'Mr Sex': Through My Pants Drawer

Don't you hate those rubbishy little articles in the Sunday papers? Y'know, stuff like 'Around My Utility Cupboard', by some twat you've never heard of, or 'Things I Have Learned', by some dozy bell-ended whelp off the telly whose had to learn precisely fuck all because their Mam and Dad work in media. It's so blatantly obvious that whoever's commissioned them is only doing it because they can't think of anything else to write about, and are just filling the space with some tosser looking up their own arsehole and hoping people won't notice that it's all a bag of random wank.

So anyway...

1. Whenever I have friends round and I put a video on, I have an irrational fear that I will suddenly pop up on screen, in an armchair, with my trousers round my ankles, mashing my genitals with a face like an gurning orangutan. I don't have a camcorder. Fuck it, I don't even have an armchair.

2. I have a little picture frame on my desk with no picture. It reads; 'I DON'T HAVE A WIFE, OR A GIRLFRIEND, OR ANY KIDS, OR A SIGNIFICANT OTHER''. I did it nine years ago as a silent protest against everyone else at a horrible job where everyone else in the office insisted on rubbing their families in your face. It doesn't work so well now it's in my bedroom.

3. Once, when I was 15 and getting in a quick wank before school in my bedroom with the portable telly on, I could hear my sister coming towards the door as I was about to finish myself off. Whilst hurling myself at the door, I accidentally ejaculated over the face of Wincey Willis. Thank God it wasn't Nick Owen. Or Roland Rat. But especially Nick Owen.

4. The first woman I ever became besotted with was Maid Marian in the Disney cartoon, when I was 4. I made my Grandpa buy me a transfer set from the paper shop, and I cut her out and put her on my pillow.

5. I once made a fake video cover called Mancunt Sex-Partie, featuring photoshopped images of the faces of me, my flatmate and our mates in a gay orgy, and put it on the video shelf in the living room. It took him him six months to discover it. The cover featured me, in a Leatherman outfit, ramming my cock into his ear. The back was even worse.

6. The greatest achievement of my male stripping career was hitting two women directly between their breasts with a spray of whipped cream from 15 feet away whilst ripping off a pair of velcro stripper-trousers, in Doncaster.

7. When I first started sleeping with women, in halls at Uni, I would always lock the door when I needed to nip out for a piss as I was terrified that they wouldn't be there when I got back.

8. If I'm in a pub and I see a really attractive woman, I'll turn my chair so I can't look at her. I don't want to see what I can't have.

9. I've been convinced for years that if I'd been less decent and actually a bit more horrible to a girl I was head over heels in love with 20 years ago, she'd have gone out with me. And then I told her that the other week. And she said yes, she would have.

10. I actually haven't had a shag since I started writing on this blog. Does that make me a horrible fraud?

Danonymous Dan: Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!Z!...dear God…shut up!

Girls, I have to take my hat off to you. I don’t know how you do it – but you manage it, and it is a special thing, an amazing feat of aural self-delusion, denial of reality – and I need your help replicating it myself.

Blocking out snoring.

When sleeping in the bed next to a man who snores, it must be so hellishly irritating that I am amazed there are not more women killing guys while they sleep. Lopping off noses in the night, a last-ditch sleep-deprived effort to silence the awful sound. No wonder women are always rolling over and saying they’re tired – if they fuck the guy he’ll probably fall asleep first and they can kiss goodbye to any decent sleep. Not having sex with them is self-preservation!

I’ve recently been having experience of this myself. That isn’t say I’ve been snoring, or that I’ve been sleeping with men and listening to them snore – I don’t mind doing a bit of research for my blogs but that might be a bridge to far.

No, I share a house with others at the moment, and the guy in the room next to mine snores so obnoxiously he sounds like a bulimic in reverse. Honestly, his nasal ructions are so fucking loud that even with a wall between us I can still hear it despite wearing earplugs. Do you remember the scene in Jurassic park with the glass of water ripples indicating the arrival of the T-Rex? The guy in the room next to mine could achieve the same effect with a bath. The army use sound to break down suspects – I think they should start using the sound of my housemate’s snoring, it would cut interrogation times in half I’m sure.

Girls, help me…how do I block out this aural attack?

I think guys should state they don’t snore when wooing a lady – it must be a massive plus point. ‘Yes, he’s a convicted paedophile, but he doesn’t snore!’ How many of you have had to put up with a snoring partner? Anybody’s relationship ended? I honestly wouldn’t be surprised...

Something for the Ladies # 22

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.

This week's question...

Anonymous writes: Basically, in short, this guy I'm seeing is a Sex God. Every time we meet up is amazing, we have so much fun together... and he makes me come at the drop of a hat. So really, I don't have anything to complain about.

Except for one thing; he smells a bit weird down there. It's not totally funky or a proper stench that I feel like I should stuff my nostrils with scented candles, but, the smell is strong enough to make me not want to touch, lick, kiss, or even look at it.

Which is annoying, 'cause firstly, I so would love to give him head, and do all kinds of other fun stuff with it; as much as I love receiving, giving would be just as yummy - and secondly, I make a huge effort making sure I'm clean and stuff when I see him.

He has a foreskin, but he's generally a clean guy and actually has a slight OCD with cleanliness. So, really, I guess what I'm asking is, how should I go about this? Do I tell him? If so, what's the best way to say it without totally killing him? Do I just try and drag him into the shower and try all my potions and lotions on him?

It's a really silly thing, I'm sure, but I'm actually quite a bit bothered by it all...

Sam says: This seems like a delicate matter, but to be honest you should just hit it head on.

As a kid, I used to be known as ‘Stinky’ because my mom never taught me to change my shirts each day (and also used to leave my shirts out in the rain so they smelt worse than if they haven’t been washed). I wandered around for years completely oblivious, because you just really tend to get used to your own pong.

One of the many good things she did teach me, however, was to wash my willy very thoroughly. If a bloke with a foreskin doesn’t wash his penis thoroughly and regularly he quickly gets a build-up of smegma (urrghh, even the word sounds horrible). And the definition is even better:

a thick, cheeselike, sebaceous secretion that collects beneath the foreskin

Going back to the ‘Stinky’ days; I will be eternally grateful to the friend who pulled me aside and told me about how much I ponged. It was direct, but it worked. I’m getting the feeling that your chap probably hasn’t been taught that he has to clean his little guy thoroughly every day.

You just need to bite the bullet and talk to him straight. Tell him his willy is smelly and that he needs to wash it thoroughly every day. Ask him about his current cleaning routine. You might even want to make a joke out of it and insist that he goes for a willy wash before you have sex. Or you could do willy inspections. The possibilities are endless.

The thing is, if he is the clean type of guy you’re saying he is, he will initially be really embarrassed, but then rigorously clean it every single day for the rest of his life. Small upfront pain, big long-term gain.

‘Mr Sex’ says: I’m feeling your pain, sister. As Stin- er, Sam – has pointed out, nob cheese is probably the prime offender here. I don’t know how experienced you or he is, but a properly washed tassle shouldn’t smell much of anything but the faint tang of manliness. (In fact, and I don’t want to alarm you here, if it whiffs of anything other than cheesey, a trip to the docs might be a bit necessary; he could have an infection, and not necessarily a sexual one)

As we’ve mentioned before, having a foreskin isn’t a bad thing or a particularly advantageous one, and the idea that foreskin = unhygienic is a load o’ bollocks. I have a foreskin, and you could eat your tea off my nob (as long as it was nouvelle cuisine, or sushi).

So, what you gonna do? You could be direct, and tell him you want to suck his cock, not eat it off a cracker – but seeing as he already sounds a bit paranoid about his personal appearance (which is normal: show me a man who makes an excuse to use your bathroom before a session, and I’ll show you someone trying to get their nob under the tap of your sink), it’ll probably be counter-productive.

If you’re both oral novices to each other, innocently (yet deviously) suggest that you’re dying to give him a nosh, but – seeing as you’re not that experienced – you want to get him in the shower first. Not only do you show him how to do it properly (and trust me, every time he washes his nob, he’ll be thinking of you), but you also get a hefty bit of American Werewolf In London-style foreplay in. After you’ve gone your mouthy thing, allude to him that if he keeps it clean, you’ll be up for more of that sort of palaver. Seeing as most men would happily roll across a racetrack full of speeding cars, broken glass and fire for a proper nosh off a saucy madam like you, he’ll get the message.

People of TT: Comment!

'Mr Sex': We deal with love now on a more personal basis...

When you get to a certain age, you get used to seeing your heroes dropping off. I heard about Barry White snuffing it at a sex show in Amsterdam, when Never Gonna Give You Up came on while some couple were going at it hammer and tong on a revolving stage, and all the English punters around me started clucking and saying "Eeh, in't it a shame about Barry?" and at the end, the bloke withdrew, stood up and saluted the air in tribute, which was nice. He would have liked that.

But anyway, I don't mind telling you that I'm taking the death of Isaac Hayes a bit more personally than usual. Yes, he was a genius songwriter (check this, this and especially this), and one of the greatest bandleaders and score-writers ever (say no more), but he also bookended the only proper, I-want-to-stay-with-you-forever, come-and-meet-my-Mam, when-are-we-getting-married relationship.

It's December 1991, and - for reasons I still can't work out even today - the most beautiful girl I've ever met in my life is telling me that she loves me, and she's been watching me from a distance for ages. Problem is, she's still with her boyfriend, even though he's a creepy-looking bastard who treats her like shit. We're breaking up for the Xmas holidays, and we're going to be at opposite ends of the country for a fortnight. I'm gonna have to do summat spectacular to pull this one out of the bag. So I do what everyone who's fallen in love does.

I make a compilation tape.

Although the technology has changed, and it's a fuck's sight easier to put them together than it was back in the day, you can't whack a tape for starting a proper relationship - especially if you're a dippy lad terrified of saying the wrong thing - and there are hundreds of trained professionals who can do it properly (even though some of them got shot by prostitutes, murdered by their cross-dressing mentalist dads, or couldn't keep their tea down). I couldn't sit her down and tell her that she only had to hand me a contract to be her bloke forever and I'd happily sign it in my own blood, but it would be a piece of piss to leg it to my already hefty record collection and spend a night with my finger hovering over the pause button. And I already know what's going to be the first track, because it's a tune I've been waiting to play to the right girl for years;

The Look Of Love, Isaac Hayes, Live at the Sahara Tahoe, 1973

And I just know that when she hears that, driving down to her parents in a battered Skoda, on a fucked-up tape deck with speakers that fizz and rattle like a bastard, that she'd be mine. While she was on the M25, I knew that a huge black American man in a gold chain waistcoat was sat in the passenger seat, putting in a severe word for me - and keeping his hands to himself, mind - and then saying "Can you pull in at this Little Chef, please, love? Curtis Mayfield wants to say summat. And then Chairmen Of The Board, and a few others."

But then again, I could have filled the rest of the tape with traffic reports off the radio and recordings of my mates on the bog, and it wouldn't have mattered a jot. I'm sorry, Dionne Warwick, I love you to bits, but that version is the most perfect love song ever. By Boxing Day, she's driven across the country to see me.

Fast forward six years. The relationship has slowly and inexorably turned to shit. We're still living together, but she's threatening to leave on a daily basis. She sees her mates, I see mine, we meet up at the end of the night, in bed, not even touching each other. I'd say we were living separate lives, but that would imply that I was actually having one at the time. The last time we go out together, it's with some of my mates (who don't know that I'm in absolute bits, because we're all male and rubbish), at the Royal Albert Hall, to see - yep, you've guessed it; Black Moses himself.

He doesn't play The Look Of Love (and just as well - I would have to have been carried out on a gurney like Hannibal Lecter), but he goes into one of his trademark long introductions to a standard, harking back to the days when he was in black clubs, daring to attempt the whitest songs ever. And he talks about the One Who Got Away. The girl who he got involved with, and let go, and regrets forever. And he describes her. She's exactly the same as my girlfriend. And, as he goes into My Funny Valentine, I just lose it completely. Every bit of salty liquid in my body squirts out of my eyes. My mates look at me, in shock, and I grip her hand so tight I almost break it.

When we get home, I tell her everything. How much I love her. How I know I'm losing her. How I'll never get over it when it finally happens. And we have our last proper night together. I meet other girls, and I do them tapes, but I just cannot bring myself to use that song again. It'd feel like I was cheating on her, because if there was ever a song that absolutely nailed everything I wanted to say at one particular person at one particular time, it was that one.

And then two years later, a flatmate comes over and tells me about a girl at work he's besotted with, and he's promised her a a tape, and he asks me to help. And I peg it to the shelf, pull out Live at the Sahara Tahoe, and say "Side B, track one". They end up having two kids. I'm sure my mate did the bulk of the work on that, but I'm still claiming a tiny bit of responsibility. But not as much as Isaac.

I can play that song - fuck it, I'm actually playing it now - and can deal with it. Because after all, you love the song long before you love the woman, don't you? All I know is that, if there's any consolation to be had from this monumentally depressing bit of news, it's that I know for a stone-cold fact that wherever she is, and whoever she's with, she'll be thinking about me when she hears about it.

And I will always love Isaac Hayes for that.

'Mr Sex': He's been with a Porn Star, you know

When it comes to squiring women about town, I count myself lucky; when it comes to the list of fantasy female professions, I've ticked off a lot of boxes. I've dated a French air stewardess (only dated, unfortunately - she was gorgeous), I've had a fling with a (cliche alert) naughty nurse (she wouldn't let me pretend that I had Ebola and she only had five minutes to wank it out of me), I dated a 19 year-old Czech lap-dancer (could have gone somewhere, but I was still wrapped up in my ex - excuse me while I go off and bash my face against a wall for five minutes), and I copped off my school lust object long after the event.

But if you want to talk about the big brass ring of fantasy knock-offs for a man - the apex of the female profession pyramid, if you will - you're talking about porn stars. And yes, I've done that too. Well, sort of. Allow me to explain...

I first met Kelly (and yes, that’s her real name: I've written about her before and she doesn’t give a fuck) when I was out with a female friend at a theatre in London. I recognised her from a TV series we were both working on, but separately. I would have said hello, but I was too busy trying to impress said mate with my knowledge of early 80s Feminist theatre. More importantly, I thought that the bloke she was out with - a famous comedian - was an absolute bell-end, and I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him.

London media being the incestuous sniff-round-the-dogs-arsehole that it is, it was only a matter of time before I saw her again, this time at a dinner party thrown after the shooting of the TV series. She was a Nordic blonde with the kind of breathy Transatlantic voice that made sex phoneline owners buy another mansion, in a skirt that was shorter than the belt-buckle, with jubblies like two Spacehoppers trapped in a cupboard.

“I love seeing you on the TV. Can I kiss you?” she said.

“Yeah, go on then” I said, expecting the usual patronising peck on the top of the head. One full-on snog later with tongues later, while everyone else at the table stared on, one of the weirdest relationships I’ve ever had begun.

I knew what she did (even though I hadn't seen her doing it), and I wasn't arsed in the slightest. Having worked in porn for a considerable chunk of my career and spending a lot of time hanging about in dressing rooms smoking fags and talking shit with Page 3 models in and out of their underwear, I wasn’t arsed in the slightest about who she was or what she did. I was already of the opinion that they would have made the perfect girlfriends (attractive, independent, open-minded about sex, evil senses of humour), were it not for the ‘shagging-other-blokes-for-some-other-blokes-to-wank-over’ bit. If I hadn't been happily coupled up at the time, I would have chanced my arm with a few of them - but then again, being happily coupled up was probably the reason why they let me share a dressing room with them in the first place.

With Kelly, however, I was single, unattached, and phenomenally, completely, gargantuanly up for it. After the dinner-table snog, we went to one of her private Soho clubs, but it was her time of the month and she had to be on a train first thing in the morning, She promised she'd call when she got back. I pretended to believe her, and that was that.

A few days later, she called me. And after a very long chat, she laid it right on the line, on a plate, with a complimentary side-order of chips. She wanted a relationship with me. When I picked myself up off the floor, the excuses came thick and fast; I was still carrying an immolated warehouse of torches for my ex. I wanted kids, but she was sterilised. I was thinking of moving out of London. We lived on the other side of a very big and faffy city miles away from each other. I was too skint to go out.

As you may have surmised, this was all bollocks. The fact was, I was intimidated rigid by her track record. Not only was she acquainted on a work basis with men who were hung like blue whales, she’d also been out with very successful writers and rubbish but successful comedians. What the fuck did she see in me? What was the catch?

We started going out for drinks, but the damage was done; we were now mates, with all the usual Frienditis bullshit. (I was very impressed by the way she presented me with her latest obligatory STD result to prove that she had a clean bill of health on the second date, though). One night, I was round her flat, she told me she wanted to show me a video. I was expecting some full-on grot she’d been in. Instead, it was a home-made video of her, as a 17 year-old, with her baby daughter. Looking back now, I can't believe I couldn't see all these enormous flashing green lights, but I could see what I was doing; I was desperate to prove to her that there was at least one heterosexual male in the would who wouldn't hump her and dump her.

Of course, this didn’t stop me telling all me mates about this porn star I was knocking about with. To some of them, I had automatically transformed from that poor bastard they know who could do with a girlfriend to Grade One Alpha-Male Cock-Diesel Panther-Man. Some of my mates – who I expected better of, to be honest - were absolutely awestruck. “YOU DA FUCKING MAN!” one of them texted to me when I told him I couldn’t come out because I was at me Porn Mate’s house. I didn’t have the heart to tell him we were only sipping cocoa and reading her enormous collection of Judge Dredd books. And I must be one of the few people in the world who, after telling a mate about a girl he was just starting to date, has been asked “Do you want to come back to mine and see her getting spit-roasted by two black lads on the DVD?”

By this time, I decided to choose a life over a career by going back to Nottingham. The night before I left, she was having a party, and I was invited, on a promise to be seen off in style. Alas, by 3am I had passed out on her bed, and came round to find her shagging someone else right next to me. Not only was this a painfully symbolic ending to my time in London, but it was also the nearest I’ve come to a threesome. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or grab his arse just to freak him out. It told me that I was probably right to throw up every defence possible in order to stop myself from getting involved only to get hurt later, and the next morning I walked out of her life. Or so I thought.

Two really weird things happened when I moved away. The first one was when she still stayed in touch, telling me I was charismatic, intelligent and sexy, and she loved the way I rolled a fag and looked vulnerable. The second was when I saw her on another documentary, in a foreign hotel room after filming a watersports video, looking very upset and a million miles from home, and I wanted to jump into the screen, shove her into a shower, and hug her until she cheered up. Shit.

The next time we met, something did happen. I went round her house, she took me shoes and socks off, cut me toenails, and gave me a soapy tit-wank. I’d love to say that it was a mind-blowing experience where every fantasy I’ve harboured since the age of 13 was fulfilled, but to my mind she’d ceased to be a Porn Star a long time ago. She was now Kelly, a mate with the softest lips I’ve ever kissed in my life, who I always wanted to try it on with but it never quite happened due to my own stupidity, and it was very intimate and affectionate. And then we got dressed and went out to the pub.

Nothing like that has happened since, and I can’t see it happening again. The last time I saw her in person was a while back, when I was stranded in London pissed out of my skull at 3am with nowhere else to stay, and she was the only person I could think to call at such a late hour - and she took me in, prepared the futon, and took my contact lenses out. Now that's proper intimacy.

So there we go. My Porn Star experience. Really, I should be kicking myself that I didn't take the opportunity to tick off every box in the Lad Fantasy department - but then again, if I'd seen her as a human being rather than an unattainable goal/bonus point in the first place, I wouldn't be wondering What If, right kids?