'Mr Sex': I Can't Get My End Away And Its All Your Fault, Women

When I made the decision to pitch in on this blog, I made a series of vows to myself;

1. I wouldn't describe any of my past and present sexual partners in a disparaging manner.
2. I wouldn't rip into any of my male brethren for any sexually-related ignorance on their part.
3. I wouldn't bitch about any people in my Sexperty profession simply because they were talking out their arses.
   

I reckon No.1 is always going to be a safe bet (because I don't want my head kicked in). I'm probably going to break No.2 sooner or later. And after reading this bucket of wank, I'm going to break No.3 right now.

Meet Travis Stork. He's got a porn star name, he works in a casualty ward, he's been on some dating show on American telly, and he's got the kind of manly chin you could eat your tea off. What he hasn't got, however, is 'any'. Now, I dunno about you, but I know for a stone-cold fact that if I was as un-minging as him, had his job, and was on telly all the time, I would have to be wearing one of them exo-skeletons in Aliens so I could actually move anywhere, what with having ten women dangling off every one of my extremities. So I'm guessing there's summat not quite right with the lad's technique.

Normally, chaps in a similar parlous state counter this state of fanny anti-magnetism by sitting at home in their pants and taking advantage of a dry spell by climbing a few rungs on World Of Warcraft, erecting a scale model of the World Trade Center out of empty pizza boxes whilst treating the cooker as a huge and immovable cigarette lighter, filling an entire portable drive with more downloaded porn than they will never have time to look at in their life, and maybe even punching their fists in the air to repeated playings of Bitches Ain't Shit by Dr Dre on the stereo. Not Travis. Oh no.

Amazingly, he's brought out a relationship advice manual for women, which seems to point out that he can't get any because women are rubbish. And the Daily Mail - quelle surprise! - seem to be championing it to the rafters...

It's written by Travis Stork, a casualty doctor and expert in mental and emotional well-being, who starred as The Bachelor in a hit U.S. reality show of the same name that saw him date 25 women in a bid to find "the one".

He never did, but it gave him a real insight into women.

I'd say it gave him a real insight into women who wanted to be on the telly and didn't give a toss how they went about it, myself. But wait; there's more...

As well as this extensive dating experience, he regularly sees people at their weakest moments when they wind up in his casualty.

Christ on a crisp packet, that's a new one on me. I once saw a bloke in town flat on his back with blood pouring out of his head one night, with his missus understandably going berserk. What the fuck was I thinking going for my mobile phone and chucking me jacket over him, when I could have been gaining some solid relationship pointers that I could have worked up into a book?

Trav then goes on to predictably lump every woman into a narrow range of pigeon-holes that appear to be based upon every stereotype in the chick-flick canon. Like your job? That makes you a Working Girl , obviously chained to your desk non-stop. Been out with an abusive bell-end? You must be a Bitter Girl, then, with a grudge against the entire male population of the universe. Want to have kids at some point? Ooh, get Agenda Girl over there, with her Stalinist five-year plan to annexe some poor bloke and tie him down for life. Oh, foolish women! If only they could see that if they were to change their lives, they might just be the lucky one who gets to wriggle on Travis' chin.

I'm prepared to bet that more meticulous research into the female psyche was spent on the new range of Bratz dolls than in this book, but you have to take your hat off to Trav for his incredible ability to parlay male inadequacy into someone elses fault. I look forward to reading his follow-up, Girls Smell And Can't Play Football. Sod it; with cheek like this, I demand to read his cookbook (Where's The Ignition? WHERE'S THE FUCKING IGNITION?) and childcare manual (Look, It's Not MY Fault You Keep Shitting Yourself).

'Mr Sex': Don't have it off with a Lard-Arse

I don't know if this is an urban legend or not, but I'm going to share it with you anyway.

A friend of mine relates the following story; one of his mates manages to cop off with this girl, and before too long he's in her bedroom, indulging in a bit of the old in-out in-out. Carried along by the heightened sensitivity of the moment, he talks her into having a spot of anal. Amazingly, she agrees to it. "Hang on a minute, though," she says. "Let me get lubed up first."

As he lies there, in an unknown bed, giving his hard-on the occasional flick to keep it upright, he hears his paramour padding down the corridor to the bathroom and flicking the light on. A pause. Then a rattling of a cupboard, followed by a torrent of sweary invective. Then he hears her thumping downstairs. Two minutes pass. Then he hears her thumping upstairs again, and throws the bedroom door open.

"Right" she says. "Let's gerron wi'it."

Next morning, he's downstairs in the kitchen, grabbing his coat off the back of a chair and preparing to make the time-honoured ritual known to all shag-rats as 'the Get-Out'. He's just about to hit the door when he catches sight of a congealed chip pan on top of the stove.

A chip pan that has two, finger-wide gouge marks across the top.

* * *

Now, ask any Sexpert about how much lubrication one needs to go about the act of Bumhole Love, and they'll say; 'enough to be able to move Stonehenge 50 feet with a flick of your finger'. The second thing they'll tell you is to always use professional, premium-grade, water-based lube, which can be purchased from sex shops, Ann Summers and online. But what if you're in the position of the friend of my friend, you have to improvise, but you don't want a battered sausage? Here's a list of home-made solutions, and their pros and cons...

JOHNNIES
Pros: It's a johnny. It's already lubricated. It stops you getting nob-rot, or the affliction known in medical circles as 'shitty dick'.
Cons: Let's be honest; one of the main reasons straight men want anal sex is because they don't want to wear a johnny (tough shit, you should). Also, in almost all cases, a mere condom isn't enough to provide the right level of lubrication - and any non-water-based lubrication eats through johnnies like Billy Bunter through a tuck hamper.

HAND/BODY LOTION
Pros: Pretty much anyone has it in their house. And as any chap without a foreskin will tell you, it's slippery as owt.
Cons: Almost all of them are oil-based, so if you're thinking of using a condom, you might as well wrap some cling-film round your todge.

VASELINE
Pros: It's what Gay lads have been using for ages, isn't it?
Cons: Well, it was, until water and silicon-based lubes came along - petroleum jelly has a nasty habit of staying put for days, you see. And in any case, most straight women use Vaseline for other purposes. And would you want something on your nob that was used the day before to treat a cold sore?

VEGETABLE OIL, SHORTENING, BUTTER etc
Pros: Marlon Brando used it on that French lass in that film.
Cons: The scene where Maria Schneider can't come over to Marlon's because she's got some minging bacterial infection up her ringpiece was obviously left on the cutting-room floor.

SPIT
Pros: It's cheap.
Cons: It's really cheap. And nasty. I can think of a thousand better foreplay techniques that don't involve gobbing up your partner's arse. And saying "Spit'll do you" only brings to mind Jonathan King's chat-up lines.

SOAP
Pros: Very slippery.
Cons: Very foamy, and stings like a bastard. Particularly down the hog's eye.

CHIP FAT
No, mate.

So, putting it all together, your make-do anal options are not that brilliant. So what's so wrong with a fanny, anyway?

Dr Ayan: About time...

Well, I can't really cap what Sam and Al have already said, as they do it so eloquently.

Suffice to say that it's about time that fellas had access to this stuff and I am very pleased to be associated with it, albeit in a 'back office' support role... only because this blog is not predominantly about medical issues.

Here, you can get down to the nitty gritty... that stuff that you can't always chat about with your mates or your family doctor who knew your mum when she was a nipper. Also, are they the necessarily right people to get advice from? Not always...

Is it meant to be that shape? Is Viagra safe to buy off the internet? How do I make things more exciting for her? Who or what are Candida and Chlamydia? And so on...

For my part, I am most useful as a very occasional signposter, but only for the medical stuff... and while you're here, please please please remember this rule of thumb when it comes to your health: if you're deciding on whether you need to see your doctor about something or not - whatever it is - the answer is YES, you should! Men are four times less likely to see a doctor than a woman.... so don't mess about. "If in doubt, get it checked out."

Meanwhile, I also write a medical blog which may be of use for general health tips - http://ayanpanja.blogspot.com/

Enjoy...

Ayan

‘Mr Sex’: The reason I joined this blog

I didn’t realise that there was a need for something like Todger Talk until the day I ejaculated blood.

Backstory: a few months ago, I began a dalliance with a young lady who I met in town, and we went at it like knives with for a couple of weeks. She was nice. The sex was ace. But she had a strange foreplay technique which involved bending my nob about like an Atari joystick during a particularly intense level of Pac-Man. Whenever she did this, I would stop what I was doing, point out to her in my best Sexpertly voice that I didn’t have a jelly dildo between my legs, what she was doing was painful, and to please stop doing it. She was about to go on holiday, so we decided to have a think about what to about the relationship when she got back.

A few days later when I was at home relaxing in a gentlemanly manner, and looking down at it at the point of no return (because men always do that, and if anyone says any different, you’re lying), it happened. And I’m not talking the odd streak. My proud gentleman reacted like a squeezy bottle of tomato sauce that was being jumped on by an errant child.

After climbing the wall like Spider-Man and shitting myself (brown, fortunately), I did the rational, level-headed thing. I typed 'I'M JIZZING BLOOD OH MY GOD OH MY FUCKING GOD I KNOW I'VE GOT CANCER AND I'M GOING TO DIE' into Google, and then legged it to the doctor. She (yes, she – at that point I would have gladly got my cock out for Margaret Thatcher, as long as she told me afterwards I wasn’t going to have it amputated) told me that I had broken a capillary in my proud gentleman through exertion, that it was a surprisingly common occurrence - she'd dealt with five or six other blokes in the area who had the same problem - and that it usually clears up in a month or so.

After jabbing something that looked like a teenage girl's felt-tip pen in me Oriental ocular apparatus to see if I'd got anything else wrong with me (I hadn't), I went on my way, and spent a month or so in absolute terror at the thought of never being able to use it on a female ever again (bar the odd stand-in for a Goth porn shoot), watching my Dad-Marge go from crimson to burnt ochre to having scabby bits in it to salmon pink to raspberry ripple to off-white, and finally back to normal. I thought masturbating with a bra catalogue when I was 14 was pretty sad. I never realised that two decades later, I'd be doing it with a fucking Dulux paint chart.

Although I’m profoundly grateful that it actually happened when I was on my own (as opposed to, say, being in a bus queue, or Pizza Hut) and have finally calmed down, I’m spitting blood as well as spoffing it. For starters, I’m furious at myself; I’ve been writing about sex for nearly 10 years for this mag, this mag, this mag and this newspaper, and I never knew a penis could actually do that. I’ve read countless men’s magazines – both Lad Mags and proper pornography – since I was old enough to get one under me jumper and into my bedroom. None of them ever mentioned that shit like this could actually happen. Not. One.

And probably the most galling thing of all was the reaction off some of my male friends. I told one of them about it and the next time I saw him with a female friend, he said “So how’s your nob, then?” and pissed himself laughing. Even more shocking was the private e-mails from other male friends who told me the same thing had happened to them. Thanks for that, mate – but why couldn’t you tell the rest of us that it was nothing to worry about in the first place? And if there’s so much secrecy about a comparatively harmless war wound, what about the really serious, life-threatening shit?

Here’s the point; if I was female, and something of comparative badness had happened to my lady-bits, something tells me that I would have had a bit more of an instant support system going. Men love to take the piss out of their partners going on about ‘women’s things’, but at least they actually give a fuck – whilst we’re still concentrating on getting one, regardless of quality and consequences.

What I’ve learned from the experience – apart from ‘don’t let anyone treat your nob like a bar tap’ is that men are even more lost when it comes to sexual health than I thought. We laugh about sexual misadventure, we trade gruesome stories (which always happen to someone else, naturally), and then we shit breeze blocks the moment something goes slightly wrong. We live in a world where the medical profession worries that ‘only’ 65% of women have a mammogram every two years, whilst celebrating the fact that a ‘whopping’ 35% of men bother to check for testicular cancer. Female media can talk about breast cancer with dignity, accuracy and depth. The male version seems to find it impossible to talk about testicular cancer without using a picture of Kenneth Williams doing his fruitiest ‘Ooooooo!’ face. Women are encouraged to think about their genitals. Men are still being driven to think with them.

And, if you’ll pardon the expression, that’s absolute wank. Todger Talk intends to be a small step in the right direction. Yes, it’s a sex blog, but that doesn’t mean we’ll be updating you on who we’ve given a tupping to, as there’s loads of blogs like that about doing a far better job than we could. Yes, we’ll be dishing out sex and relationship advice, but we won’t be trying to flog you pills that increase the power and volume of your spoff by 500%. And yes, the three of us know what we’re going on about (Dr Ayan handles the medical stuff, Sam is the relationship expert, and I rip the piss out of Sting’s horrible bedroom and stuff like that), but we’re always willing to learn more.

Right then - let's stop fannying about and get stuck in, eh?

Sam: Welcome to Todger Talk

Welcome to Todger Talk!

This is a place for blokes to find out some decent information about sex and relationships, have open, honest conversations, and most importantly have a good laugh.

How did it all start? After spending five months helping guys get their sex lives off the rocks and their relationships back on track while filming 'How to have sex after marriage', it struck me that every single bloke on the programme:

a) usually didn't have basic information about sex and relationships
b) couldn't talk about sex with their mates
c) once they got some good information and had a chat, it radically changed their sex lives and relationships for the better.

Ask yourself, how often have you actually had decent conversation with you mates about sex in the pub. Mmmmm . . . never. Where can you get decent information about sex for blokes without being sold penis extensions, cheap viagra or sent to sleep with boredom? Ummmm . . . .

I had a chat to Al and Ayan about it, and we realised there is pretty much no-where that blokes can talk about sex and relationships without all the bullshit, bravado and misinformation.

Well Todger Talk aims hopes to fill the gap.

The Team:

Sam van Rood - is the relationship expert on 'How to Have Sex After Marriage', dating expert on 'How to Find a Husband' and author of 'Teach Yourself Flirting'.

Al Needham - Writer and Sexpert. Al writes for Cosmo, New Woman, Scarlet, the Daily Mirror etc

Dr Ayan Panja - GP, presenter of 'Street Doctor' on BBC 1 and is the author of 'Essential Medical Miscellany'.

So enjoy and talk soon!

Cheers,

Sam