Danonymous Dan: Smeg Off!

It’s cleaner? It’s more aesthetically pleasing? What the fuck? I had an argument with somebody recently about what was better – circumcised or not?

My view is rather simple. It is a cock. It has two purposes: pissing and fucking. As long as it accomplishes both of those tasks adequately then there is no reason to lop the skin off the end of the poor blighter.

Advocates of foreskin removal – excluding religious mutilation, for a moment – seem to think that when men like myself peel back the foreskin, hulking great chunks of man-cheese drop to the floor and bounce around the bathroom like oversized mini-Babybels. This is lop-ist propaganda at its worst: the cleanliness argument is lie; no man’s commando should go into battle without his balaclava.

I will admit occasionally you might find a bit of smegma – but I’ll let you all into a secret… we can wash it off! Just think of the pain and money that could have been saved if religious zealots knew that smegma could be removed with soap and water. If a guy finds any (medical conditions not withstanding), its usually after having not washed for a couple of days. So ladies, unless you have a penchant for fucking tramps, you’re unlikely to come across any massive build-ups of man curd. But if you do, you can look on it as an early warning system – he’s a dirty bastard and you shouldn’t want to fuck him anyway.

There are some pretty ludicrous myths used to push circumcision, including: guys can last longer in bed; its better for your immune system; its advised by health centres; and let us not forget that, despite creating them (and being perfect and incapable of making a mistake), God doesn’t like them! I won’t list all the myths but if you want to have a read take a look at this.

Society seems far more at home with the idea of various viscous vaginal fluids being emitted throughout the different stages of the menstrual cycle. Nobody suggests a surgical procedure to stop the naturally occurring discharge: you are simply told to wash. (I appreciate there are some absolute fucktards who advocate female circumcision in places around this earth; that is a whole other blog)

My girlfriend admits she was ‘surprised’ when she saw my penis because she was expecting me to be circumcised because such a massive proportion of American males get the chop. I think I was the first ever adult male she had seen with a foreskin. A friend of hers, who lived in England for a year, admitted she had found the sight of and uncircumcised cock disgusting when she first saw it – lets face it, neither version is going to win a beauty contest – but disgusting just because it’s wearing a hat? That’s just penis-ist!

Every guy has had that inexpert tug job from a girlfriend – the one where she treats it like a mongoose killing a snake. I can only imagine how painful that would be with no foreskin to act as slack while she attempts to yank the spitting cobra’s head off.

I’m sure it’s not an issue many women give that much thought too: it’s either there, or it isn’t. But from what I can see, the more severe the circumcision (there are different levels of ‘close’) the more painful it can be for the man in later life. Considering that it is basically a permanent thing (there are groups of men attempting to regrow their foreskins), I think all people should be allowed to make up their own mind, which means waiting until they’re 16, at least.

A friend of mine who is a journalist always says that each article needs a pay-off – a sentence which sums up the article or blog in a pithy and/or amusing way. Here's mine! It’s nob-cheese; stop mutilating children!

Sam: Ouch that hurts

My clients go through some rough and tumble, but one of them recently went to through something that took the cake. She and her man had been going through a really tough time and he had been wanting to ‘talk’ (coming from a man it’s nearly always bad news). So they got together for their ‘talk’, were walking along together and then he spilt the beans:

‘I think you ought to know, I’m going to change my relationship status on Facebook’.

We have all heard of people being dumped on Facebook, or by text but somehow this is so much more pathetic, so much more ridiculous. This is a man who is so gutless that when he try’s to do something face to face he has to use a website as a prop to dump someone. I’m still trying to put my finger on why this is so outrageous, gutless, spineless and well just leaves me a bit flabbergasted. You know what it is – he was pretending to have the guts to do it face to face, but in reality used an electronic dumping prop. In my books that is more gutless than just facing up to what a spineless scumbag you are and doing it on the internet or by text.

I guess that you can tell this really got my goat. Feel free to share and vent your own spleen if you need a bit of public catharsis. Certainly made me feel better.

Sam: The Divorce Pill

The pill, it sparked a good round of conversation in a recent manbits and got me thinking about a couple of run-ins I’ve with those little bundles of oestrogen.

My first pill experience was when my girlfriend started to go bonkers. She started having severe mood swings, would cry at a moments notice and dipped into really quite bad depression. One day my mother was harping on about how rubbish the pills is (a pet topic of hers) and it occurred that there might be some sort of connection. My girlfriend and I switched back to condoms and in no time she was back to her perky normal self. The change was quite sudden and in retrospect, quite shocking.

Another girlfriend went on the pill briefly and the effect was different, but packed just as much punch. She suddenly pretty much completely lost interest in sex and just wanted to snuggle 24 hours a day. I completely lost my interest in snuggling her and suddenly started treating her like a portable rutting post – in the bad, wham bam thank you mam, 20 seconds, it’s all over and roll over for a snooze type way. Completely out of character for me. No, really. Again it all went back to normal once we ditched the pill.

What I found shocking was that neither of my girlfriends were told about any possible side-effects besides weight gain by their GP. And I, as a bloke, was completely in the dark. Let’s face it, anything that tricks your body into thinking it’s constantly pregnant is going to probably have a few side effects. Have a look on Wikipedia and negative side effects include weight gain, loss of libido and lubrication, a possible doubling of your chances of suffering depression oh and perhaps a bit of facial discolouration. Nice.

To add insult to injury a woman’s sense of smell is suppressed while on the pill actually making her attracted to a man with the wrong sort of immune system. You can guess what happens when she stops taking it – no wonder it’s been labelled the divorce pill.

I think pill packets should have the following branded on them: THIS MAY SEND YOU BONKERS, MAKE YOU CHOOSE THE WRONG SORT OF MAN, COMPLETELY KILL YOUR INTEREST IN SEX AND POSSIBLY WRECK YOU RELATIONSHIP. FOR GODS SAKE USE SOME OTHER FORM OF CONTRACEPTION. PLEASE.

 

Sam: Junk Sex Addiction

According to the latest issue of Psychology Today increasingly men are having trouble getting aroused unless they imitate or look at porn. Apparently it’s so strong that it’s like giving up smoking, they have to get used to their new non-porn related sex with tolerating unpleasant psychological withdrawl symptoms. Doesn’t sound like any fun at all.

It’s just a natural process, your brain attaches pleasure and the sense of arousal to a particular thing e.g. porn, and then if you repeat the process enough the response becomes automatic. I guess it you could call it Pavlov’s porn dog.

I suspect Mr Sex could have flagged this issue up years ago – and has.

Though I completely understand this process, it really does depress me. The bits of porn I have watched are usually pretty much lots of joyless pounding. You got about as much chance of finding some connection and love there as getting a hot chocolate at the North Pole.

To me porn seems like the junk food of the sex world. Cheap. Widely available. Mass produced. It is the staple diet of most teenagers, who then tend to make it a bad habit which carries on to later life. Leads to a web of nasty problems down the track.

But where is the organic equivalent of porn? Organic and healthy food seems to me to be a movement that is only just properly hit the mainstream. I guess in the way that junk food really kicked off in the 70s (that’s when the term was coined) and its taken almost 40 years to get organic food sections in the Supermarket. Since widespread, easily available internet porn really kicked off in the late 90s and early naughties I guess we might be waiting a while.

I know there are female directors leading the charge of a whole new style of emotional, erotic porn, but really, I hope it’s not 2030 until there is an ‘organic porn’ section in my local Anne Summers.

Sam: Attack of the Killer . . .

Has anyone else started noticing a plague of small dangerous creatures that seems to be carving a swathe through your friends? Several of my friends have recently fallen victim. They have had their brains sucked out, spend all their time fervently nesting, and are incapable of having any of the interesting conversations that they used to be so good at. And fun, yes fun seems to be the prime victim of these nasty little creatures.

Baby Zombies, that’s what I call them. What is it that when your friends go and have kids suddenly they turn into baby zombies? I was having a coffee with a recently contamintated pair of baby zombies. At any point that the conversation turned away from babies for more than about 3 microseconds, immediately it went back to babies. There was a small glimmer of hope when one of them asked me how I was, but then, miraculously the topic turned back to babies.

And what I find most remarkable is that their attention is pretty completely and utterly focused on their new child. They jiggle, the goo, they coo at how beautiful the little grub is (let’s face it, all babies look like little grubs) and all you can do is really go along with it. You’d think that when it was just happily sitting there being contented and quite it might be possible to have a conversation. No certainly not.

I guess that’s why baby zombies flock together. When the rest of us are thinking about calling our GP to request a lobotomy while we listen to all the baby talk, they need someone who is just as excited as them.

But seriously, what really amazes me is how so few of the parents I have met have really managed to keep anything like a semblance of their social or intellectual life going after they have kids. I was on another visit to a pair of more mature baby zombies recently and it was actually possible to start to have a decent conversation with them, but not for long.

It seems to me, as an outsider, that they have their life pretty much sucked out of them by these little creatures. I only know a few exceptions to this rule, and they somehow seem to have immunised themselves against being zombotised.

Now you have to admit babies are quite clever. You’ve got to be clever to convince two grown adults to do everything for you except breathe, poo and cry, 24 hours a day 7 days a week. Feed you, dress you, transport you, clean up your poo, put you to bed, wake you up, feed you again, put up with your screams etc etc. They actually have a whole range of tricks to make themeselves more attractive (like dilating their pupils) and I read something about some sort of chemical they emit that bonds their parents to them.

People tell me parenthood is a wonderful thing. The best thing they have ever done. I really just struggle to see it.

Personally the prospect of turning into a baby zombie scares the living crap out of me - from the outside looking in, it really doesn’t look like they are having much fun at all.

'Mr Sex': I Want Classless Sex, And I Want It NOW

Warning: this post is a bit political. And Americans without prior knowledge of the British class system probably won't understand it at all, so I apologise in advance. But anyway; is it just me, or has anyone else noticed how middle-class sex has become these days?

I don’t want to go all Class War on your collective arses, but it has to be said; we’re living in an extremely middle-class decade, in the UK at least. We're tottering on the brink of recession, mainly because we're all being constantly being encouraged into adopting traditional middle-class values (buy your house, be suspicious/scared of the outside world, keep up with the Jones' - even though you don't really talk to them anymore - and pull the ladder up as quickly as possible) whether we can afford it or not. And a huge chunk of the population are firmly in the 'Not' side of the equation.

Turn on the telly, and you're treated a non-stop barrage of sneery gets 'helping' the Proles to sort their lives out in shows such as Your Dog Is Almost As Feral As You, Peasant, I'm A Big Shouty Aryan Who Swears A Lot At The Lower Orders To Disguise The Fact That I Do A Girls Job, and Look At Your Shit, You Disgusting Indoor Whale! Go On! Look At It! LOOK AT IT!. The music of the era is infested with mewling whelps like James Blunt (a former Army captain, for Christ's sake) and Keane (the Sound of Impotence). Want to go to the football? That’ll be £40, please, now that it’s been discovered by middle-management types. Looking for working-class people in the media? They'll be the people ramming glasses into each other's faces on TV documentaries and think-pieces about 'Binge Britain'. And you could always fucking watch fucking Channel fucking Four to see a load of fucking actors fucking encapsulating fucking authentic working-fucking-class life (by saying 'fucking' all the fucking time) on fucking Shameless.

(This is not intended to be a rip on middle-class people, by the way; I work in a traditional middle-class profession, I know a lot of middle-class people, and I like 'em. But I was brought up to believe that we were supposed to be living in a meritocracy, and your background wasn't supposed to matter anymore, that's all)

So what's this got to with shagging, then? Well, last time I checked, we were all issued with a set of genitals regardless of social status. But if you opened most women’s magazines, watched any chick-flick, or checked out pretty much every advert aimed at women with a sexual undertone, you’d be forgiven for thinking that both Rumpy and Pumpy has been completely annexed as a luxury item.

Personally, I blame Sex and the City for this horrible state of affairs; almost single-handedly, it re-perpetuated the idea that it was incredibly liberating and self-empowering to kick out the sexual jams, just as long as you had the right career and wore larcenously expensive shoes while you were doing it. Presumably, if Carrie Whatshername and her mates worked in a factory making Rabbits instead of endorsing them, and spent their leisure time knocking back WKD on a Friday night at Re-Flex, we’d have never heard of them until one of ‘em rolled up on Trisha.

Sadly, we did, and it shows. Go to any sex trade show, and within five minutes you’ll be surrounded by twittering Trustafarians who think they’ve invented sex because they’ve discovered a new colour to make a dildo with. There's a swingers club in my hometown that advertises itself as - and I’m typing this with a straight face – ‘Nottingham's sexual elite’, which brings to mind images of a Nazi eugenics programme, involving Margo Leadbetter being serviced by the Cheese Manager from the local Asda.

Worst of all; the reams and reams and reams of erotic fiction that read like Barbara Cartland novellas, but with more big spunking cocks. When you read these things, you wonder how the characters ever find the time to have it away, what with their rammed-out social diaries, massively important power-lunches, and high-flying careers. Josh, Tim and Hugo get to have their wicked way with Camilla, Emma and Chloe in five-star hotels. Presumably Tracey, Sharon and Caz get to pick up the pants and spent johnnies off the floor and give the sheets a boil-wash before going back to being knocked about by Tez, Kev and Daz.

It all sounds extraordinarily ground-breaking (and yes, at the end of the day it's all about fantasy, and being minted is probably a bigger fantasy for most people than a quality sex life) but the message in a lot of the stories veers alarmingly close to the one that Women’s Realm and Mills and Boon were pushing 50 years ago: the main goal a woman can aspire to is to use her wiles to shack up with a toff and ponce off him for the rest of their life. If you’re rich enough, and come from the right family, you’re entitled to be as sexually promiscuous as you like. If you’re not, fuck off to Jeremy Kyle and stop breeding, pram-face.

I know that female media isn’t the only culprit here - look at lad mags, which at their less inspiring moments are little more than office boys prick-teasing other office boys - but as far as I know, a decent, fulfilling sex life is something you earn, not inherit, and anyone who thinks otherwise will be put up against the wall and have dildos thrown at them when the revolution comes. Women who stack shelves at Kwik-Save who have children called Storm have sex too, y’know. And they don’t have to wrap £400 worth of shoe around their feet to do it, either.

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’: If you need an explanation on how depressing this is, then we got a LONG day ahead of us

It's not the policy of Todger Talk to post over the weekend, but then I saw this article on the BBC News website, commissioned in the wake of the conclusion of the Ipswich prostitute murder trial. If you want to see of how completely fucked-up certain men can get over sex, here you go. On one hand, you want to commend the punters who have been interviewed for their honesty, but you also want to use the other hand to slap the living shit out their ignorant, bell-endy faces.

Patrick, Pete and Mark have some things in common. They are all successful, professional men, who work long hours and have to travel away from home. But what really unites them is that they all use prostitutes and are utterly unashamed about it.

I think we’re supposed to be impressed by the fact that they’re all professional and successful, as opposed to, say, Peter Sutcliffe.

He (Patrick) does not appear to have a problem leading a double life with his partner. "She doesn't know. I don't believe it's changed my relationship with her in any way. To some extent I feel closer to her.

This was round about the part where my hand automatically rose to my chin. How does nipping out to pay someone to be de-spunked not change anyone’s relationship with someone they’re married to? Giving up on any hope of a sex life with your missus to order to dip your hand into the Lucky Bag of paid sex with assorted prostitutes doesn’t change your relationship with your partner how? More importantly, how does going off to get a gobble off someone in a massage parlour bring one closer to one’s partner?

"I don't have to demand things that maybe I was demanding from her, like oral sex and things like that. She didn't like doing that. Now I no longer have to ask."

Ooh. ‘Demand’. That’s an interesting word, isn’t it, kids? Maybe if Patrick hadn’t treated a nosh like it was a birthright because he saw someone on a wank video having one, maybe he wouldn’t have to be forking out for one. Just a thought.

Management consultant Pete, 40, from Oxfordshire, is blunt about his motivation for buying sex. "I've not had sex with my wife for at least five years," he says. "In simple terms, it's how I get sex. I've not noticed a change in our relationship at all. "There is no emotional involvement [with the prostitutes]. At the risk of sounding cruel and heartless I don't think I do have a moral issue with it. If I did I wouldn't have done it."

Admittedly, he does have a point here; yes, he is sounding cruel and heartless. If you want sex but don’t want emotional involvement, maybe sex just isn’t for you. If you want an ego boost and can afford it, maybe you should have a wank into a handful of fifty pound notes instead. You'll feel just as good afterwards, and you can run the notes under a tap and put them on the radiator.

Mark says he used to spend a lot of time trying to pick women up in clubs and bars. Now the 31-year-old business consultant from London doesn't have the time.

Well, exactly. Why bother wasting your time talking to a woman like a human being when there’s no guarantee of unprotected anal in a car park at the end of it?

Patrick views it as a totally mundane transaction between adults.

So if it's mundane, why are you doing it, you fucking gibbon?

"I see us as adults. I want to pay and someone wants to sell. As long as I'm not hurting them in any way what harm am I doing. I'm distributing my wealth to people who don't have it."

Well, that puts a new spin on 'trickle-down' economics.Yes Patrick, all of these women desperately wanted to grow up to make a living by sucking on some sweaty, half a century-old IT spod-cock. Presumably, this twat also thinks that, by racking up another line of Wanker Powder on a toilet seat, he’s helping to put a Playstation 3 in the hands of some poor Bolivian urchin.

Pete suggests the world of street prostitution is "probably the grubbiest, grimiest bit". Patrick says he is not tempted, saying it is "risky and not comfortable". Mark's view is also revealing: "There is a slightly exploitative element to street prostitution."

Lovely bit of snobbery here. It’s a bit like viewing child porn in an ornate frame in a country mansion, and looking down your nose at people who watch it on the internet.

"There's always a lot of girls that I know," says Patrick. "We have a good camaraderie. I treat them as my friends and I feel to some extent they confide and talk to me."

THEY FUCKING HATE YOU, PATRICK. THEY LAUGH AT YOUR SONIC THE HEDGEHOG TIE, AND IMITATE YOUR GURNING PIG-MASK OF A COME FACE ON THEIR FAG BREAKS.

Mark's position is clear. If he did meet a woman he suspected was trafficked he would do something about it, there and then.

What, you're gonna slither down the Bat-Pole and mash down assorted Albanian henchmen with obligatory POW! and BIFF! effects?

The real root of prostitution is in the economic system and not the criminal laws, says Patrick. "There are a lot of single mothers who feel that's the only way they can make money. If you want to get rid of prostitution the way is to reform the welfare system."

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(That was me bashing my head against the keyboard over and over again)

Should prostitution be legalised? Course it should. Should shit-thick ignorance be criminalised in its place? Hell yeah. These deluded nob-ends seem to be living in a world where the women loll about on beds in fluffy mules with fruity foreign accents, capitalising on the cow-like frigidness of the local womenfolk by earning a nice bit of cash for their dear old Mams in Potatovia in a sexy, sexy way until Richard Gere comes along, and pimps are evidently crazy funsters with big Afros, that’s all.

According to the BBC, one in ten men currently use prostitutes. And you can forget the traditional myth that they’re all henpecked old men scurrying away from a hatchet-faced missus brandishing a rolling pin; most of them are single and in the prime of their lives. Let’s abandon this ludicrous pretence that it doesn’t happen, but let’s also junk the even more ludicrous pretence that the Pavlovian urge of 10% of the male population to have their genitals joylessly milked in a room above a garage in the scabby end of town by someone who needs fast cash is anything other than a fucked-up situation.

'Mr Sex': It's So Funny How We Don't Talk Anymore

So, I’m standing outside a pub in the summer, chuffing fags and getting satisfyingly mashed with two of my best female friends. And there’s a lot to talk about. Both of them have just split up with blokes, one of whom is a good mate of mine. The other is someone I got to know quite well while he was going out with my mate, but I had him pegged as a window-licking twat right from the off - but the point is, I know them both quite well.

And we start to play a game that I’ve just made up on the spot. I ask them questions about their just-finished relationships, and whoever gives the worst answer gets a point. I call it Whose Ex Was A Bigger Bell-End? I’ll need to work on that title before I pitch it to Channel Five, but for now, it’ll do.

After the tentative introductory questions, I decide to go for broke and see how much I can get out of them. What’s the shittiest present he ever bought you? What are the mankiest pants he owns? What does his come face look like? Not only do they answer all my questions, they suggest new ones. Before too long, I learn the following;

• One of them had the charming Saturday morning habit of eating three bacon and egg sandwiches in bed, before attempting to frig his girlfriend off
• One of them would routinely look at himself in the mirror whilst receiving a blow job and pout at himself
• One of them had an oral sex technique comparable to ‘a bulldog with Bell’s Palsy
• One of them regularly sent phone images to his paramour of his erection and bumhole
• One of them regularly pleaded with his girlfriend to set up a threesome with her work colleague (who she hated
• One of them would keep a piss-bucket at the side of the bed, because he couldn’t be bothered to use the toilet downstairs.

It was when one of my lady-friends said, matter-of-factly, “Actually, I feel sorry for him, because his inability to get a proper erection means he’ll probably have a heart attack in his late 30s”, when I thought; hang on a minute. I know these women. They’re not mad, or hysterical, or malicious people. They’re just normal. Like every other woman I know. Including all of my exes. So what the fuck would they be saying about me?

Suffice to say, that first experience of women talking about what they got up to with men was an eye, skull and even chest-opener. I've never heard a man break down a sexual relationship in such detail before, and haven't since.

Now, I try to keep away from the ‘women do this, while men do that’ school of thought as much as possible. But if there’s one instance – the instance – where you can say without doubt that the two genders differ, it’s when we talk about sex and relationships with each other. The good news is that most right-thinking men don’t discuss sex like the cast of On The Buses anymore. The bad news is that we pretty much don’t talk about it at all. Here are a few examples…

After a one-night stand

Chap: Met this girl the other night.
Bloke: Leg-over?
Chap: (raises eyebrow)
Bloke: Nice one. Aren’t Liverpool shit at the moment?
Chap: Yeah. (half-hour conversation about Rafa Benitez)

At the start of a relationship

Chap: You know that girl I met the other night?
Bloke: Yeah.
Chap: I saw her again last night. And I’m seeing her again on Friday.
Bloke: (after at least ten minutes of thinking “Well, that’s him pissing off for six months, then”) Burnout Paradise looks mint, doesn’t it?

At the height of the relationship

Chap: She’s lovely, Bloke. She’s really lovely. You know what I mean? She’s one of those girls who you see, and you think “Aw, you’re really lovely” and then you get to know them and then you think “You know what? You’re really, really lovely”. She’s just…lovely.
Bloke: Yeah.
Chap: Lovely.
Bloke: I’m going to ring for a taxi, now.

When the relationship starts to go wrong

Chap: Blah blah blah…football…work…computers…how many nipples a giraffe has…anything but relationship…

When the relationship is over

Chap: (Pause. For three months. Before it all rushes out, usually in a pub car park, in a torrent of tears and snot)

Personally, I’m no different. I’ll talk about sex and relationships on here until the cows come home, but in public to my mates? I’ll just squeeze everything into a suppressed ball of angst and resentment, thanks. It was an entire month before I told any of my mates about the first serious relationship I ever had, and it wasn’t until six months after I got cheated on before I could even begin to tell them about that. And that kind of behaviour is not uncommon amongst my male friends at all. We’ve been conditioned to keep our cards close to our chest, deal with relationships on our own, and not bore our mates with it. I’ve even been to some of mate’s weddings, seen them up there brushing a tear away, and I’m thinking; “Shitting hell fire…he actually really loves her”

So when Sam talks about this sinister cabal of womanhood, he’s basically pointing out that the difference between female and male relationship interaction and discussion is currently not dissimilar to comparing the Internet with a frayed bit of string attached to a tin can. A lot of men don't seem to talk about new relationships (for fear of jinxing them), we don't talk about relationships we're in (for fear of being boring, or having the piss ripped out of us), and we don't talk about relationships that are dying on their arse or already dead (for fear of admitting that somehow we fucked up).

I'm not advocating that we all sit around banging drums and crying with our shirts off, but surely there's a better way to go about things. And, while I totally agree with a lot of comments on the forums that all the bullshitty barriers between women and men need to be broken down as soon as possible for the benefit of all, there needs to be some serious demolition work on the barriers that men have put up between themselves.

'Mr Sex': Ten things about porn videos that get right on my tits

The ludicrous pretense that the women involved have been conned, coerced or picked up off the street

I really don’t see the point of Gonzo Porn, mainly because the idea of people having it off in front of a video camera with other people there is weird enough enough for me. But, putting aside all the inherently dodgy implications that women don't really like sex and you have to dupe them into it, please don’t try to fool me into thinking this woman you’ve brought home is some married woman who wants revenge on her husband who she’s just had a row with, or a strangely mature-looking student who reckons that giving a teacher a nosh will bump her grades up. There’s one particular porn actress who I’ve seen;

* Working in a diner, before sucking some bloke off in an alleyway
* Happily married, and being talked by her husband with a threesome with the babysitter
* Actually being a babysitter somewhere else
* Having her anal virginity taken on three separate occasions
* Sucking off some other bloke in order to pass a modelling audition

Either this woman has serious memory-loss, or has extreme difficulty holding down a job, or Porn is lying to us.

Throat-fucking

Ooh, women sounding like my Dad coughing over the sink in the morning after his first Embassy No.1, how erotic.

Gormless men who won’t shut the fuck up

Most of the male porn actors I’ve ever dealt with are absolute danglings of clag from the arsehole of humanity (The only ones I ever liked were Sean Michaels, Ben Dover and Randy Shagnasty), but you have to feel sorry for them. Once upon a time, the women of porn were seen as mere sperm receptacles. Nowadays, you have to be a serious Grot aficionado to be able to name a genuinely new male porn actor, their names on the DVD box are approximately 20 times smaller than their female counterparts (if at all), and their career falls off the minute they can’t get bonked up. Having said that, why can’t they just stop fucking showing off and thinking they’re summat? The only person who watches this shit to see you preening about and talking bollocks is you, late at night, when paranoia sets in and you’re worried that the angle of your erection is starting to decrease with age.

(And please stop saying “Yeah, just like that. Just like that”. It automatically makes me think of Tommy Cooper, which is not good)

Spitting on genitals

Ugh. What next? People blowing their noses on someone’s scrotum?

Too many close-ups of man-arse and swinging clockweights

I don’t wish to come off as uncosmopolitan or conservative, and I’m fully aware that views of male arsage and knackery can‘t be helped at times, but for fuck’s sake: I’m trying to have a wank, and your hairy, sweaty arse is not helping. At all.

The same old routines time after time after time

Woman gets tits out, pulls knickers up arse. Bloke takes knickers down. Woman sucks bloke off for ages. Bloke flickers tongue at woman for five seconds. Bloke shags woman in missionary position. Woman shags bloke in cowboy position. Man shags woman in doggy-style position. Bloke gets off so he can jizz in her face. Yawn.

The absolute lies spouted in the promotional blurb

Example;

Kandeeeee thought she was auditioning for a movie part, and was so keen to get it that she’d do anything! Even though she was a virgin, we talked her into taking on me and my buddy all ways, and then we bust our loads all over her innocent face before kicking her to the curb!

Truth;

We were contractually obligated to make another porn film, so we went through our address book and called up Sharon, because she looks young. We asked her if she was free on the 17^th. But she said no, because her shaving rash had flared up again, but she could do the 19^th as long as she got an extra $50 for anal and her travel expenses thrown in. She turned up with her drivers licence and copy of her last STD test, went through some unconvincing role-play that made the cast of Hollyoaks look like the Royal Shakespeare Company, and then we had sex in all the usual, predictable ways. Then she had a shower, got paid cash in hand and went home.

The treatment of interracial sex as if it’s still a monumentally controversial act

Oh God. We now have the benefit of living in a world where the sane majority couldn’t give a shit about people of different races having relationships, so why hasn’t anyone told the porn industry this? Am I supposed to be simultaneously outraged yet strangely aroused over the fact that a pretty blonde girl (because they’re almost always blonde) is being ravished by that…that…non-white person? Mandingo was released over 30 years ago, for Christ’s sake. Come into our century.

Gape shots

Hand on heart, I have never clocked a woman in a bar and thought to myself “Oh God, I’d love to have a good look up the lower end of her digestive system”


Jizzing on faces all the fucking time

Always the same, isn’t it? And seeing as sexual education is still as poor as it ever was, and there’s about ten million times more opportunity to watch porn these days, I worry that today’s teenage boys will simply forget how to procreate properly, and the human species will have fully died out by the 22^nd Century.

'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’: 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?