Something for the Ladies #4

It's Friday. And you know what that means;

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. 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, we love hearing from you the rest of the week.

This week's question...

LL writes: The man I'm currently missing told me something yesterday that I have no idea how to interpret. We would love to be together but a huge combination of circumstances are currently keeping us apart. I'm living a separate country for the next three years for one thing, but he is also nine years my senior and has a two year old son and lives with a woman he has been struggling for a long time to escape from. The relationship has been dead for ages, but she's a control freak and every time he leaves or tries to leave she threatens that he will never be allowed to see his son. He always chooses to stay as he would not be able to win custody of his boy: firstly, she is a woman, and secondly, she is far wealthier than he is and could keep him in court until he ran out of money. We do intend to be together eventually though.

Anyway, that's just a bit of background which you're welcome to comment on too. The confusing thing he told me yesterday though, was that he had been at a buck's night on the weekend and seen a stripper who looked just like me. She could have been my twin sister, her said. So he paid her $70 for a lap dance... and left the room after about 60 seconds. I am usually slow to judge, but on this count I have been even slower. I just don't understand, and I doubt he does either.

One thing is clear: he misses me, which I already knew. I miss him too. The rest is a mystery. Does anyone have any insight into my man's mind? Got any tips on getting out of the situation above? Or any idea how we can make it through the next three years, together or not, and somehow create a good relationship in the end?

Sam says: Whoa, this is a doozy. Firstly, and insight into this man's mind – you've got to realise that we at heart are animals, not rational creatures. We move towards pleasure and away from pain. He is moving towards pleasure (you), but staying away from terrible pain (leaving his wife and losing his son). If anything, being with you is probably allowing him to stay in this horrible situation; he gets enough good stuff with you to allow him to carry on with his wife. If he was alone, then he would have to fully face all the pain in the relationship. You are currently effectively working as a pain-killer which helps him cope.

Tips for getting out of this situation? Well to be honest, for him there is pretty much no way out. And why would he really leave? This way he gets it both ways; he gets to see his son, and he gets to be with a woman who loves him – you. To be honest there is NO WAY that this situation will change as it stands. He will never leave her. Your only option is to leave him, cut off ALL contact and tell him once he leaves his wife, he can get back in touch with you. Harsh I know, but it's the only thing, in my opinion, that could work.

How to make it through? Well you have two choices; stay in the relationship and accept nothing will change (though you, and he will hope otherwise). Or, finish the relationship. Either he will realise the error of his ways and leave her, or you will actually be free to find another relationship where you can actually have the person you want.

'Mr Sex' says: This is one o'them internet relationships, in't it? Maybe not at first, but it definitely is now. You poor thing. Fucking horrible, isn't it?

Internet relationships, you see, are the mental equivalent of those medieval thumb-traps. You meet someone by chance, and you talk. And talk. And talk and talk and talk. And talk. Before too long, you feel like you know this person back-to front, and you fall in love with their mind. Which, as we all know, is the biggest erogenous zone a human being possesses. Seriously, if all engaged couples were required by law not to see each other and only communicate by e-mail for a month before deciding to get married or not, the divorce rate would drop through the floor.

The drawbacks, on the other hand, are massive. You're indulging in prolonged mental foreplay without the physical relief. That's horrible. No matter where you and the other person are - be it on the other side of the world, or the other side of town - you both feel like you're in separate plastic hamster-balls, endlessly clashing together yet unable to break through. That's equally horrible. What's more, due to the fact that internet communication is still not as instinctual and instant as physical contact (and you can also take your time to write and re-write responses), you very quickly learn to read every throwaway comment the other person makes as if it were a statement of massive importance.

The end result, as you've already discovered, is an absolute mindfuck. You become totally attached to a person who has no opportunity to physically seal the deal. Which makes you want them more. Internet relationships would be brilliant if we were all brains in jars with USB attachments. But we're not. We all have other bits, and they need just as much attention from a partner too. Sometimes, a hug at the end of a shit day at work is worth 300GB of backed-up e-mails.

Obviously, you don't want to hear that, because neither did I when it happened to me. As for the stripper who looks like you; would you have accepted that from him if you were together and he was away on business for a month? Yes, it's obvious that he's attracted to you, but I think the best thing both of you could do is to calm the relationship right down ASAP, get on with your own lives without interfering with each other, and see how the both of you feel three years down the line.

Chaps of Todger Talk, your input is appreciated...

Dave: A little less conversation . . .

Timeless complaints over how oversexed the male brain is (probably ‘cos the other regions are so undersexed) are a little grating considering the effort women put in to discussing it. We in turn frequently grumble about how women don’t even possess libidos, in a vitriolic, I’m not getting any and there isn’t even a pub in the vicinity in which to drown my sorrows, manner. Well, I’m not surprised. Women burn themselves out. Right from the word go, ‘teen’ mags, and Judy Bloom books are instructing girls on sex. How to please their boyfs. How the dashing yet, untrustworthy rogue is the one to rescue them from the evils of a humdrum life. Christ, if I were raised on that I’d quickly learn to resent the opposite sex. However, I suppose as us guys are raised on porn, there’s enough disappointment to go round.

And it’s not that we’re too shy to talk about sex; it’s just that that’s all women do – talk about it; hold hilarious ceremonial evenings; lingerie sessions (whereby any rare purchases never see the light of day).

They appear to view sex as an ideal, a separate entity, a fantastical part of their psyche which should never be tarnished with the rather enjoyable reality of getting sweaty, fumbling awkwardly and then laying there in stained underpants enjoying a post-coital pizza.

Such is the case, they renounce any responsibility for quality. It’s invariably the man who’s at fault should the experience fail to be earth-shattering, for either of them. Always something the guy has or hasn’t done. If he struggles to rise to the occasion, it’s safely presumed he’s nervous, or under stress at work, or worried his wife might find out. It’s couldn’t possibly be that the woman he’s with is just crap in bed – regardless how attractive she is.

But, even we’ve adopted this self-flagellation. Should anything not feel quite right, we instinctively blame ourselves.

A group of us were enjoying a drink the other day, when one of our number announced he’d finally got it on with a woman he’d been pursuing for years. Feeling pleased for him we encouragingly enquired how it was (purely to show our emotional support and nothing whatsoever to do with extracting the sordid details). He hesitated before confessing how useless he’d been. Must have been nerves, he supposed. An embarrassing admission for any man – particularly around other men.

We did manage to raise his spirits however, when another member of the group casually piped up with his own experience of sleeping with the same woman. We hadn’t mentioned this to our friend before, not wishing to hurt his feelings – he’d had a thing for this woman for some time. Further validation concerning her shagging inadequacies was given by a third member of the table. And once the initial shock had subsided, our friend’s confidence in his own sexual prowess eventually returned. Even if his faith in humanity had been irrevocably damaged.

The point is, how can we attract women with our confident demeanour if we’re piling on the pressure over our own performance? We must remember there are two people involved. Three if your lucky. So if things don’t go according to plan don’t beat yourself up about it, so to speak.

In fact, the next time I pull, I’m going to employ a panel of ‘sexperts’ to sit at the end of the bed and issue scorecards after the strenuous 180 seconds workout. Then we’ll see who’s putting the effort in.

'Mr Sex' Strikes a Crippling Blow against the Groin-Grinders

So. It's the wee small hours of a school night in the middle of town, and I - Nottingham's 'Mr Sex' - am out with a few lady friends in a club. None of your Frienditis bollocks here; they're mates of mine, nothing more, nothing less. Not that they're not attractive, mind, because they are. And in any case, they've all got boyfriends. Sure, one of those boyfriends is an absolute nob, and the girl concerned could do so much better, but that's not the point. Ahem.

Anyway, we're going through the time-honoured process of getting sambucas down our throats without going into a choking fit (my tip: get as much saliva in your mouth as possible first), when I get chatting to said friend with nobby boyfriend. The conversation goes thusly;

Her: "I've finished with him. He was a right nob"

Me: "Oh, that's a shame. He was a nob, though. Are you all right about it, though?"

Her: "Oh yeah. Looking for someone new. Do you want a dance?"

Me (inwardly):
Me (outwardly): Yeah, go on then.

So far, so good. But then, as we move closer to something that sounded very shit in the 80s but sounds alright-ish now, I clock him. About 20 seconds before she does. And even from half a room away, he's already walking towards us like he's trying to eat a Star Bar with his arsehole. And I'm thinking, oh, NO. Groin-Grinder at 12 o' clock. I hate it when bell-ends come on to my mates when I'm with them, because it's just so painfully obvious, and it demeans everyone. Especially me.

My suspicions are confirmed when his crotch arrives at the scene a good five seconds before the rest of him does. And he proceeds to simulate anal sex with her. Putting aside any amorous intentions I may have towards her, this is Wrongness taken to the highest level. I can do four things here;

1) I can ask her if she's cool with this, and act like I'm her bloke and get us away from the situation, and have a bit of a laugh about it
(Probably the best thing to do)

2) I can walk away and let 'em get on with it, hoping/expecting that she'll follow me.
(But she's pissed up, I'm in full Protective Dad mode, and I'd probably get my head taken off by our mates)

3) I can try to out-frot him.
(Ugh. No, mate)

4) I can reach out, wrap my hand around his throat, and say "OIIII! DO YO' WANT FOO-KIN PANNIN' OR SUMMAT?"
(Tempting. Really, really tempting)

And then, amidst the alcohol and the outrage and the confusion and the righteousness, a new thought bubbles up. Five. There is a five.

I turn around, and circle them. And then, without warning, Bang. My groin is rammed hard into his arse.

"You don't mind that, do you, mate?"

My hands grip the side of his hips. Bang.

"Is that nice? Do you like that?"

The hands creep up his chest. He is not moving. He was not expecting me.

Bang.

"Fucking hell, you've some right nipples on you, duck" Bang. Bang. BANG.

Finally, he comes to his senses. He turns round, and pushes. I push back. And then we do that usual kick-off-in-town bollocks known as 'fronting up', where men re-create the cover of the Beatles Help LP before their respective mates drag them off. I can't be arsed with it anymore, so I say ta-ra and go for my night bus.

As I stand in the shelter, looking at my watch and wondering about getting some chips in before the bus comes, I am filled with righteous zeal. How fucking dare men act in such a Neanderthal manner on this side of the 21st century! And what a genius I was to counteract it in such a spur-of-the-moment fashion! Alright, maybe everyone else in the club assumed I was a prison rapist, but the point had been made, and driven home. Almost literally. God, I'm skill.

And then I see the taxi.

And then I see her in the back.

And then I see him next to her.

And then, from the vantage point of the bin that I was cowering behind so they didn't see me, I see them snogging like two trout after the same bit o' bread.

Amazingly, there's a happy ending to the story. They started going out, and they're still together, and - far from being the lecherous get I thought he was, he's actually a decent bloke. We look back on that night and have a good laugh about it now*.










*Him more than me, obviously

'Mr Sex': The Grotfather

Right about now, I really should be spilling something on the floor in memory of my old gaffer Paul Raymond, who died yesterday at the age of 82. But I can’t bear to think what.

Comparisons are being drawn to Hugh Hefner, but let’s not be silly; Paul Raymond did it first and did it best. The abridged version of his story, recounted to me by the staff at the Paul Raymond Organisation when I started work there back in the day, goes something like this; Liverpudlian post-war traveling mind-reader cottons on early to the fact that the men in the audience are far more interested in his Debbie McGee-like assistants, so he ups the raunch content. Luckily, it's the fifties, so he doesn't have to up it all that much. For example; the UK's archaic laws permit nudity on-stage as long as the ladies stand stock still. Solution? Fly them in on suspended podiums above the stage, and let 'em jiggle away. And then get someone to bellow "Naked - AND SHE MOVES!" outside the theatre.

His shows - which all sound like a Troy McClure resume ("You might remember me for such revues as Come Into My Bed, Let's Get Laid and Yes, We Have No Pyjamas!") - become so popular that he can afford to buy a ballroom in Soho, which he renames the Raymond Revuebar. Naturally, he makes so much more money out of that (particularly after he's fined five grand in 1961 for a show described by a judge as “filthy, disgusting and beastly”, which is worth about a million quid’s worth of publicity in a time when £1,000,000 is a lot of money), that he starts to not only dabble in magazine publishing, but also buys up chunks of Soho. Although this is seen by outsiders as a canny bit of entrepreneurialism that anticipates the property boom, it’s nothing of the sort; he just doesn’t want the local Maltese gangsters who plague Soho lowering the tone of his exceedingly arty, all-done-in-the-best-PAHSSIBLE-taste shows, so he simply buys them out.

By the mid-70s, after an internal police investigation of the Obscene Publications Squad that results in 500(!) coppers resigning and small-time Charlie Endell types packing up their dog-sex vids and retiring, he buys even more of Soho. By the time the 80s roll along, he’s the richest non-aristocrat in the UK. His grot department (now expanded to magazines such as Men Only, Mayfair, Escort, Club and Razzle) more than pulls its weight (like Richard Desmond and David Sullivan, he makes an absolute killing from wank lines), but that’s just the side-action. He’s the King of Soho. You know the cover of (What’s The Story) Morning Glory? I'm guessing that Paul Raymond practically owned that street.

By the time I started working at Paul Raymond Publications at the turn of the century, there was a distinct end-of-Empire feel about both it and Soho. The rot set in as early as 1980, when his one and only attempt to break the film market was exposed as a shoddy Emanuelle copy years after anyone wanted to watch the original (he pops up in a cameo halfway through the film, agonising over the colour of the tablecloths in the Revuebar. He chose blue). After that, the flood of imported mags from Continental Europe and videos from America poured in, Desmond and Sullivan took the market relentlessly downmarket, and Paul's bit of high-class sauce was as fashionable as an all-in-one panty-girdle. The buzz surrounding the place, you felt, was a fraction of what it used to be.

Although there was still money to be made from the mags (and the website was making approximately £40K a week, which was precisely £40K more than 99% of UK-strength porn sites), the power of the brand had diminished. You also got the impression that you could say the same about its owner. The former had been blindsided at both ends by Lad Mags who were selling more by offering less, and websites that were offering pretty much everything for fuck all. It was obvious that my bosses were far more concerned with the business of property management than flatplans and websites; when you know that the meeting before yours involves the negotiation of a million-pound monthly rental of a property on Shaftesbury Avenue, you realise that your niggles about a bruise on a model’s arse are the smallest possible beer in the world.

The latter had been devastated by the death of his daughter in 1992 (who, according to the old-timers there, was an incredibly generous and down-to-earth woman who would have made the perfect heir to the empire), and was a virtual recluse. In the time I was there, I only met him once, as he was coming out of lift. He was dressed like Tom Baker’s great-grandfather, with a long scarf wrapped around him as if it was protection from the outside world. It was one of the weirdest encounters I’ve ever had in my life; meeting a man who could have easily bought every house, school, hospital, office and factory I’ve ever been in on the spot, and feeling a bit sorry for him.

The media reaction to his death says much about pornography in the UK. If Paul Raymond had lived and died in America, he would have been celebrated as both a champion of anti-censorship and entrepreneurial spirit; the man who overthrew stuffy 50’s sensibilities with a thrust of Bonnie Bell the Ding-Dong Girl’s hips, and the son of a lorry driver who ended up owning an entire postcode of prime real estate in one of the world’s biggest cities. But he was British, so he was a smut pedlar who got lucky. It’ll be interesting to see what happens to the mags now. Fondest regards to all the people I knew who still work there.

Sam: Spread the good word

Al told me this is a naf idea, and my fiancée raised her eye brows disapprovingly, but then, I am Aussie and tend to just stick my foot it in anyway.

We work hard here at Todger Talk to make you think, laugh, and well laugh. I would really appreciate it if you did a teeny little bit of work in return – to gently spread the good word of Todger Talk.

Step 1. Pick your favourite post that made you laugh out loud, or really got you thinking on Todger Talk

Step 2. Email it to three friends (ideally male) saying something like ‘Har har, this is hilarious and made me wet myself, check it out’ or ‘Check this out, what a great perspective’.

Step 3. Well, um, there is no step three.

Personally I have emailed all my male mates on facebook about Todger Talk. But, I guess that’s why we get called brash Aussies.

Ah, nice one...

Something for the Weekend, Sir? (1.3.08)

Todger Talk is spending the weekend heeding its own advice, so until normal service is resumed on Monday, here's something else to lay your eyes upon;

Ben-Her: Canadian phone-prankster extraordinaire, who pretends to be a woman, goes on phone sex services, and commits acts of exceptional wrongness

Following on from Dave's post from a while back: home-made sex toys

MILF Rice? Mouse-shaped vibrators? Sex with things that look like 1980s roll-on deodorants? Only in Japan (and then the rest of the world three years later)

Who will succeed Vanilla Dong as the Name of the Year? (Come on, Pansy Ho!)