‘Mr Sex’ knows what Chewbacca wants

Right, a very simple question, this; what was the worst, most horrible, toe-curlingly wrong chat-up line you’ve ever delivered, or heard? And did it work? And no, I don’t mean any of that ‘Are you from Tennessee?’ shit that you hear in crappy American films - I mean proper, why-the-fuck-did-I-say-that? randomness.

Naturally, I’ve had a couple that were the kamikaze pilots of chat-up lines, so much so that I might as well have wrapped a hanky around my forehead and burned a couple of incense sticks before I said them. The first, and by far the worst, came from a prank call CD I had where a bloke pretended to be a woman and then conned assorted gullible horndogs into phone sex.

One of which - involving a bloke pretending to be the entire cast of Star Wars having an S&M orgy - was so pant-pissingly funny that I vowed to use the key line in front of my mates the next time the opportunity arose. Actually, now I think about it, it’s pretty grim; "Chewbacca wants some cunt" I can’t even remember who I said it to, or when, so it must mean I was clubbed into unconsciousness after I said it.

(Me and my mates still use it, but not as a chat-up line; it’s now a term for desperately needing something, right now, by all means necessary. I can ask a mate at work to hurry up a deadline, and he’ll stall for time, and I’ll say "no, there can be no excuses. You know what Chewbacca wants")

The second one is something I still mix into my repertoire every now and then. Like most of my chat-up lines, it comes from watching something stupid with mates over a takeaway curry and some cans, hearing a killer line, and shouting "Fucking hell! That’s mint! Next time I’m on the pull, I’m gonna use that - and I will get some". It was taken from the classic Kung Fu movie The One-Armed Boxer, and involves pretending to be the bad guy of the film, leaning in on the lady in question, and saying "Neearrrgggghh….you’re pretty!" in a lecherous manner.

Amazingly, the first time I used it, the girl in question said "Oh my God! Am I really? You’re lovely!" (I could have sealed the deal quite easily, but didn’t because she was the sister of the girlfriend my flatmate had just dumped and it would have been nightmarishly complicated. Not least because she might have had a thing about Kung Fu baddies and I would have had to kept up the accent all night.

So anyway; what’s yours? Let’s get a bank of really horrific chat-up lines going, and them set them in concrete and tip them into the nearest river so they can never be used again.

(Oh, and I did say "I’m going to fuck you like Marvin Gaye" to one girl I know, but that was in a dream I had the other week, and therefore doesn’t really count. Not until the next time I get pissed up and say it, anyway)

Sam: Bedroom Shocks part 2

The other night I was out watching New Zealand comedian in Hammersmith. He was telling various tales about his life in London – and one of them was about talking dirty. Apparently a lovely English lass had a requested a bit of dirty talk in the bedroom. ‘Whoa, I’m not really into that’ he thought, but ended up delivering some great subliminal messaging -  ‘Yeah, you love that don’t ya, (whispered) we need sky plus’. Fast forward a couple of weeks later and I was chatting to another expat Aussie again about the things that had shocked him in the bedroom. Now what struck me again was how sexually conservative antipodean men are compared to British women. Most Aussies are just happy to get their end away and thrilled if they get a blow job. Anything more than that, well, it’s a bit kinky.

It led me to reflect on things that have shocked me in the bedroom in my single bachelor days when I first came to the UK.

1)     She wanted to talk dirty – yes I am ashamed to admit I had the same reaction as my downunder compatriots

2)     She pulled me that night in a bar, wanted anal (well OK, a bit different but I was in a new country, so should try new things) and then to be peed on (Whoa Nelly!)

3)     Another girl from a night club went straight for asphyxiation, starting with a bit of strangulation, then just to make things a bit different some smothering with a pillow

4)     Perhaps most strangely unsettling of all, the girl I met from a pub who wanted to be ‘fucked really god damn hard’ doggy style. And by lord did she mean hard. All those years of being told to treat women nicely and with respect made this one particularly challenging.

All of these things, I have to say dear readers did really shock me at the time. Though in the grand spirit of international relations and the adventure of travel, I gave them a go as requested. After all of this I read the chapter in Kate’s Fox’s brilliant book Watching the English about how in the English bedroom there are no rules and essentially anything goes. Which made me feel much better that I just hadn’t clearly been hanging out in really kinky clubs and bars (that was the surprising thing, the places I met these girls were in no way kinky, they were usually a bit posh, or homey type pubs). And it has to be said, after getting over the shock, it was all actually rather fun.

I’m intrigued, are you as squeamish as us antipodeans? What has shocked you in the bedroom?

 

Something for the ladies # 24

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Sam: Putting on the Pork

Our last ‘Something for the Ladies’ got me thinking – about a particular danger of being in a long term relationship – getting porky.

Let’s face it when single we generally make our best effort to look good. There is extra incentive to go the gym, make sure you are wearing the right sort of clothes, get a nice up to date hair cut and have got a good dose of the under arm charm on. Otherwise it all counts against you possibly getting your leg over when you are out on the prowl on Saturday night. But when you are in a relationship you can let yourself go. You know that even if you are looking a little chubbier, your partner still loves you and will still be up for a little action once you’ve both finished watching the latest episode of which ever TV series you happen to be addicted to.

There are a bunch of factors working against you and working to increase your waistline. You are less active. Much easier to have a comfy night in than go out dancing and much more tempting to have a lie in and a snuggle than haul yourself out of bed to go to the gym. You eat more, spending more time at home. Much more temptation to snack to your hearts content all weekend and have those extra servings to help you feel even more cosy. Also you have a partner in crime – if you are both getting a little more porky it is both your best interests to probably keep mum. Add to this the fact that couples actually have more sex than single people and you are getting the strong message that all these indulgences are helping your pulling power.

Personally, I put on 10kg (22 pounds) before I even really noticed and started forcing myself back to the gym and to pass up that extra serving of yummy dessert. When I asked my fiancée why she hasn’t said anything she replied it was because it made her feel better about putting on a little weight herself.  The cynical part of me wonders if helping your partner put on a few pounds also adds a bit of security in the relationship, after all there is nothing less attractive than a paunchy middle aged man. Far less of a flight risk than a toned fit gym addict.

It’s happened to pretty much all my friends who have shacked up on a long term basis – even one of my mates who is a professional acrobat, and uses his body every day for his profession has not been immune to the porkifying properties of a long term relationship. The only couple I know it hasn’t happened to are certifiable exercise junkies, who on group holidays are up at the crack of dawn going jogging and then can be seen in the pool doing laps later in the afternoon. Exception that proves the rule I think. Oh dear, perhaps we just have to resign ourselves to the porkifying effects of long term love.

Something for the Ladies #23

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. Every week, we shall pick one out and answer it to the best of our capabilities.

This week's question..

Anonymous writes: Within the last year my boyfriend has gained a lot of weight and it has made our relationship increasingly difficult. He's gone from being an average sized bloke to obese. I still absolutely adore and love him, but I'm finding I'm less sexually attracted to him in his current state. I've hidden this as much as possible from him, but I'm pretty sure he suspects this and he's understandably hurt, and I feel like a total wench for feeling this way.

 

More importantly I'm extremely worried for his health. The last time he went to the doctor his cholesterol was really high and he has progressed from being an athletic guy to obese and on the road to an early grave. He was never an obsessively healthy eater, (growing up his family was never overtly into healthy eating) but he has definitely has developed an eating problem. He gets up at night to eat (I pretend to be asleep so as not to hurt his feelings), eats huge portions at meals and snacks on rubbish food throughout the day. I have also found secret stashes of food around the house. He has stopped exercising because I suspect he feels self conscious about his weight in the gym.

 

I have tried to gently talk to him about all this, but every time I try he becomes angry, defensive and withdrawn, and says things like "well if you are so worried, why don't you cook all my meals for me?" or starts to point out my physical flaws in an effort to hurt me. I know that there must be some psychological reason behind this eating problem, but nothing major (that I'm aware of) has happened within the last year that could trigger turning to food as a psychological comfort. Obviously I feel like the world's most inept girlfriend as he seems to be unable to confide in me and is turning to food for solace.

 

So, short of padlocking the fridge, monitoring every bite he ingests, and giving up my job to become his personal chef, how can I diplomatically help him towards a healthier lifestyle? And more importantly, how can I discover what the reason for his overeating is, and help him deal with it?

 

Sam says: I personally reckon that radical intervention is probably the only way forward. Eating this way is like an addiction – and breaking the habit is hard and painful and you need help with it. Trying to sort it out on your own would be a bit like trying to help your boyfriend sort out a drug problem without any help. Junk food is actually a like an addictive drug – the processed sugars give you a rush, making you feel great, then you quickly crash and crave more. It’s a vicious cycle that get’s worse and worse. In 1957 Dr William Coda Martin went as far to define sugar as a slow acting poison. He subsequently got the shit kicked out of him and his career wrecked by sugar-backed lobby groups, but with the current obesity and diabetes epidemic we are facing it looks like he might have been right after all.

 

It’s a big jump, but I’d suggest taking your boyfriend on a 7-day detox retreat. Sure, there is a lot of namby-pamby new age rot that goes along with it, but essentially what it will do is break his junk food and sugar addiction, lose some weight and give you chance to start again with his eating habits from scratch. It’s a bit pricey, but I reckon it’s cheap compared to the cost a) to his health b) to your relationship.

 

Unfortunately I don’t think talking is going to do a lot here. Radical action is what’s really needed.

PS this is my opinionated point of view without any particularly expertise in the area of weight or nutrition. Just the bunk I have read for interest.

 

‘Mr Sex’ says: Hm. From a distance, and looking at this from a strictly relationship angle (as I’m ‘Mr Sex’, not ‘Dr Sex’, after all), it seems to me like your chap is displaying extreme symptoms of Won-The-Battleness. All men go through it at some point; after exerting supreme amounts of will, effort and cash to land their partner (orany partner), it’s natural to think; ‘Cor, thank Christ I don’t have to go through all that shit any more’ and make another crisp and fish-finger sandwich whilst wearing that faded-out Undertaker t-shirt that somehow went missing during the courtship period. It’s a perfectly logical anti-honeymoon period, and it usually goes after a while. But sometimes, it doesn’t. And you discover you’ve shacked up with Stan Ogden. And that’s no fun at all.

 

There’s a good chance that something is really doing his head in at the moment, so I’m loath to advise you to tell him you can’t stand having it off with someone who is slowly turning into an indoor whale, for obvious reasons. What I do suggest you do is the next time he creeps downstairs for a midnight feast, you give it two minutes, go downstairs, and talk with him. About anything. Because at the moment, you lying in bed pretending to be asleep is part of the problem, I reckon. He knows he’s out of order, and he knows you know it, too; by both pretending that nothing’s wrong, you’re both leading up to a massive fall-out.

 

Eventually, when you do bring the subject of his weight up, definitely play up the health side and don’t mention the I-don’t-fancy-you-that-much bit at all. This is one of the few problems we’ve been asked about that really doesn’t have that much to do with sex, and loads more to do with self-confidence and other rubbishness, I fear.

 

People of TT: Comment!

Sam: Classy Love

Now we’ve had a bit of a rant about class and sex before, but what about class and love?

It turns out that despite all the talk about class mobility and ever increasing opportunities men and women are marrying much more within their social class than ever before. With huge amount of cheap high quality clothing and a more informal style to dressing you’d think that it would be harder to pick people’s class. Certainly your top hat and tails would have made it very clear in the past. But according to Dalton Conley, a sociologist at NYU we are just as deft as ever at passing style judgements that precisely pick a potential mate's class. Ed Byrne was having a good old rant about class the other day and summed up how sensitive we are to class perfectly: ‘How come a jumper over your shoulders shouts Sloan, while the same jumper around the waist means Chav?’. 

Apparently we are attracted to partners with the same class as us because they will have the same interests, share our opinions and validate our own choices. We all knew Pretty Women is a load of schmatlz, just deep down I certainly would like to think love wasn’t really at all about someone’s social status and background.

Turning the mirror back on my self, my fiancée is pretty much the same class as me – and uncomfortably, when I look back at my past relationships they are all embarrassingly of a similar class. Any posh totty or down in the mines working class on the way was something that passed by pretty quickly. I hate it when sociologists are uncomfortably correct.

So how does class fit into your love life?

'Mr Sex' wants to know about your Skanky Bedroom Experiences

Right, well...sorry I've been AWOL for a bit, but I've attending to some extremely important business; I've been making my bedroom one-night-stand-compliant again. Not that I'm on a promise or anything; it's the kind of thing one can't leave to chance. The overflowing wastebasket has been emptied. The 20 year-old copies of Viz have gone back on the shelves. The sex toys up for reviewing have been pushed as far back in the wardrobe as possible. The framed Su Pollard LP cover is still on the wall, though - some aspects of your personality can't be hidden, and nor should they be.

Now then; I have no wish to get all Kim and Aggie on any man's arse, but if you are intending on bringing lady-flies into your spiderly parlour, there are two areas of the house you must get sorted; the bedroom and the bog.

(And let's not talk about the latter for now, seeing as the seat on my toilet is so slidey at the moment that I'm terrified that, one morning, I'm going to suddenly toboggan all the way down the stairs and onto the street with me trousers round me ankles, still reading the paper. But anyway)

When it comes to the boudoir, so many men get it horribly, horribly wrong. Actually, that's a misnomer; they actually fail to get it right, and then keep it that way, letting their bedrooms fall into chronic disrepair. Let me give you some examples of the worst bedroom-related atrocities that I've come across, through my many years of house-sharing;

* A bedside table groaning with miniature jars of potted meat (some still open and crusted up), accompanied by a packet of mouldy finger rolls and a flask of tea, as if he was a bedridden Nana - a very sexy look, as you can imagine

* A floor pitted with crusty tissues and a three-quarter-full bottle of Coke with the top off that had congealed to the point where it didn't slop out when it was kicked over

* A room that had cables running from it from three laptops, all the way down the stairs, through the living room and into the kitchen

* A wardrobe containing a brewing vat that the occupant would piss into instead of walking twenty yards to the toilet (this was in halls of residence at Uni; when the heating went on in the winter, the pipe it was wedged against warmed up and melted the plastic, causing severe leakage and an entire floor of people having to sleep in the gym like survivors of a nuclear attack)

* A telly the size of God's face in the corner, a floor looking like a branch of Blockbusters after an earthquake, and a bedside table consisting of family packs of Mars bars, a paintballing gun, and assorted Playstation joypads

Now, one day soon, I'm going to teach you how to get your bedroom properly sorted for a night of tuppery. But until then, I'm calling upon the fair ladies of the Todger Talk community to answer the following question; what was the worst bedroom you've ever been lured into, and what turns you off quicker than seeing John McCain in his pants, giving his cobblers a right good scratching and doing that horrible smiley scowly thing he does? I don't need you to name, but I would like you to shame. Tell us, and spare no detail...

(NB - and yeah, I'm totally aware that women can be just as guilty of this, but it doesn't matter as much. A woman could have the rotting corpses of her entire family in her bed, and we still probably would, wouldn't we?)