'Mr Sex': Dont mess about with your aerosol

You know, sometimes you know you're just doomed to spend the whole week writing about shoving things up arseholes. So let's get it over with.

Right then; you may already be aware of the news story about the Filipino hospital that has got into deep shit over filming the removal of an armpit spray from someone's bumhole and throwing it up on YouTube. If not, you are now. Don't bother looking for it, by the way - it's been removed from YouTube. You'll have to go here instead (warning: contains film of, er, an armpit spray being pulled out of someone's ringpiece, obviously).

After watching such a thing, it raises a barrage of questions; did there really have to be 30 people in there for such a procedure? Wasn't there some poor Filipino kid in the waiting room with a saucepan wedged over his head, wondering if he'd see daylight ever again? When taking a close-up photo on your mobile of a gaping arsehole, does one use Night Mode? Did that doctor really have to spray the damn thing so near his ringpiece as soon as he'd got it out? When the bloke in question - a transvestite - finally gets to sue the hospital for every penny its got, how massive are his new breast implants going to be? Was this viral marketing taken to its logical extreme? And why the fuck was I watching this while I was having my tea?

I can't answer any of those questions (apart from the last one - because it was either that or fucking Hollyoaks, which automatically makes me puke me ring), and I can't answer the most important question, either; why anyone would be stupid enough to shove random objects up their piping? I could spend all night trying to explaining why this isn't the done thing, but instead let's consult our resident expert, the always-helpful Dr Ayan. After the obligatory "Oh my God", he asked me to pass on the following;

Well, the anus is not designed primarily for sex. It does not have natural lubricant, it bleeds easily, and the rectal muscles tighten once something has been shoved through it - so if you are gonna do that kinda thing, the bigger the object , is the more risk of it getting stuck.

Above all else avoid things that are sharp as they can cause trauma, and of course aerosols or any other chemicals as these toxins can be released in the anus which can absorb them very quickly causing poisoning and somtimes death!

Are we all clear with that? Good.

Of course, it goes without saying that people are endlessly fascinated with what other people shove up themselves. In the early days of the Internet, this site here was probably one of the most famous in the world (my favourite is still the pepper pot with 'A Present from Margate' written on it). An ex of mine was a nurse; on our first date, the first question I asked was; "So, er, what have you, y'know...? (downward pulling motion)" Answers from her (and other A&E types I've met in pubs) include;

• A six month-old condom with mould on it
  
  
• A full salad cream bottle on someone's cock (it had formed a vacuum seal around his nob, keeping it erect and close to haemmoraging - she had to escort him into a quiet room, distract his attention and then smash it with a hammer)
  
  
• Assorted bullet vibrators ("It's terrible when they come as a couple - you just know they're going to have nothing but Missionary for the next five years")
  
  
• Ten plastic soldiers that had fused together in some poor woman's lady-bit (and I will always regret not asking if they were Allies or Nazis - no, it's important. Some of the Nazis lie on the floor with machine guns, while some of the Allies are running about with massive bayonets. It's a perfectly rational journalistic enquiry)

So, my advice to you - as if you're going to need it after watching that video - is if you're going to shove things inside yourself, especially up the arse, make sure its something that has been specifically designed for the purpose, and use enough lube to drown an elephant in. Butt plugs, anal beads and prostate stimulators have particularly wide endings to prevent them getting stuck; deodorants, vegetables and live shells do not.

Dave: Puppy Love

Of course there’s no sure fire way of pulling the girl you fancy. Or for that matter, her ugly friend. And it’s hardly the most original tip in the world but I would advise getting your hands on a dog (logic dictates she’d be overwhelmed by the attention and you won’t need the roofies stashed in your back pocket) Aghast! What a terrible thing to say. Thank god for readers with literacy skills and a sense of humour, eh?

Anyway. Clearly I’m referring to a pooch. One that’s cute, affectionate, with a bounce in its step and a good nose for a hot mama.

So often do we shy away from approaching an attractive stranger based on the worries of not knowing what to say. It’s difficult. Even when a guy is left alone with another guy they’ve only just met at some party or whatever, the initial stilted conversation covers the perfunctory topics of work, how he knows so-and-so, and the awful weather we’ve been having. And that’s when the brain’s not pre-occupied with visualising the other person prancing around in their scanties and wrapping multi-coloured ribbons around your cock like it’s a fucking Maypole. Or perhaps that’s just me? – different strokes an’ all.

An adorable pup provides a whole treasure-trove of chat, coupled with the immediate illusion that you must be a decent bloke for being with such a fun-loving mutt. (Naturally none of this works if the woman in question hates dogs. Then you’d have to aim for being seen as the gracious hero shielding her delicate self from the over-exuberant slobbering of the vile beast – hopefully you’ll be substituting yourself for that role later).

Either way, the right dog can open up a world of potential meetings. I sometimes walk a friend’s beagle puppy through the city. It permits time for contemplation, reflection and a great opportunity to perv. This pup is particularly endearing. And smart enough (or stupid enough, depending upon your take of things) to be easily trained. Together we roam the streets, Shrek and Donkey on another whirlwind adventure, enjoying the splendour of a cosmopolitan city laden with beautiful bodies.

Just the other day, in fact, a gorgeous American art student in her mid-twenties sauntered past in her knee-length boots and some other stuff she was wearing. Facially, she reminded me a little of my ex-girlfriend but I didn’t let that put me off. So, I extended the lead and told Scrabble (for is his name) that the nice lady in front had some doggy-treats in her bag. And off he scampers, dragging me in tow to either apologise profusely or preferably enjoy a friendly discussion about the handsome hound.

And off you go. We wandered around together for half an hour until she suggests coffee (Then of course I start worrying that the whole thing’s going to fall through because I can’t abide coffee, but thanks to the modern era in which we live, the place served tea as well. Close call). We sat and chatted, shared a few self-deprecating laughs and there you have it. A handy method of meeting people.

Admittedly this particular occasion didn’t pan out quite how I had hoped. The chatting and laughter’s all true but when I suggested going for a drink later on in the week, she regretfully raised her right hand to reveal this tacky diamond, following with the words, “I’m so sorry, I’m married.”

Bloody marvellous. Don’t women realise that in this day and age of judgement and paranoia it’s becoming increasingly difficult to simply meet somebody you fancy and go to bed? There’s no room for these nice, friendly people to go around suggesting ‘coffee’ to a veritable stranger unless they want ‘coffee’ too.

Nevertheless, Scrabble and I shall be hitting the town again, now I know the potential for success is out there. Ladies beware. Woof Woof.

Sex Toy Review: The Rude Boy

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Sam: Why our manbits are so important

The other day I was out jogging with one my mates. We were chatting about the usual stuff when the conversation took an interesting turn.

‘It must be rubbish being a love doctor and getting people asking you for advice all the time’

‘Nah, it’s not too bad, it’s always pretty interesting. So how are things with the missus’

‘Well I was thinking of asking you about that. It’s all a bit funny at the moment. You know we’ve been going out for five years now. She’s suddenly starting thinking about committment and kids. I don’t really know quite what to do. Your damned if you do and damned if you don’t’

‘Oh so she brought it up first, but wanted you to bring it up first?’

‘Yeah, now she’s brought it up, I feel like I can’t do anything about it without looking like it was her idea in the first place’

‘What did your mates say?’

‘They are all rubbish, can’t even bring it up without them taking the piss. The weird thing is that I was just enjoying myself, thought it was all going well and now suddenly she’s all upset that I haven’t proposed.’

‘Same for me, I’d prefer just to keep just enjoying how well it’s going, why suddenly get all serious and put the pressure on?’

Anyway the conversation continued as we ran. What really struck me again about this conversation is how few men can actually have a decent conversation about relationships with other men.

Here we were, both pretty much having experienced the same thing, something that probably all men do – that point in a relationship were you are happy how things are going and your partners wants some serious visible signs of committment - yet I was the only one of his many mates that he could talk to it about. It’s a pretty rubbish state of affairs when the only bloke you can talk to about relationship stuff is one who talks about relationship stuff for a living.

It was this conversation that made me realise the importance of manbits. That on Todger Talk we really needed a place where men could ask questions, and then talk abou this sort of stuff and anything else that’s on their mind.

So blokes of Todger Talk, take the leap and send your thoughts and questions to todger dot talk at googlemail dot com. Let’s get talking about our manbits.

Something For The Weekend: 12.04.08

Todger Talk is spending the weekend moving assorted crap about in the back garden whilst wearing an old-mans cap and a manky jumper. So here's some links to keep you going until Monday...

Quite easily the most amusing description of pornographic material ever (warning: er, it's porn, obviously). Sample: "Jenna Doll is cute plus bad and when her ass is in question she is able to do anything just to satisfy her unremitting contumacy. Her grandfather has been having that animus and she is really grateful for that heir-ship."

The ideal gift for your submissive Goth Nana

The lovely Mrs R on a neglected by-product of the Credit Crunch

'Mr Sex': You Don't Win Anything With Kids

One of the things that I pride myself on is my ability to be able to talk to anyone about sex and relationships. I’ve had detailed, informative discussions about premature ejaculation with strangers in the pub. I’ve pointed out the wheres and whyfores of anal masturbation in a queue at the chip shop without getting beaten up. I even gave a woman at a bus stop at 3am advice on how to get her kid out of care (she rang me up out of the blue two months later to tell me she had. Proudest moment of my life). Do I know everything there is to know about sex and relationships? Of course not. But if don’t know summat about summat, then I know someone who does. Nothing can faze me.

Except one thing.

Although I’ve not got any of my own, I love the kids that belong to my mates to distraction. Given the choice between going into town on Saturday night or messing about on a Wii with my seven year-old nephew, the latter wins hands down every time. Let’s not piss about, here - kids are ace. Alright, so maybe their parents might turn into hypocritical personality vacuums, but that’s another topic for another day.

Anyway, I’m at my mate’s house, and I’m in his six year-old daughter’s bedroom, helping her get dressed while he takes a conference call in his home office. This one, out of all the kids I know, has the ability to wrap me fifteen times around her little finger, for the fact that when I was at my lowest ebb in my entire life, she would always cheer me up. While I’m handing her some new clothes and letting her get on with it, she points out that she wants to show me something, and I have to look away. So I bury my head in a Mr Men book (which is a very hard thing to do, as they’re tiny).

When I look up, she is bollock naked, in the crab position, and singing “PUSH-ING MY NUNNY OUT! PUSH-ING MY NUNNY OUT!”

So what, as a responsible adult, do I do? Do I a) tell her to stop doing that right now, as it’s rude (no, because I don’t want to make her feel guilty about things like that, because it’s not my place to do so), b) laugh and tell her not to be so silly (no, because I don’t want to belittle her), or c) ignore it completely and tell her to get her kit on?

Sadly, I do neither. I choose d) – cram as much of myself into the corner of the room with a face like Hyacinth Bucket whilst watching a fisting video and bellow “STEEEEVE! MAKE HER STOP! NOWWWWWWW!” Afterwards, when I’m in the back garden having a fag, I think to myself; what the fuck was that all about?

Well, stupid question, really – for the past decade or so, we’ve all got into a right Paulsgrovey state about kids and sexuality. Never mind that there are products like this and this knocking about and this problem isn't going away anytime soon; we seem to spend most of our lives these days looking at the paper, watching the news, and inwardly screaming; “Won’t somebody think about the children?” I probably notice it more than most, due to my career path; Every time I rang me Mam up when I was working in Grot mags, she would say “Please promise me you’re not doing any magazines to do with kids”. (and when my sister was having a baby, I told her “I hope it’s a girl – little girls are ace” and she called me a dirty bastard. Can you believe that shit?)

So, after me fag, I calm down and go inside.

“Can you take her to the toilet, mate?”

Oh God no.

So, I’m standing there, in the bathroom, taking more interest in the ceiling tiles than I would if I was sharing a urinal with the Village People.

“Can you wipe my nunny?”

“Come on, now, you’re old enough to do it yourself”

“I want you to do it”

“Don’t be silly, I can’t do that”

“But I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret”

On that word – secret – I immediately go into one. I point out to her, as firmly as possible without yelping hysterically – that there should be no secrets whatsoever between me and her, or her and anyone else, and if she did have any with someone else who wasn’t her Mam and Dad she had to tell me right now, and, and, I’ll nail the bastard to a fucking tree, so help me God.

And tears as big as her fist spring out of her eyes.

Just before she’s about to scream the house down, I cave in. “OK, OK. I’ll do it. Stop roaring. I’m sorry.” And I grab the bog roll and wind it around my hand until it’s roughly the same size as a beach ball. And I dab away from a distance for four feet. It takes me seven goes to flush it all away.

Then, we go back into her bedroom and plays with her dolls house for a bit. Then she says; “This is boring. I’m going to make you my prisoner. Put my pyjama bottoms over your face and burp through them”

“Er, no.”

“DO IT, PRISONER!”

I start to explain the absolute wrongness of this, and how it may be misconstrued, and what her Dad would say. While I’m doing it, it slowly dawns upon me; if I carry on, I’m going to raise ten new questions in her mind for every one I answer. And it’s not my place to. At all. Shit.

“Are they clean?”

“Yes”

“Alright then”

As I curl myself once more around her little finger, lying on the floor while she laughs and yells the lyrics to The Wheels On The Bus into my ear, I ruminate about kids and sexuality. I think about all the mad shit I used to sing when I was her age; about Wrigleys Spearmint Gum, and how you could stick it up your bum (and how, if it didn’t fit, you could always have a shit). I think about the stray dog on our estate whose bollocks hung so low that they skittered across the pavement, and how all the kids used to involuntarily cover their groins, even though they didn’t know why and the dog seemed to be happy enough, and the day when you could hear people on the other street pissing themselves laughing and you didn’t know why, until the dog came up your street and you realised that someone had put a pair of Y-fronts on him. I think about the school trip to the farm when one cow panicked and climbed on the back of another, and Michael Hall shouted “LOOK, SIR! Those cows are BUMMING!”

And it dawns on me that, when you’re that age, everything to do with willies and bums is at least interesting and normal, and at most funny as fuck, even though you don’t know why. And it’s one thing to protect kids when it comes to things like that, but another entirely to try to scare the shit out of them about it.

And for the first time in years, I laugh so hard that tears run down my face.

Sam: Manbits

A change is as good as a holiday, and the sunshine is on the way, so we could probably all do with a holiday.

Thursdays on Todger Talk will now try a new section: Manbits.

Do you have something you want to ask? Something you can’t talk to your mates about in the pub, but wish you could? Want to ask a question or tell a story and get honest advice and discussion from other men, with some female perspective too?

Then Manbits is for you. a) you need to be a man b) you need to write into us at todger dot talk at googlemail dot com c) Mr Sex and I will write back d) our readers will have their two bits worth too.

So men, let’s get talking about your bits!

PS Mr Sex, hard drive willing, will be entertaining and informing us on Fridays, unless we get some cracking questions from the fairer sex, and we’ll do something for the ladies. Ahh perfect end to the week.

PPS questions will be posted anonymously unless people ask to be identified