'Mr Sex', on Mothers Day

If I were to count the ways as to how skill my Mam is, we'd be here all millennium. I could go on about how she absolutely excels at all things Mamly. I could write reams and reams about the charitable stuff she does for people on her estate off her own bat. And I could tell you about the time she pulled a bra out of a dog's arse, while everyone else on the street watched (she doesn't know if the dog had eaten the bra, or some disaffected youths had shoved the bra up the dog's arse - I'm guessing the latter, because there's some right twattish kids knocking about round here).

But seeing as this is a sex blog, I'll pick out one example in particular; when I was 15, and had got hold of my first wank mag, after a flurry of trading negotiations that involved £1.50 and a bag of nicked lead figures from Games Workshop (Men Only, circa 1983: there was this one girl in it called April, who had long brown hair, eyes you wanted to swim in like a baby seal, and a long string of pearls. She had a telescope, and she liked to use it to watch other people shagging. Sorry to bore you, but you always fall in love with someone you see in your first wank mag).

I pegged it home with rapidly alternating feelings of excitement (because I was about to have my own nudey book for the first time), triumph (because it had took me ages to get hold of one), extreme guilt (because, well...y'know) and - bizarrely - melancholy (because it really felt like I was saying goodbye to my childhood, and I'd had a blinding one), with the mag burning a hole in my adidas holdall, only to run into me Mam. She seemed really pleased to see me. Really affectionate. Actually, too affectionate. At one point, she even said "Shall I get you some milk and cookies?" with a catch in her voice, like we were American or something. She had never, in my entire life, offered me milk and cookies, before or since.

I eventually went upstairs with a heavy heart, feeling absolutely mortified at the fact that her little lad was about to let his Mam down quite considerably. And then WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK WANK. And then I rammed it right underneath the mattress.

Next morning, I woke up and had a bath before school. Whilst in the bath, I heard me Mam say ta-ra as she left for work. After I'd got dressed and went through my usual routine of playing Jam records dead loud, eating Toast Toppers and calling my sister a slag, I thought to myself; it's a quarter to nine. Hm. Better do me homework. Hm. No. Let's have a look at me wank mag instead. So I reached under the mattress.

I couldn't feel it.

I reached further. Then I lifted the mattress up. Then I lifted the mattress right up. Then I pulled the bed out. And then I thought, fucking hell, Mam's going to batter me, as she's only just made this bed while I was in the bath. And then I thought about what I'd just said. And then I looked at the bed. And then I reached over. And then I lifted the pillow.

And there it was.

I felt like those kids you read about in Take A Break, where their Mams wrap up a tin of Bostik and an empty crisp packet for Christmas to shock them out of glue-sniffing. And before I had time to scream, the phone rang.

It was her. She knew. She. Knew.

How the FUCK did she know?

After she had relayed the purpose of the call - to check that I was ready to leave for school, and confirmation that I hadn't burned the house down, thrown my sister through a window, etc - I couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Mam...soz."

"WHY? What have you done?"

"Y'know...that magazine. I'm really sorry. I'll chuck it away"

"Oh, don't be so sucky. You're fifteen. You're old enough for that sort of thing"

"Er, OK"

"Now piss off to school, you prat"

"OK. Ta-ra, Mam"

And that was it. She could have called me a right dirty bastard and threaten to tell me Dad. She could have laid an enormous guilt trip on me about how those women were somebody else's daughters, sisters and Mams. She could have ripped the absolute piss out of me* and make feel about two inches high. But she didn't. She allowed me to make my own decisions, and draw my own conclusions. Nothing else was ever said about it.

And that, dear readers, is just one reason why I love my Mam to death.


*although when I mentioned this to a friend the other night, she speculated that me Mam probably said; "Hey! I'm just going to ring Our Al up and take the piss out him. I found his first nudey book this morning" to her mates at the factory, and made pointy gestures at the mouthpiece of the phone and pulled faces for their benefit while I was shitting myself. I have a horrible feeling that she might be right.

'Mr Sex': An urgent question for Americans, Jewish males, Masai Tribesmen, etc

OK, this has been bugging me for ages, and I could do with an answer so I can sleep at night; I'm guessing that a sizable proportion of our male readership are circumcised, yes? And we've already discussed that there's a few advantages to that - you don't have nob-cheese issues, and you don't have something that can easily get caught in a zip. Well done. Good for you.

But here's the thing; the one advantage us polo-neck sporters have over your lot is that our danglers come ready-lubricated with our own in-built sleeve, meaning that we can pretty much joff off whenever we like with no need for any paraphernalia (apart from something to catch it in, of course). And from pretty much any American TV show that touches upon male masturbation, I've divulged that hand cream is the lubricant of choice.

So here's what I need to know: how the fuck do you get hold of it? I mean, it's bad enough when you're at the till in Tescos, and your selection of Pot Noodles, microwave meals for one and low-grade pizzas are practically screaming out your singleness, but having a tube of Nivea or whatever on the conveyor belt...fucking hell. From where I'm sitting, you might as well rearrange every tin in your trolley and make them spell out the words 'HEY! I'M GOING TO HAVE A WANK IN A BIT, EVERYONE!'.

So what do you do, my no-skin brethen? Do you tell the girl behind the till that you model jewellery for QVC, or that your mother's laid up again with Psoriasis? Do you close your eyes and wish yourself a thousand miles away? Do you brazen it out like a good'un? Or do you use something else?

Come, chaps: share.