic. I guess it you could call it Pavlov’s porn dog.

I suspect Mr Sex could have flagged this issue up years ago – and has.

Though I completely understand this process, it really does depress me. The bits of porn I have watched are usually pretty much lots of joyless pounding. You got about as much chance of finding some connection and love there as getting a hot chocolate at the North Pole.

To me porn seems like the junk food of the sex world. Cheap. Widely available. Mass produced. It is the staple diet of most teenagers, who then tend to make it a bad habit which carries on to later life. Leads to a web of nasty problems down the track.

But where is the organic equivalent of porn? Organic and healthy food seems to me to be a movement that is only just properly hit the mainstream. I guess in the way that junk food really kicked off in the 70s (that’s when the term was coined) and its taken almost 40 years to get organic food sections in the Supermarket. Since widespread, easily available internet porn really kicked off in the late 90s and early naughties I guess we might be waiting a while.

I know there are female directors leading the charge of a whole new style of emotional, erotic porn, but really, I hope it’s not 2030 until there is an ‘organic porn’ section in my local Anne Summers.