Sam: break in transmission

Just a short note to apologise for the current break in transmission.

Mr Sex has a hard drive crash, and is currently trying to get his drive hard enough again to get a good performance.

Wednesday's post went down like a lead balloon, but hey if you hit the target everytime, then you are standing too close.

So please bear with us, and we'll be back soon!

Sam: Signals from Men

Last week I talked about flirting signals from women. But what about flirting signals from men?

Men are simple creatures. If they look at you once, then they are checking you out. If they look at you twice, then they fancy you. If they look at you more than this then they really fancy you.

This fits in perfectly with the idea of giving a green light. Because if you manage to catch their eye a second time you also know that they are giving you a green light back - in other words, if they catch your eye again they fancy you. And what about when you actually get talking to them?

According to the international body language expert Tracey Cox, the following are sure signs things are going well:

He’ll become an attention seeker – when a guy fancies you he will try and attract your attention. This might mean he suddenly seems to become louder and more boisterous or makes exaggerated movements and gestures. He might also stand slightly apart from his friends.

He’ll play with his hair – if a guy fancies you he will involuntarily ‘preen’ trying to make himself look good for you.

He’ll show off his body – when a guy fancies you he will stand taller and perhaps slightly puff out his chest.

He’ll show off the crown jewels – men don’t realise this, but when they are around women they fancy, they unconsciously spread their legs, showing you what’s on offer.

He’ll start undressing – when we fancy someone we unconsciously start undressing. If he starts undoing buttons, or taking off his jacket, then he is starting something he would probably like to finish in your bedroom

His hands will go on his hips – unconsciously he is making himself look bigger which suggests confidence. Also, we point towards what we want people to see, so you might notice his fingers pointing towards his groin.

He’ll start touching himself – when we are attracted to someone, our skin, particularly our mouth, becomes more sensitive to being touched. You might notice him touching his chin, lips or cheek more or drinking or smoking faster.

He’ll lend you something – this is a protective and sexy ownership gesture – he is offering something that is his to you. Plus, it means he has to hang around to get it back before the end of the night.

Something for the Ladies #7

Thank God it's Friday. Not because it's the end of the working week, oh no - but because our weekly opportunity to spray our sexperty musk has arrived once more. You know the deal, but in case you don't;

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...

Autumn writes: In a recent Something For The Ladies Mr. Sex said, "(it's one of the reasons why men love doggy-style, by the way - doesn't feel as tight, and we're in full control of our strokes). " I know that my partner absolutely loves to finish doggy-style (we do about 95% of the time) and I don't mind because it feels fantastic, but what IS it about doggy-style that men love so? You mentioned tightness (it's less tight? Isn't tighter generally more desirable?) and stroke control. What else makes it so much fun? Does the sense of anonymity make it more exciting or is that nothing to do with it?

Sam says: OK, there are a couple of things that work for men in doggy style. The first is that deep down we are monkeys, and that's the way we used to do it. According to Desmond Morris, it was the biological requirement of pair bonding, which helped us to survive in non forest environments, that led us to swap over and shag face to face. In other words, doggy style does it for the monkey inside the man. It ignites his animal instinct because it's just so primitive.

Also, men love doggy style because it allows them to penetrate as deeply as they possibly can, and also because your bottom presses against his balls for extra stimulation. And it's also the visual thing; the sight of a bum really turns a man on, and to add the icing on the cake he gets to see his todger pumping in and out of you. To be honest, also since men can't see your face they can happily pretend they are shagging Christie Turlington without guilt, or the fear of getting caught. So really the question is, what's not to like about it?

'Mr Sex' says: Sam's pretty much nailed it, but I'll address the tightness question; yes, we do like it reasonably tight, but not all the time, and definitely not when we're finishing off. Like I said before, when we're in that position we feel in control, we can grab hold of your hips (which is a criminally underrated part of the female anatomy) or your shoulders (equally criminally underrated lady-bits), we can gurn away and make as many ridiculous sex-faces as we like, and the view is skill. And yes, we could be thinking about someone else, but I can't say I ever have. And you could be thinking about, I dunno, David Cassidy or Mr Motivator or whoever.

Wankety Wank: the answers...

So do you remember this quiz we set about 17 years ago? Time, finally, for some answers...

A nice easy start, this one, and a prime example of the minimalist genius of the wankline copywriter: 'Full Load'.

All British readers probably got this one easily, too: 'Jiffy'.

Here's where it got harder; some people, obviously clocking the rhyme metre of the previous question, went for 'Rock'. Sadly not, for a drippy cock isn't likely to make anyone rock - unless it was in a convulsed manner, of course. Correct answer; 'Sick'.

This was an evil question, and the answers were alarmingly creative. 'Barmaids'. 'Builders'. 'Brickies'. 'Bastards'. 'Boyladies'. 'Bitches'. 'Butchers'. Nope. The correct answer: 'Brothers'.

Erm, 'Dog'.

'Mr Sex' Grabs Them Digits

There’s a mild frenzy of knicker-sniffing and elbow-nudging conducted by the media over the new leader of the Liberal Democrats at the moment, and his blurting out of how many sexual partners he’s had. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to barge in and have a bit of an inhale of the News-Gusset, as it gives me a great opportunity to expand upon a subject I wrote about for Cosmo earlier this year; the magic number. Let’s get it out the way early; mine is 39. Yes, exactly; none of this ‘high thirties’ or ’36 to 40’ bollocks. I remember them all, from No.1 (student halls of residence, Isleworth, Van Morrison on the stereo) all the way to No.39 (my house, Nottingham, flatmates were eating a curry in bed upstairs and the cat was howling outside to be let in). It’d be rude not to, wouldn’t it?

Problem is, more often than not, I can drop that number in conversation and people will refuse to believe me. Some people – mainly my mates who got married at 17 and are convinced that there aren’t even 39 women in the world who actually have sex – think I’m bullshitting. Other people – who know that I spent a huge chunk of my life in London knocking about with porn models and worked for two years as a part-time male stripper – think I’m lying, and that its way higher.

The moral of the story: like that other great personal factoid, the first record you ever bought, it almost doesn’t matter what the answer is; no-one is going to believe you. Yes, we’re going to nod while you tell us you’ve slept with over a hundred women and you bought Anarchy In The UK months before anyone else knew about Punk. But inside, we’re thinking “Bollocks have you, and I bet it was summat by Showaddywaddy”

Here’s the thing about Magic Numbers; there’s no right answer, but hundreds of wrong ones. Reason? Men automatically assume that a female of approximately the same age will have a vastly higher strike rate than he, because your lot have far more opportunities to pull than us. Too low, and he’ll assume you’re a commitment-freak, or inexperienced (and therefore possibly rubbish in bed), or you’re rounding down. Too high, and he’ll be edging towards the door and wishing he’d double-bagged himself. And he’ll still think you’re rounding down.

So what’s too high and too low? Well, that’s the other thing; it differs from bloke to bloke, and being the spods that we are, one single number doesn’t even begin to tell a fraction of the whole story. We demand a far more complicated formula that factors in age (obviously), location (because you assume someone in London has had more opportunities to put it about than someone in, say, Ludlow), and frequency in a certain time span. What we really need is a Powerpoint presentation, preferably with graphs and pie charts.

Let’s go back to my number, for example. When I was 21, my number was zero. Seven years later, it was two. Four years ago, it was 34. Today, its 39. By looking at that, you get a fuller picture; a late developer who eventually had a huge relationship, went on a shag rampage to get over the end of said relationship whilst living in possibly the biggest one night-stand city in the world, and then calmed down considerably after moving back to the provinces. I’d sooner have any potential partner know that than a cold, faceless number.

And this is precisely the reason why the Magic Number sucks; it compresses a lifetime’s emotional history into a few digits. It gives equal value to the four-year commitment when you talked about having kids and you liked her parents, and the random drunken romp with someone who you didn’t catch their name when you were feeling a bit sorry for yourself, it asks more questions than it answers, and it shouldn’t matter. One of the happiest, most secure people I know has a magic number of one. Not because he’s minging, or socially inept, or sexually incompetent – because he fell in love with the right partner, and has never seen a reason to go anywhere else. When I get as lucky as him, and meet the right partner, I won’t give a monkey’s wank if I’m the first, the seventh, the nineteenth, the forty-eighth, or even the two hundred and twenty third sexual partner she’s had; I’ll want to be the last.

Dr A is in the house

Just a reminder for all our UK readers that TT's resident GP - the always-helpful Dr Ayan - is back on the telly tonight in the new series of Street Doctors. Last series, he gained my eternal respect and awe when he went to my local shopping centre and started asking blokes about their prostates (when I'm too terrified to ask people the bleeding time in there).

Street Doctors is on BBC1 at 7.30 tonight and for the next seven weeks. And hurrah for that.

Dave: Role Play

We all consider that there are significant differences between the sexes. Indeed, we often each insist the other is crazy. And of course that’s not the case. Us fellows are quite sane. Albeit in a combative, world-annihilation, shag our own sister after enough pints kind of way. But who doesn’t get that? Fucking loonies. Now, of course we are dissimilar. Our entire make-up is distinctly different – we tend only to go for the brylcream and lynx at most. Bio-chemically, physical attributes (which seem to be evening themselves out more and more as society strives toward a more economically viable medium), and often emotionally – you know how guys simply cannot deal with the sniffles – we vary greatly from one another.

It’s there for all to see without having to resort to feeble methods of personal identity: the adoption of cultural roots from regions of the world alien to us. Flocking to a specific pocket amid the cosmopolitan texture of a civilization like inconvenient fluff statically fixed between the more independently prominent strivers for unity.

But in terms of partnerships are the gender variances truly relevant? Or do we fall into specific roles? The Yin and Yang of a perfect union. Isn’t it the same for all alliances, regardless of the intended product? Music, comedy, procreation, even religion (imagine the self-righteous sods trying to sell the word of God without the poor Devil acting as His alter-ego. Never would have worked. God would have just come across a vindictive wanker). All the successful unions consist of a dominant personality and a submissive one. However they are interpreted: straight guy and funny guy, good cop and bad cop, Pinky and the Brain, the roles are distinctive. And when the balance is right the relationship works.

It even manifests itself physically. The stereotypical gay relationships in the cases of both genders – butch and effeminate. Man and woman, as we are propagated to believe. And for same sex couples of less clichéd appearance, undoubtedly one member of the partnership adopts certain attributes less inclined within the nature of the other – work ethic, aspiration, sartorial or domiciliary pride…

But as time passes does the relationship take on its own identity? Governing the roles of its inhabitants. Moulding each character to maintain the equilibrium of the sphere. Shifting the dominant figure back and forth depending upon emotional well being or to facilitate unambiguous responsibilities.

Man becomes woman, who becomes man. The metaphysical aspect will always sound on the tossy side unfortunately. But it occurs all too often. The late worker adopts the characteristics attributed to the 1940s husband. And the home-worker is the ‘wife’. Especially poignant in emotive instances: any low or depressed period misshaping the Yang and the Yin will seize control. Should the man suffer a crisis, the roles become reversed. The whole dynamic spiralling out of control until you have a scenario where she’s standing over him impatiently scratching her labia through well-worn navy blue suit trousers while he cowers below remonstrating on loveless relationships and complaining of cramps.

It’s all been documented. Pigmallion. Higgins and Dolittle. In the end their established roles or identities begin to falter and shift. Even Pinky’s simplicity can outshine Brain’s sizeable intellect (though it’s obviously a metaphor for man’s foolish assumption that his head should necessarily know better than his penis).

So in the complete package, personal identity is lost. Or possibly found. Perhaps this is what’s meant by the philosophical principle of the human ‘soul’ having been split in two upon reaching the earth, resulting in our principal constraint to seek out the other half to which we belong and reform in a union of majestic serenity? Or may be we’re too lazy, too trusting and too expectant. So once we’ve ensnared somebody for the main purpose of gratifying us when we feel restless, we gradually palm off the stalwart strengths of initial attraction. Slowly succumbing to Delilah’s grooming shears without realising it until eventually she looms above you sporting a mighty beard constructed from your shaven locks and an entire roll of sellotape.