Thursday, 17 June 2010

Mr Sex: World Cup Willy

So, the World Cup's on, and the northern half of Todger Talk is dead, dead, dead excited about it. And also painfully aware that he hasn't tossed up a blog post in ages. Obviously, the thing to do is to lob up something that links the two. But what?


Cicciolina e Moana ai Mondali - known to the English-speaking world as Sex World Cup - is one of those films that you hear about but can't believe was actually made. Not only is the only World Cup porn film in existence, but it's also the only wank film that any man has actually watched, all the way through, to see how the plot turns out. So, whether you like proper football or not, you can't deny that this film bears scrutiny.

So...let us return to the offices of the Italian Football Association, as they prepare to host the 1990 World Cup finals. Obviously, as host nation, they're desperate to win it. But how do they go about this - by pulling the squad from club games and forming a cohesive, match-fit unit? Making sure all the other countries hotels are surrounded by mental locals with klaxons? Fixing it so the hosts are the only team used to a rounder-than-ever-before match ball?

No. You get in La Cicciolina and Moana Pozzi, the absolute front rank of late 80's Italio-Grot, which isn't much of a surprise as it said all that in the title. Obviously, they've been drafted in to sort out the teams' dietry requirements, as well as proffering tactical advice on getting out of a potentially tricky group that contains Czechoslovakia, the USA and Austria...

Oh yeah, forgot. Porn film.

So, the plot is set up; La Cicc and Moana have been entrusted with the hopes of a nation by nobbling - with the emphasis firmly on the 'nob' side of the word - the star players of the opposition. So who is, ahem, first up?

Well, bugger me buttocks if it isn't Lothar Mattäus of West Germany. European Footballer of the year, captain of the team and the very rock of the German midfield (as well as someone who takes a very liberal, carefree European attitude to the donning of trousers). Moana cunningly disguises herself as an extremely sluttish chambermaid, gets into his suite, and offers him a portion on the eve of a crucial group match. Being an efficient professional to the tip of his toes, Lothar surely isn't going to expend vital energy in a pre-match workout, is he?

Actually, yes. A bit of stock footage from the 1982 World Cup later, and Germany take a tonking from Italy, who are played by France. 

So far, so good. But what follows next is, quite easily, the greatest moment in the admittedly minor genre of proper football-porn crossover films, as the next target is none other than Greatest Footballer in the Known Universe/coke-addled cheating bastard, Diego Maradona. And who do they get to portray this vital role?

That's right - Ron fucking Jeremy. As you can see in that totally-grot-free, not-going-to-get-you-bollocked-at-work video, there's something completely wrong - yet somehow wonderfully right - about having the most famous sportsman of the era played by porn's most prominent cock-on-a-gut.

Somehow, La Cicc and Moana manage to break into Argentina's training camp (which looks suspiciously like the back of West Germany's hotel) and offers him the chance to get his Hand of God on some porn star bod...

...which leads to an outstanding banana shot...

...and Diego left so pleased with his performance, he applauds and kisses his own nob, uttering "Bravo...bravo" to himself. More stock footage from eight years previous, and it's bye-bye Argentina.

So, West Germany and Argentina are out, and a very pissed-off Lothar and Maradona make an official protest to FIFA. What will FIFA Bloke In Bad Wig do? Offer to replay the games, at vast expense and inconvenience to the tournament? Or point out that no-one was actually forcing them to have it off with a couple of southern Euro-strumps and it's their own bleeding fault, really?

Bonus point if you said 'Get a couple of second-division Italian porn sorts in, to pad the film out for another quarter of an hour'.

Now then, we're reaching the climax of the World Cup, and only one team stands in the way of the Azzuri and ultimate glory. No, it's not England (and thank God for that - the sight of a Gazza lookalike getting his end away would make me want to sever my genitalia and throw it into the back garden for next door's cat). It's the reigning European champions themselves, Holland. Which means that there's only one candidate for some World Copulation...

...Ruud Gullit, portrayed by American porn chap (and not the WWF wrestler) Sean Michaels, who remains to this day the only male porn actor I've ever met who was actually dead nice and not an arrogant twat. La Cicc - posing as a reporter - goes all Paula Yates on our hero...

...and things get properly Ruud. Job done. FORZA AZZURI!

But WAIT! After a girl-on-girl tuppence-licking session that drags out the film for another ten minutes, the girls get a phone call from the Italian FA, saying that Ruud is still not completely shagged over, and he's fit to play in the final. There's only one thing for it...

...a break-in into the Dutch dressing room right before the match. Strangely enough, Ruud is on his own, and the facilities are shocking. Look at that - one plastic bench, and a bought-from-the-market rip-off Italia '90 banner. Bad enough that the Dutch team were nobbled by a German newspaper in 1974 that claimed that they were having a massive orgy in their hotel before the final and pissed off the wives so much that Johan Cruyff swore he would never play in another World Cup, and being fucked over by Argentina in 1978 by a junta that made sure that no-one but the home team was going to win that one.

Oh yeah, sex blog, sorry...


If this film has achieved nothing else - and it has - it's finally answered the mystery of what happened to Ronaldo just before the 1998 final. Not surprisingly, Italy batter Holland, and get to hold up a trophy that looks fuck all like the World Cup...

...and the winning team gets treated to a slap-up celebratory nosh.

Alas for the Italians, things didn't go quite to plan. Although Holland had a disappointing run (which ended in this less erotic exchange of body fluids), they were knocked out of the semis by Argentina (which Maradona scoring a penno, but not with his ridiculously self-suckable cock), and eventual winners were Lothar's West Germany. And Gazza came home looking like this. Sadly, this is the first and only porn film set during the World Cup, although footy-grot appears to be very popular with gay lads - and now that the players themselves are doing things like this, it looks like we'll never see its like again.

Now if you'll excuse me, Nigeria v Greece is almost done, and I have a sack of crisps to work through. Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Wednesday, 5 May 2010

'Mr Sex': Danny Dyer is a Worthless Cunt

...and 'Mens' magazines in the UK are shit.

Tuesday, 27 April 2010

'Mr Sex': Billy Three-Pens, the Phantom Sticker-Upper of Mansfield Road

I dunno about you, but bollocks to the Internet - random scrawlings on subway walls and toilet doors have always been where it's at. How many times have I not been run over by a bus by going right out of my way to nip down to a subway so I could find out who got fingered by 'Tabby' there (with exact date and time), or who is a 'SLAGG who sucks COCKS for 20p' (or, indeed, what number I should ring '4 SEX')?

(My all-time favourite is the one in six foot-high letters just on the outskirts of town, the first thing that Southerners see when they enter Nottingham; 'SUCK YOUR MUM')

I'll tell you; loads of times. So you can imagine my reaction when, in the process of taking my nephew to the barbers the other day, I came across this on Mansfield Road:

Before we go any further, and for those of you unfortunate to not live in Nottingham, there's two things you need to know about Mansfield Road;

1) It's near the red light area

2) It's renowned for having dead nice pubs and being festooned by absolute mentalists. The other night, for example, I came across a bloke walking up and down the street with a massive peregrine falcon on his arm. At midnight.

So where do we start here, then? For starters, the author is a very civic-minded person. No defacing Council property for him, or having to hold up a torch and look over his shoulder for the coppers; he uses massive stickers. Secondly - and more importantly - he has a pencil case

As I had the foresight to take side-view pictures, here's the full version;


Oh dear. I dunno about you, but I need to wash my eyes out with Strong Dissinfectiant. But what does it actually mean? Is this the plaintive cry of a man cursed with what other men desire, railing against the one-size-fits-all mantra of modern-day production? Who - or what - is 'Triffle'? Does he mean 'trifle'? Is there any significance to the use of the red marker pen? And should I be calling the police about this?

Wednesday, 14 April 2010

'Mr Sex': Primark, the Hammer of the Paedophiles

There are a lot of people in this country who are currently ripping into Primark for their decision to sell bikinis with padded tops for girls as young as seven. Some of them are expressing shock that the company have found a way to exploit even more children than the ones they employ in their sweatshops, while newspapers, in their usual calm, measured tones, are going as far as to say that these items of beachwear are actually promoting paedophila

I'm sorry, but this is absolute piffle. I would like to be the first to congratulate Primark on their bold stance, which - in my opinion - actually deters paedophiles. Think about it; imagine, for a brief moment, that you're Gary Glitter in a raincoat, prowling Skegness beach, when you espy what you imagine to be a seven-year old girl in a Primark bikini. Just when you start doing that wiggly-finger gesture with both hands, you notice the top - and stomp off in anger when you believe that what you thought was a child was actually a very small grown-up woman. Surely this is what Primark were thinking when they conceptualised, designed, and then cleared the selling of a bikini with a padded bra for children - because the alternative doesn't bear thinking about.

So while other people continue to lambaste this fiercely ethical company for their courage to tackle the vital issues that other clothing companies shy away from, I applaud Primark for not at all being exploitative fuckwits in the slightest. And why stop there? Why not stitch fake hair into the bottoms while you're at it, Primark? Why not introduce a range of split-crotch knickers with Winnie The Pooh on them? What about My First Rabbit, or rub-on transfer slag antlers? 

(and by the way: who actually bought this shit?)

Saturday, 10 April 2010

'Mr Sex': That's it, I'm retiring

See, this is what happens when you don't keep your sex blog updated: a young pretender jumps in and knocks you out of the saddle. Warning: possibly not suitable for work, and definitely not suitable for eyes;

So let's review the art of, ahem, 'Pu$$y Eating', in case you missed anything;

1. Put on the kind of music you'd hear at a Berni Inn, or the lobby of the Crossroads Motel

2. Mouth the words 'I Love You', in the style of Derek Smalls during the middle eight of Listen To The Flower People

3. Sensuously suckle upon your partner's massively long forked clitoris

4. Pretend to have taken a sheet of LSD the size of a queen-sized quilt cover

5. Mash the breasts that have suddenly appeared around your partner's fanny

6. Generally, as my Nana used to say whenever I was playing Pac-Man on the Atari, 'not hold your mouth right'.

Update: And ladies - if you've ever lain abed at night fantasising about men erotically eating a miniature hunk of Lidl stollen to third-division Techno, your wish is my command...

Friday, 9 April 2010

Sam: "That's not a Dad - THAT'S a Dad"

One of the most difficult things that I’ve had to confront in having a stroke involves some of the fundamental issues concerning my manhood and being a man. 

Let’s put this in context and give you some background: In Australia, where I come from, men are men.  For my 14th birthday, I was taken walking in the Gammon Ranges by my father, where they only have rain about every 200 years.  We went with his best friend - a real man’s man who goes walking in the Olga Ranges with only a bow and arrow, making his living by hunting feral goats.  

So, on my 14th birthday, we climbed a mountain in the Olga ranges and we camped at the top.  It actually snowed there for the first time in 200 years. Masculinity-wise, it was all downhill from there; nowadays, I'm an office and TV studio-bound laptop-masher with one arm that doesn't work, who currently can only get around with a stick. 

As you can imagine, my image of what a true man is doesn't exactly match my current situation.

The real question I have to ask myself is; are my Dad and his mate a valid picture of manhood?  It’s certainly a very macho picture of manhood, and I have to realise that I won’t be Crocodile Dundee after I’ve had a massive stroke.  Probably a better question is; do I have to be Crocodile Dundee to be a good father?  I think I’ve come to the conclusion:  ‘No’.

I had a talk to one of my best friends about fatherhood, and he said that while most men are - obviously - physically capable of being a father, most are completely emotionally incapable and inadequate.  If there's one thing that my stroke has done is force me to become more emotionally adequate - so after much deliberation, I feel that in the end I have come to the conclusion that once you have had a stroke you can still be a man and become a real father.  And actually, I might even end up being a better father.

So what do you think?  Do you have to be Crocodile Dundee to raise a child?

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

Introducing Todger Talk TV

We've been meaning to sort this for ages, and now it's finally been put together. Yes, me dears - now you can see what we (actually, Sam) looks like, in the pilot broadcast of our very own video section.

In this episode, Sam has a natter with Andrew Rosetta, a male escort with something between his ears as well as his legs. Not only did he do Thingy Whatsit for money, but he also won Escort of the Year at the Erotic Awards, is a sex worker union rep for the GMB, and wrote Whatever She Wants, a biography of his decade-long career in the pay-for-play trade...

(Special thanks to the chaps at WhatWho TV for putting this together)

Wednesday, 31 March 2010


So, it is finally Spring, and - naturally - thoughts are turning to shagging. Particularly shagging outdoors. And especially shagging outdoors without having to lower your leopard-print disco trousers in the middle of the Arboretum. Thankfully, someone has been working on our behalf to cure our alfresco-nobbing ailments. Listen up, Rod Stewart: your dogging dreams have come true...

(Warning: Not suitable for workplaces that don't approve of its staff looking at man-arse) 

Sadly, the link at the end of the video doesn't work, which probably means that - sigh - like all great things on 'tinternet, it's fake. Mind you, I have several pairs of old jeans that do the job just as well.

Tuesday, 9 March 2010

'Mr Sex': Extreme Doormattiude

Had a mate back in the day, and he invited me and another mate over to the flat that he'd just shacked up into with his new girlfriend. It was a tiny place, made even more so by the presence of a spoddy lad in a Marillion t-shirt, who skulked about in the kitchen for a while and grunted to himself before going back into his box room.

On our way back to the last bus, me and Other Mate were delivering our reports on his new situation, when I said; "Who's the lodger, then? He's a right moody fucker."

"Well, wouldn't you be, mate? He's her ex."


"Yeah. She told him she'd been nobbing a new bloke, and he was welcome to stay, but she was moving him in and he'd have to take the spare room."

"So when's he moving out?"

"He's not. They've been like that for six months already."

Now, if he'd have been a friend, I would have put him straight; if any girlfriend of mine told me that not only been she been knocking off someone else behind my back, but she wanted to move said bloke to live with us, I would have said "No problem. After I've murdered the fucker and buried him under our patio, I'll leave out a fucking deckchair for you." I mean, if a relationship has died on its arse, what you don't do - even if it was you who instigated the break-up - is stick around to watch your partner's new relationship develop.

Which brings us to the case of Charles Judy. Jesus in a jumpsuit, I thought Marillion T-Shirt-Wearing Spod-Cuckold was the King of Wrongness, but this lad takes the biscuit, if not the entire packet. Still hanging round with his ex-wife? No, mate. Going on a date with her to see her new knock-off? No, mate. Allowing her to drive your car when she's banned from driving (and in any case, your car is too knackered for the road)? No, mate. Having no problem with her shaving her flange in the driving seat while you steer from the passenger side? NO, MATE

Obviously we don't know the whole story - perhaps he was so desperate to get shot of his ex that he'd do anything to drop her into the lap of the first bloke who showed the slightest bit of interest - but you don't want to see your ex's genitals. Particularly when they're dropping pubes on the floor of your car, because they're a bastard to pick up.

So, dear TT readers, today's question is; a) have you ever experienced an example of extreme doormattitude from an acquaintance of yours, and b) what relaxation techniques have you deployed in order to stop yourself from slapping the shit out of them?

(oh, and c): how in the name of God did she manage to keep her hand still whilst defoliating her lady-garden in a moving car? Is this a skill that all women can pull off?)

Saturday, 6 March 2010

Sex Toy Review: The Sex Counter

Just over two years into doing sex toy reviews, and we're already having a bang on the cock rings. Oh dear. How soon us chaps burn out.

Now then,  I'm guessing we're all au fait with cock rings and what they do, yes? If you never tried one out, all I need to say is that; a) yes, they work very well at keeping the blood in and allowing our dingly-danglies to stay nice and bulbous when we need 'em to (because sometimes, to paraphrase Beyonce, if you want it, you really have gotta put a ring on it)  and b) no matter how different they look - be they simple bits of thonginess to elaborate cockular confections, they're all pretty much of a muchness. While we highly recommend the ones with the vibratory bits attached (mainly because they give your partner the chance to grind down upon you cowgirl style, and give off the impression that you're wearing this for her pleasure, and not your necessity), essentially there's nothing massively fun about 'em.

Until now.

On first impression, the Sex Counter is every mildly OCD male's dream product. Whether we like it or not, us chaps are horribly prone to boiling down our sexual performance down to the numbers - usually inches and notches. Thanks to this little puppy, we can now add a third equation; thrusts. Yes, as you've surmised from that picture, the Sex Counter is a nifty pedometer bolted onto a cock ring. Now you can triumphantly stomp into a bar where your recent ex is bitching about you to her mates, throw it on the table, and bellow; "I'M THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY TWO PUMPS AND A SQUIRT, ACTUALLY"

Instruction Sample: Evidently, the packaging blurb was written by someone freelancing from his regular job of copywriting mentalist Janglish t-shirt slogans. "You have your sexual experience, but do you remembered how hard you tried? Is this the coolest product beckoned you?"

You will also need: Some semblance of a bonk-on.

Looks like: a late 70s girlie digital watch, for a cat.

Feels like: Sad to say, a very flimsy cock ring. I mean, look at the thinness of the ringy bit; if your pubes are the least bit stubbly, you're going to worry about snapping it. I already clocked over 100 'thrusts' just by trying to put the bastard thing on.

Clean-up: This is where the product falls on its arse, alas. According to Janglish Copywriting Man, you're only supposed to use it once, and then lob it. Yes, that buttony bit at the top isn't a reset button; it's supposed to be a clit-teaser. I'm sorry, but I was looking forward to marking my progress on a massive chart over my bed until I finally managed to fill out all five figures on the display, and possibly even clock it, like you used to do on Pac-Man to impress your mates in the chip shop back in the day.  According to a customer review in Lovehoney, however, you can get more than one go out of it with careful cleaning (it's not waterproof), but it's prone to conking out before you do. Hmph.

Partner compatibility: Could be an aid in the battle against premature splodging, mainly because you're going to be thinking about nothing but your score, and possibly even stopping every now and then to have a look at it.

Pros: It's a bit of fun, and adds a whole new dimension to male sexual performance-related paranoia...

Cons: ...but it's essentially a one-shot deal. Hopefully, this is just the start; what I want is something a lot more durable, with built-in features such as a beep every 100 thrusts, a stopwatch facility, a Glow function for night-time use, and a 'Tamacrotchi' feature where a big chunky dinosaur in lingerie demands to be 'fed' by different positions, and then rubs its belly and does a little stompy dance when you've made your partner have an orgasm.

The Sex Counter, was £5 until they ran out of stock,


Friday, 19 February 2010

Sam: Frenemies

Having a stroke has forced me to confront a wide range of issues - but the issue I didn't actually expect to confront was the nature of my friendships.

After having post-stroke central fatigue, where
even talking is like lifting a mountain, it's forced me to confront the question of which friends make me feel good and which friends don't. In other words, which friends are really good and loyal - and which friends are frenemies.

After a
bit of research, I've been relieved to find out that, apparently, most people have a lot of the latter. According to US studies in fact, usually 50% of our friends are frenemies, people that we feel ambivalent about. Not only that, but these people are actually bad for our health. When we are around them, we get so stressed out that it raises our blood pressure - so they could in the end be dangerous to our health, or even kill us.

hen I've had to look at which friends make me feel good and give me energy and which friends I feel ambivalent about, I feel much happier surrounding myself with people who make me feel good. So I'd like you to do what I did and take the frenemy challenge - go through your Facebook list and count how many friends make you feel good, and how many don't. Post your findings here, and let's have a percentage breakdown of how many of your friends are frenemies.

Tuesday, 9 February 2010

'Mr Sex' doesnt want to see some puppies, thank you

I've been meaning to start a new series of posts about the milestones and millstones that shaped my sexy, sexy life (working title: Wanks For The Memories), but then I came across the following video and didn't want to put it in there. So I'll talk about it now.

Come with me, dear reader, to the playground of Westglade Infant School circa 1975, where a six year-old Young Master Sex has heard that, after the dinner hour, they're going to show the entire school a film - and it's not even anywhere near Christmas. Come the hour, a hundred or so youths, all dressed as if they have been loaded into a cannon and fired through a local branch of Cancer Research - sit cross-legged in the assembly room, unaware that we were going to be treated to 18 minutes of pure old-school 70s shit-up: Never Go WIth Strangers...

As any British person of a certain age will tell you, to be a kid in the 70s was to be absolutely bombarded with Public Information Films that warned you not to retrieve your frisbee from a substation, let your cat mess about near the river or hang around rubbish tips where Donald Pleasence lives, but this was a step up. For starters, it was the first time I'd ever heard someone talk about people doing 'rude things' without directly refering to me. Secondly, its absolutely rammeth with scariness, as jobbing actors willing to give up bit parts in any kids TV programme for the next 30 years stalk grubby Cockney urchins in flashing burgundy cars that go 'WAAAAAHHHHHH!' when a child hoves into view, clasping half a pound of Tooty Frooties in one filthy hand, and a sweet little baby donkey in the other.

I've had practically no luck digging out much information on this film, apart from the fact that it was already five years old when it got to us. But one thing I do know is that, by the time an enormous shadow looms over poor Lucy (a scene that ranks way up there with the News At Ten theme tune, The Humphries and the Watch Out There's A Thief About man as the scariest things EVER), every kid in that assembly hall has secretly vowed not to have anything to do with adults ever again. Because they're quite obviously all after our arses. (And the fact that pretty much every male in the 70s looked like a paedophile didn't help matters much - I mean, cop a load of the blonde pimp sitting in that playground...)

Amazingly, it wasn't until 1981 that the Government thought to replace it (with none other than Clifford from Acorn Antiques and what appears to be a frighteningly young Timothy Spall). Since then...who knows? Are these films even needed any more, seeing that virtually every newspaper and local news programme is paedo-mad these days, and kids don't seem to actually go out nowadays?

(Footnote: approximately one month after I saw that film, me and my mates were approached by a bloke in a Colombo overcoat at the bottom of our road, flashing a police warrant and asking us to go with him for questioning. And we were about to, until the nosey old bag opposite told him to piss off. I was well dischuffed, seeing as I'd already been in a police car for shoplifiting and thought it was dead exciting. It wasn't until ten years later, when I was lying in bed thinking about that moment in the early hours of the morning, that I sat bolt upright and screamed the entire street down)

Tuesday, 26 January 2010

Something for the Ladies # 30 - with special guest...

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 @ googlemail dot com. We shall pick one out and answer it to the best of our capabilities.

While Sam's making some serious progress on the health front, I sent the Sex-Signal
a-scything through the sky for urgent assistance from my sexpert brethren and sistren in helping me deal with the backlog of mail. And I can't lie to you; I'm right chuffed about my first lovely assistant...

Sarah Hedley is my absolute fave UK sexpert. The former Editor of Scarlet - Britain's sauciest womens' mag - and Sex Editor of Cosmo UK, Sarah is the author of 7 Days To Amazing Sex - a brand new crash course in fruitiness that is guaranteed to have you and your partner at it like knives in a mere week. If you're suffering from a beached whale of a sex life, Sarah is your personal Greenpeace - and this book is a massive helicopter, winching down a wet towel. Not only that, but she's also the wise sage that 'Mr Sex' communes with whenever he requires sexy, sexy wisdom on things he knows not. Except that she's younger and better-looking than me. Buy that bad boy here.


Anonymous writes: Almost all the women I know now have sex toys, and I’m dying to try one out with my partner of six years - but he’s dismissed the idea several times, with the view ‘why would you need a plastic cock, when I’ve got a real flesh-and-blood one?’. I pointed out that his cock didn’t vibrate, but I don’t think that really helped my cause. I’ve decided I’m just going to buy one and if he doesn’t like it, sod him. Am I being insensitive? Or is he just a bit selfish?

'Mr Sex' says: On first impressions, yes – he’s being a selfish get. Have you tried telling him that he’s not allowed to have a quick one off the wrist when you’re not about? Course you haven’t. And if you’ve been in a relationship for as long your two have and he’s putting the block on any progression in your sex life, that’s usually the time to start wondering about getting rid.

But having said that, let’s look at it from his point of view. Quite a few men hear the phrase ‘I fancy a go on a sex toy’ and unfortunately translate it into ‘Oi, your cock isn’t long/thick/good enough’. Sometimes because they assume that cock-in-fanny activity is the be-all and end-all of sexual intercourse, sometimes because they’re scared of the realisation that their partner has been thinking about other ways of getting themselves off, and sometimes because they fear that if you’re using a dildo, you’ll have no need for him. Either way, Sex Toy = Threat.

Obviously, from an outsider’s point of view, this is all bollocks. Partners with sex toys are ace, and there’s three reasons why; firstly, because I’d much rather have them using a sex toy than someone else’s nob. Secondly, because I rather like my partners having as many orgasms as possible, and sex toys can do things that I can’t – after all, my proud gentleman doesn’t have prongs going off the side, and it can’t rotate in the middle.

But - and more selfishly - the third and most important reason sex toys are so mint is that they allow her as many orgasms as possible while I'm in her presence without me having to be bonked up 24/7 (because even though mine is flesh-and-blood too, sometimes it's just flesh, if you know what I mean and I think you do). And there is nothing - nothing - saucier than having your partner let you use a vibrator on her. So yeah, Laddo is not only misguided, but missing out big style.

As for how to get him out of his current mindset? Well, let me slap the penis-shaped baton into the hand of Ms Hedley, and let her run with it…

Sarah says: Lots of guys suffer from what I call Toy Envy and feel threatened by either the dimensions or capabilities of sex toys. But when your optimum sexual satisfaction is dependent on your vibe, that’s one little friend you really need your man to get along with.

Whether you buy your toy online, from a catalogue or a sex store, drag your man along to browse the options if possible – that way he’ll feel included, even if he complains about it, rather than feeling like you’ve gone behind his back.

Opt for something small and powerful – after all, it’s the vibrations rather than the size that’ll be of benefit to your clitoris. It might also help to pick something that isn’t penis-shaped (it’s a lot harder for him to compare his manhood to a vibrating butterfly or lipstick).

When you’ve made the selection, ask him to pick up the bill – this might like seem like a tall order as he’s against the purchase from the start, but in the long run it will help him feel responsible for any orgasms the toy produces. Also, return the treat by picking out a male toy just for him; 'Mr Sex' knows all about the joys of the new Tenga range from Japan…

Spend some secret alone-time working out how to use your toy to optimum effect (try not to scream with joy if he’s in the vicinity, as this will do little for his ego), then invite him to ‘his own private sex show’ and let him watch while you use the toy on yourself – regardless of his apprehensions about battery-powered gadgets, it’ll be hard for him to feel anything other than hard, if you catch my drift.

Seeing you use the toy externally will be reassuring and put an end to any fear that you’re only using toys because he’s not big enough to satisfy you. If you do use the toy internally, try to eroticise that for him by saying things like, “When I’m doing this I’m imagining you inside me”. At the same time as marrying the notion of toy-play with him being turned on, you’ll be feeding him info on how to use the toy on you, which will boost his confidence for when it’s his turn to take the controls. Good luck!

TT readers: Comment!

Thursday, 14 January 2010

Nottingham NEEDS Fluffers

I was aware that the recession was still kicking my dear home town in the bollocks, but I never realised things were this desperate;

Tuesday, 12 January 2010

'Mr Sex' treats you, the patient Todger Talk Reader, to his holiday slides

After the end of a trying year for the staff of Todger Talk, and the seemingly endless trudge through another horrific winter (I'm looking out the window now; everywhere is caked with horribly dirty snow. It's like a giant bird has shat upon the whole country), it's only natural that thoughts turn to the last holiday one had.

So, as a special treat, I'm going to show you a selection of pictures from my last sojourn, en familie, to a caravan park in Chapel St Leonards. And I can already hear you saying; "But what shagging-related palaver is to be had there, 'Mr Sex'?". Well, that's the reason I went, to be honest - I was expecting to take a much-needed break from the maelstrom of humpery and pumpery.

I was wrong.

My holiday - as per usual - was absolutely rammeth with sex. For one, it was a spiritual journey to the very caravan site upon which I was conceived. For two, Chapel St Leonards is next to Skegness, which - as you will discover - should actually be called Sexness, laden as it is with the musky tang of eroticism. Come, dear reader - let us plump up the pillows, and have a goz at the following...

This was the first thing I, my nephew and his mate encountered outside the caravan site - he thought it was selling bubble gum, bless. But who could disagree with the sales pitch, and its claim that new climactic plateaux could be attained by wrapping a quid's worth of material around your paramour's flange? Remember, though - styles may vary.

(Child's face has been obscured not because he's a young offender, but because he's my nephew and I don't want him kicking the living shit out of me in 2017)

Here, our young models are in the camp shop, demonstrating the style of garment more suitable for the average holidaymaker at Chapel (seriously, I'm not lying - I was by far the most attractive single man in the area. Unfortunately, I was also the most attractive single woman, as well). More alarmingly - and I kick myself for not getting a photo of this - the shop had a row of massive black dildos right behind the counter. I didn't know where to put me face when I went in there with me Mam for some suntan lotion.

(Incidentally, I overheard the following conversation between my youthful charges one night, on the way to the chip shop;

"I know what happens at Hooters"


"The women come out with boxer shorts on their heads, and do cartwheels to clown music. And they rub mud into their lips, because they're too trampy to afford proper make-up")

Obviously, when you're at a British seaside resort, you can't go five minutes without cramming as many chips into your maw as possible - and even here, the ugly head of Sex rears up and screams at you. Unless I get proof to the contrary, this chippy is offering poultry-based lingerie, probably with a scoop of chips nestling in the gusset.

Because the alternative explanation - that the shop is using minced-up bits of one animal to make another one entirely - does not bear thinking about.

Another facet of the Skegness holiday is spending precious hours being dragged around arcades by youths, and I must say the standard has declined considerably, with an endless cascade of tuppenny waterfalls, knackered-up NBA Jam cabinets, tubby young girls sulkily 'performing' upon the Dance Dance Revolution machines in the manner of arthritic old men stubbing out fags with their feet and only two - that's right, two - pinball tables in the entire area.

Bizarrely, my nephew and his friend were insanely addicted to the love tester machines, meaning that Uncle Sex had to stand over two eight year-olds who were finding out how erotically charged they were by the highly technical method of slapping their filthy hands on the cabinet, leaving me to explain to said girls that no, I wasn't trying to groom them, while my darling nephew shouted; "HAAAH! I'm STERILE and you're not!"


"What does sterile mean?"

Non-sexual item alert: These cost £65. The pair. Next time I have to go to a wedding between two people I'm not bothered about seeing again, they're getting these.

This cruel and debilitating affliction is going to be the Todger Talk designated charity for 2010.

Right, it's now the middle of the week, so time to start wondering about how I'm going to shag up the teeth of my nearest and dearest, through the medium of rock. The above is a charming example of the genre...

While this my.

In fact, it's fair to say that I would have seen less cock if I had stopped at home and watched the collected works of Ron Jeremy, whilst posing naked in a room consisting of full-length wall-to-wall mirrors.

Oh, and please note the 'Titties Kebab'; they're the cocks, but with the bell-ends snipped off.

Non-sexual item alert: Oh dear. If only the people who actually bought a mug with the logo of a bunch of racist mouth-breathers would follow the example set by the donkeys at bottom right. All together now;

And Snowy
Live together in perfect harmony
Side by side on the eastern seaboard
Oh. Lord
Why can't we?

Horrifyingly reminiscent of the first post I ever made for this blog.

These are the dancing girls at Club Tropicana, the local cabaret that I practically used to live in as a kid, when it was the Maid Marian Club. Back then, the dancers were called the Champagne Kittens, and were classy as fuck. When I was 12 and starting to become even more sexually aware when I was at the age of, say 8, I was sitting on the very front table up against the stage, and they came out in stockings and basques and put on a scintillating performance to Bad Boys by Wham!, resulting in me sending a basket of scampi and chips flying across the table when one of them recited the spoken word bit in my ear.

Sadly, it has to be said that the standard has dropped since then; the current artistes - The Boy Toy Dancers - carried on like 14 year-olds putting on a lesbian show at a bus stop after one litre of Lambrini too many.

And this is the horrifyingly ironic thing about Skegness - even when you take into account the phallic symbolism, cheap underwear (constructed from meat or otherwise), opportunities to test one's sexual prowess and, and everything, I'm willing to bet that nobody had sex in Skeggy and surrounding area all week. I know I certainly didn't - the above image was taken when I went out on the pull on the Friday night (and if I had been there one more night, I could have witnessed a performance by the lead singer of the band who produced this early-70s erotic classic).

Happy New Year, everyone. Let us all move on.

(Main image provided by the ludicrously gifted Rikki Marr, who is Dead Good and Skill)