Sex Toy Review: Tenga Flip Hole Black

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'Mr Sex': Oh God, it's HIM again

Whilst performing his quarterly task of going through all the shit in the cellar, 'Mr Sex' came across another letter that was sent to a porn mag, that he rescued from the bin. And - would you believe it? - it was from the reigning champion of the TT Porn Letter section; the Groundskeeper Willie soundalike who enchanted us all a while back with this missive, and this beautifully constructed bit of prose.

I must warn you, however, that the following letter takes his oeuvre into an entirely new Solar System of wrongness. Seriously. You may not want to read this while you're getting through the contents of your lunchbox, lest your monitor be blanketed with gobs of semi-masticated sandwich. You have been warned.

MY DARLING MONIKA

I wish I could plant a thousand KISSERS XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX upon your gorgeous sexy BUM. I think about you always and. I guess I just canie resist yor sweet beautiful FIGER oor your charm too. MONIKA you ARE THE Moast Beautiful sweethearts I KEN/KNOW oor Indeed I have ever seen. Yer just a GORGEOUS Beautiful sexy GIRL and Boy. you sure do excite Me to the point I nearly pee mysel. It almoast happens nearly every time I see you in MAYFAIR. AW MONIKA yer've got a BEAUTIFUL FACE. and you deffinatly need NO MAKE UP as YOUR GORGEOUS jist the way you are. you've got the MOAST Beautiful eyes and GORGEOUS Beautiful sweet lips. aw MONIKA I'm wishing I was the cludgie/Toilet seat that you sit your BUM on. then at least I could see yer sweet cuteand VERY sexy BOT. aw MONIKA your just so fuckin Beautiful and OOO what a GORGEOUS PAIR. I also wish I wis YER PANTIES so I could be close up to your ever so juicy pussy. aw MONIKA. yer would have smiled this morning. aw us well hung laddies had Big Big HARD ON'S as we were all in love with you. but Me I just want to BATH and Wash and Soap that sexy BOT of yours DARLIN just so much. I carn't stop mysel DREAMING of you and then sometimes when I ken I'm going to CUM I manage somehow to always shoot it over my sister's BUM.

MONIKA your no stuck up like the other COWS in MAYFAIR. I widnie even suck their TITS dry o MILK. Nope MONIKA yer just so genuiene Sweet Sexy GIRL and I'm just So in loth whith you. there's Somethin about youer BOTTY that I just carn't resist. Must be your nice PERT BUM cheecks. I have always wanted to tell you MONIKA just how much you Mean to Me. I guess yer no that now. I Just wish they'd Make a FUCKIN POTTY nice and Confy to sit yer BOT upon, then. I'd be SAT all day Wanking over you. My SPUNK flying everywhere eh. Your just a Very Special GIRL MONIKA to Me. before I set eyes upon you I didn't even KEN/KNOW What A Wet Dream Was like. Oor to be able just to MASTERBATE too.

Other lassies are FUCK ALL MONIKA compared to you. I used to Smell My Sisters KNICKERS Quiet a helluva lot and then I would get a funny feeling and SHOOT my CUM in them. I have never Really Appreciated a GIRL before not untill MONIKA I saw you. Now I no I'm lookin at a Real STUNNING GORGEOUS Beautiful Sexy GIRL. I have nere telt any WAN this afore MONIKA but when I had my first Girlie I just couldnie Wait tae get her Knickers off. I took her in tae the Cludgie/Toilet and I pulled her Knickers down and I saw a string. Course I pulled it there wis blood alover her pussy so I made love to her. aw MONIKA it was great after she peed over my cock. I use to finger her PUSSY tae make her JUICERS Flow. Then I licked my fingers. they tasted BRAW/GREAT. Noo MONIKA. I've fallen FUR YE/YOU. Sweetheart tae me MONIKA yer beautiful MONIKA. I feel so much Love for you DARLIN MONIKA. I just love and adore you. And I think YOUR SO PRETTY. aw DARLIN now, I must snuggle down in my Bed and HUV More Sticky Dreams MONIKA OVER YOU.

MONIKA TAK CARE DARLIN
ALL MY LOVE HUGS EN KISSERS
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

LOVE YA SEXY BUM

Cage-fighting Cross-Dressers 2, Pissed-Up Window-Lickers 0

It's the 11th anniversary of the cowardly attack on Matthew Shepard, and sad to say, things haven't changed that much since then. However, the following news story and accompanying CCTV footage might just make your day - if not year. Please look out for;

* Spiderman getting started on
* The fat mong Hulking himself up, as if chinning someone the weight of his last dinner was something to be proud of
* The streak of piss with his shirt off deciding to have a go at someone in drag
* Said someone in drag picking his handbag up after the comprehensive battering.

Well done, chaps. Maybe you could combine two of the biggest entertainment phenomenons of the decade by doing a burlesque show before knocking the shit out of each other in a cage.

'Mr Sex': HEAR ME NOW!

If you're in Nottingham this Saturday, Oct 3rd, 'Mr Sex' would like you not to bother with Goose Fair (it's nowhere near as good as it used to be) and extends an invitation to clock his first spoken word gig. It's part of the mammoth LeftLion Circus Extravaganza, a FREE all-dayer spread over nine venues in the Canning Circus area of God's favourite city, featuring loads of bands, plenty-plenty artiness, a bouncy castle, loads of people dressed up as dead celebrities and more spoken word than you shake a stick at.

I'll be pulling a double shift upstairs at the Hand and Heart on Derby Road from about 6.50pm. First off, I'll be in conversation with Rebecca Dakin, a former escort who has just dropped the autobiographical The Girlfriend Experience and has already been misquoted and fucked over by the News of the World, which is a sure sign that you've properly arrived as a writer. We'll be having a natter about her book (which pisses all over Belle De Jour), and how one can enter the world of the sex worker and come out the other side without being a casualty.

And then, about half seven, I'll be reading out a selection of sex toy reviews, letters sent to porn mags, and a few things I haven't even posted yet. So if you're knocking about, come and say hello. And if you can't, have a listen to the Write Lion podcast where and me and Rebecca talk shop and moan about how rubbish it is to pull in Nottingham (about 52 minutes in - and oh dear, judging by the quality of my reading, I'd better get some practice in...)

'Mr Sex' and the Brick Shithouses of Scunthorpe

Of all the stripping gigs I ever did, the scariest by far were always the nightclub jobs. Two words; Mixed Audience.

The women - who would usually go mental at the mere thrust of a groin - would keep themselves in check. The men, to a man, saw you as a threat to their womenfolk and wanted to punch you in the face, over and over, until it splintered like a mouldy coconut. Half the audience were cowed into silence, while the other half stared at you in sullen rage. You used to laugh at the perils of stripping at all-female gigs - the gouge marks in someone's bare arse, someone's glasses being mangled by having them crushed against a jacked-up, Wonderbra'd-to-death cleavage, or a G-string wedgie. When we laid out our kit in the back room of Mr Fisters, Glassers, Peter Sutcliffe's Astoria or any other divey club that any sane person would usually cross an ocean to avoid, the laughter stopped. The danger was omnipresent.

Plenty of near-maimed incidents stick out in my mind, but I'll just tell you about one for now; Scunthorpe. No disrespect to anyone from that particular part of Lincolnshire, but it's mainly known here for three things - being the only place in the UK that contains the word 'cunt', an article in The Sun that unfairly claimed that the place contained the ugliest women in the country, and a terribly misguided attempt by a local nightclub to prove said paper wrong by running a Miss Scunthorpe competition, which - to put it mildly - failed to argue its case ever so slightly.

The same nightclub we were booked at. Oh dear.

As it turned out, the gig passed off without incident. Sure, if looks could kill, we would have been smeared right up the back wall with the words 'DEATH TO PONCY STRIPPING WANKERS WHO THINK THEY'RE SUMMAT' daubed in our own blood, but glasses remained unlobbed, and the women looked no different to anywhere else.

After we'd packed up and loaded the van, the last and most important bit of business remained; legging it to the nearest chip shop before it shut. Problem was, I had to go back to the dressing room to fetch me jacket.

On my way back, desperate to ram as many slivers of deep-fried potato into my maw as possible, I saw them coming the other way. Six brick shithouses from Scunthorpe. And fucking hell, they were massive. Massive slabs of pissed-up Scunthorpians, who had obviously not pulled that night. Mainly because they'd spent an entire hour of their lives being in the same room as us, being made to listen to You Can Leave Your Hat On. I nodded at them, and walked past.

And then one of them turned around and bellowed loud enough to set off all the car alarms in Lincolnshire.

"'EY! YO'!"

Oh, shit.

"Ah know yo', dun't ah? Yo' were one of them fookin' strippers, wan't yer?"

"Er, yeah mate"

Fucking hell. What did I say that for? God, I wish the others were here. That would prolong my life for another five seconds.

"Yeah, I seen yer in the club. Where your lot from?"

"Er...London"

Christ on a crisp packet, did I really want to die that badly? I might as well have said "From your Mam's house, where I've just been giving her one. Up the arse"

They moved in. Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

"So did yer get any fanneh, then?"

This is it. This is where I die. In Scunthorpe.

"Er, no mate."

Long pause. My bollocks have now shrivelled to the size of Cadbury's Mini Eggs. Brick Shithouse No.1 turns to his mates.

"Fookin' 'ell, you heard this? This poor cunt's come all the way from fookin' London, and he's bin up on that stage there wi' 'is cock aht and all sorts, and even 'ee's got nowt, because" - and here he takes a deep breath - "ALL AAH WOMEN ARE FOOKIN' PIGS AND HOONDS"

They all grunted in agreement. And it dawned upon me: this man is actually apologising for the quality of his local womenfolk.

"You goo home, mate, and you tell 'em that paper wor fookin' right. They're all fookin' MOOSES raand 'ere. They're not worth a WANK. Ah wish ah could come with yer, mate - I bet there's some right proper fanneh dahn there, in't there?"

And he shook my hand. And then his mates did.

And then I whimpered with teary-cheeked jags of relieved laughter, in the back of a mini-bus, all the way down the M1.